If Jane Austen Lived in Lander

Well, none of us would be safe from her clear, biting wit; and perhaps that is a good thing. Austen wrote to a young niece who was an aspiring writer, "To work on three or four families in a country town is just the thing..." and there is a very specific reason for her to say that, and it has to do with virtues and the nature of the small town.

In all of Austen's novels, various heroes and heroines must work through an moral education in the situation of the small town. I think of these venues as comparable to the small city-state of Athens in which Sophocles and Euripides produced 'ordering of the emotions,' The Republic of Plato, and the small kingdoms of Arthurian legend-cycles. In all of these, like Austen's English villages, virtue is best understood and worked out in something much smaller than the modern city, or God-help-us, the nation-state, or "God-help-us-more,' the so-called "Global Village." One can't really practice serious virtue via Facebook. If you think you are virtuous based on the number of comments you get on your clever posts, then you've got another thing comin' come Judgment Day.

You need to live in a small town to understand why. As Austen said via Mr. Bennett in Pride and Prejudice after his negligent, vicious parenting has been made very public, "For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?'

Anyone who has lived in a small town perfectly understands this statement, but how many of us think that it has something to do with virtue, or a 'good' kind of gossip, if there is such a thing? We all drive around, visit Mr. D's, go to the Grand movie theater, try out the new Lander Bake Shop, poke holes in the ripe peaches at Safeway, get increasingly snobby about the increasing amount of Christmas lights each year, and do it as if no one notices us or talks about us. I suppose if we in Lander could sense via burning ears the amount of talk or speculation, or laughter, or genuine concern for ourselves in this small town, we'd none of us have ears left: just burnt-out holes. However, we all need to be known, and to know and to have to deal with each other in order to grow in virtue; in a small town, your ears aren't quite falling off, but they certainly get a hot wind of your behavior from time to time, and through others' eyes: a very valuable experience that is certainly harder to have in a city (or easier to escape, according to your wish to remain in the dark about yourself).

For example, if a landlord gets nasty with store owners and maneuvers to put their own choice business in where a store has been for ages, people hear about it and don't forget it; if a bank tries to intimidate a young couple with no money and sue them for something that isn't their fault, it gets around and someone will certainly call the bank. No one wants bullies, and in a small town, everyone knows who they are. If someone practices bad employment habits, it gets around--and stays around.

On the other hand, there are small-town models. Everyone knows the honest businessman who teaches CWC classes to help others be successful, and the ranchers who donate food in many humble and personal ways; the lady at the teller booth in the bank who makes your needs her own, and the friendly bagger's smile at Mr. D's who once graced the Mayor's Office.

If Jane Austen lived in Lander, or grew up here, she'd tell stories of young people growing into vicious or virtuous adults, and not in the shifting maze of unconnected car parks, malls, schools, playing fields, and churches of suburban life; rather she'd write her stories in a put-together puzzle, a microcosm world that a young person, especially, can see as a whole, and can see how the parts connect to that whole, a Main Street one can walk down easily (alas, not a English or European town square with a church presiding, but still a kind of center).

She would write about, probably, a homeschooled high schooler (she didn't like her school experience) or freshman college student who learns to navigate the dashing NOLS instructor or the WCC college man, or the son of a rooted, powerful ranching family. Instead of Ford's haberdashery, the place to be seen might be Main St. Books or Safeway, and instead of town hall balls, the young lady would have to learn courtship and friendship at the WCC swing dances.

Perhaps Austen would have gone in for a novel kind of catalogue of virtues: Cowboy Ethics. As CowboyEthics.org puts it:

"The iconic cowboy represents the best of America — the courage, optimism and plain hard work. Cowboys are heroic not just because they do a dangerous job, but also because they stand for something — the simple, basic values that lie at the heart of the cowboy way. Even though their way of life has changed over the last 150 years, cowboys still honor and live by their code. They are an abiding source of inspiration to do better and be better than we are."

And, from the same source, here is the basic code, or catalogue of virtues:

1) Live each day with courage.
2) Take pride in your work.
3) Always finish what you start.
4) Do what has to be done.
5) Be tough, but fair.
6) When you make a promise, keep it.
7) Ride for the brand.
8) Talk less and say more.
9) Remember that some things aren't for sale.
10) Know where to draw the line.

Our young heroine would have to learn courage, perhaps by just managing a winter, or building confidence on a horse. I, though not young, had something of this lesson the other day, when out with a Model of Cowboy Virtue on horseback.

"You want to ride Pavlova?" she asks me.
"I hate that horse, Patty, ever since she ran away with Marian and nearly got Sophie's throat cut out," I reply.
"Well, just give her a go."
"OK."
An hour later after much struggle with said hated horse:
"Patty, she's really trying to buck me off."
Said Model of Cowboy Courage says, laughing, "Oh, I just call those 'chicken hops'--she is just expressing her joy in life. You just need to build some confidence."
"You called that 'joie de vivre'?!"

Something about horses, about the relentless winter, the inexplicable lack of snowplowing in town, the temps below 0 F, the feeling of mandatory hibernation, and the constant, immovable mountain peaks, the absolute need for extra water supplies when going on any long road trip, and tiny cabin reminders, the remains in iron and wood of our pioneer forerunners, calls for a very basic courage. Every once in awhile, I still have that softy California reaction: "Why do people live here?" One transfers the lessons from learning to laugh while a horse is taking off with you (so as not to let it know you are nervous) to learning to laugh when a sickness lasts more than a year, in the face of the unknown (will the pain every go away?). Or death. Or marriage. Or a lifetime of exile. Or childbirth in a town where you wonder if the hospital is really trying to kill you or not.

Austen, like me, would have no idea what to do with #7 (Ride for the brand), unless that means a kind of communal virtue of honesty and teamwork, something Frank Churchill would do well to learn. He rode a lot, but not for any brand but his own, allowing him to think deception a necessary virtue. Miss Bates could do with a little lesson in #8(Talk less and say more), though I suspect this is a throw-back to the plethora of Scandinavian roots in the American Midwest and northern West. Scandinavians do make a virtue out of 'keeping things under the duvet'--but I am not so sure this is always a virtue. And being about 30 percent Scandinavian/Germanic, I know what I am talking about. Besides, what else would cowboys do around a campfire, 200 miles away from anything but sage brush and cows, who certainly exhibit this virtue? Charades?

We talk to each other, about each other. As Michael O'Brien once wrote to me:

"Communication is the ‘media’ of bearing truth in a damaged world in process of being restored to the Father through the sacrifice of the Son. The flow of all genuine communication should lead us to eternal communio in Paradise. Until we arrive there, all such communication is limited by human weakness, sin, subjectivity, immaturity, etc. Should we therefore banish all forms of speech between people?"

No. We not only provide good sport for our neighbors, we also learn about ourselves through communication with each other, about each other. Of course, slander happens regularly in a small town (lies that damage a reputation), as well as gossip (truths that damage another's reputation and are not necessary for the other person to hear); Austen deals with this, and I think it is simply too easy in a city to never face the ramifications of one's stray or vicious words--one can just move into another social group. In a small town, we can choose to put up serious facades and live in isolation, or we have to face ourselves.

There are all the Austen types in Lander. There's the well-to-do landowners, the intellects, the soldiers, the beauties and the homelies, the pert and the pretentious, the Emmas and the Miss Bates, the Mr. Martins and the Darcys--and one learns to navigate these types, as well as one's own vices and virtues, in the comprehensible world of the small town. Hopefully one is becoming more courageous and less prideful, more like Mr. Knightly or Jane Bennett (who has true candour--which is a true, real kindness that is yet honest and open), and less like Mrs. Elton or Wickham.

Candour, one of Austen's favorite virtues, is an especial feat in a small town. To be genuinely kind, to look for the good of others and yet not be a sugar Precious Moments doll with no truth is rare:

 "I just don't want to be negative about anyone."

"Even if someone is a veritable ass or a bully or false?"

"Oh, no, I just need to be a nice Christian."

"Whatever."

Candour, like courage, and the other virtues, must be built on a true heart that is founded on charity and humility. It cannot be counterfeited because it is a window right into the heart, and most people can see right through the appearance of it: especially, maybe only, in a small town.

If Jane Austen lived in Lander, she'd exclaim, when she saw the mountains and the desert, "What are men compared with rocks and mountains!!"; she'd fall over at the sight of carriages without horses; then she'd recover, put pants on, glory in the knowledge that marriage isn't the only viable occupation for women who don't have much to offer in that department or interest in it (but like Austen, have much to offer elsewhere), and write great Westerns.

Small Town Rule: City Plumbing

Now, some people rule small towns because, simply, they are so essential and they don't take advantage of this, but rather serve with honesty and father-like care.

Mike has a last name, but in Lander he is simply known as "Mike At City Plumbing." City Plumbing, run by Mrs. Mike At City Plumbing and other guys that look like Young Mikes At City Plumbing, is in a King Spot, right downtown on Main St, nestled between Neat Repeat and the Lander Journal; the City Plumbing sign is just simply, more than a fixture: it is a fixture. I can't really imagine Lander without the blue and white fifties-era sign, and I've always thought that Mike keeps the store the way it is, because he doesn't really need any more than that...his business is not about flash. or novelty, but about small-town connections and help.

In the same vein, Mike's front windows do not sport the coolest new toilet or shower, nor do they have posters of ladies smiling at flowing water in a sunny, immaculately empty?! (beyond the proverbial fruit bowl) kitchen. Mike seems to know that no one really cares that much--plumbing should be neither seen nor heard--and this is a good philosophy. Instead, he's got pictures of Old Lander--lots of old 4th parades, the biggest event in Lander. I like one photo, from probably about the time the camera made it out here: A row of cowboys--and I mean, down-and-dirty, decked out real ones, with faded blue jeans (from work) matching the ghostly-looking, intense, faded-blue eyes--stand one-legged cocked, relaxing, watching the parade. One of them is looking quite intensely, almost angrily, at one of the people passing by in the parade. If you follow his eye gaze, you come to rest upon an Indian--a real one, decked out in the amazing soft-leather beaded outfit, with a strong and beautiful profile and long, black braids, and feathers aloft. He looks like he is part of the horse he is riding, and he sits tall and proud, as he passes the cowboys.

I've spent awhile looking at the Old-Timer ghosts in Mike's pictures before going in to talk about plumbing issues.

Inside the store--well, it looks more like a workshop sort of organized into shelves. This is a working place, not a store, really. Mike has put up signs around, like: "Got complants? Go to Helen Waite." As I wait for Mike, I look through his other funny cartoons pasted to the back of his computer; finally, here comes the Man. He is a big and warm bear with blue eyes and a square Scandinavian face. "How was Australia?" he guffaws, "Glad to be home?"

"Oh, yeah," I say, liking being home more because I just remembered there's lots of people here like Mike, who remember you, and who somehow remember that you left and went across the planet, and wonder why on earth you'd want to do that.

He says, "So, listen, I'll talk to Polly over there and we'll fix up that damn boiler. You know, it is cheaper in the end to do it once and do it right."

Mike's got lots of time-tested common-sensisms like that and I like each one.

Why are plumbers rulers of small towns? Well, it isn't just any plumber--the only other plumber in town seems to get a kick out of gouging people when Mike isn't available. Mike, himself, is someone who will go to bat for you with insurance adjusters and will do exactly what is needed, not more, not less. He's honest and kind, and plays a mean games of racquetball, too.

Mike and the Young Mikes see you, often, at your worst moments, when you've been fighting with sh-% for hours and they come and save you; and they are no luxury in a small town in the middle of nowhere when the temps can go down to 30 below, and you need that boiler working and the pipes unfrozen. You're absolutely dependent upon them at times, completely helpless. So, you see, you can't do the Big City "Oh I'll just shop around"--in a small town; you do well to know Mike and be as honest and courteous with him as he is with you.

Home owners know that plumbers know your house better than you do--Mike also knows about our house in the years before we owned it. "Oh, yeah, I remember that weird dual garage/laundry room heater in there..."

Plumbers also deal with the waste and the heat and the water, all very basic things to keep our home a home and not a cold sewage swamp. They are like priests, in a way...okay, don't try to lynch me yet, Catholics. Remember that Hanging Tree is gone?

How are plumbers like priests? Or priests like plumbers? I'm thinking of priests in the confessional; a plumber, like a priest, helps you deal with your waste, with your most basic need of keeping things moving and healthy and warm and all that. Spiritual growth, charity, grace flowing...

You need a plumber, like a priest, in your worst moments, when you're the most helpless...and it helps, more than that, it gives you hope when you find a plumber or a priest that you feel comfortable with, whose advice you trust.

Okay, I know they are different, too. I actually got this comparison from a great priest, who told me once, when I was a new Catholic, that being  a priest in the confessional is like being a sewer pipe. It showed me how difficult that vocation must be at times.

Mike At City Plumbing, along with his family, help keep Lander running and happy. So make sure you visit City Plumbing and look at the photos in the window if there's a sign on the door saying, "Back at---."

Small Town(s) Rule(s)

 

I now, once again, live in a small town. Not only do I live in a small town, but one that is almost a five-hour drive away from the nearest large city. Not with quite the isolation of Perth (1500 miles from any other city), yet it is an island of Cowboys, Native Americans, Granolas, and Academics in a sea of high desert and mountains. Culturally, this is still the Old West in some ways (a handshake is as good as a contract and lots of people 'carry'), but it is an interesting mix of various eccentric adventurers and just comfortingly regular people. One characteristic that seems to bind together this particular Old-New West town is an independent spirit. From the Native Americans who once roamed this land in search of white-tailed deer and buffalo, to the pioneers and cowboys who built the ranches and the town, to the outdoor adventurers and the college students, the one common trait is that love of 'getting out there and getting something done.' And in order to stay here, in Lander, and to be happy, you have to have some of that. There ain't no café navel-gazing culture here. Well, maybe a little. I kind of like that, to be honest.

The old Lander held Butch Cassidy in it's little makeshift jail in the late 1800s; Calamity Jane cracked her whip hereabouts, and as one Old-Timer told me once while sitting next to me on the Vomit Comet (the small plane out of nearby Riverton), "Lander was a fightin' town, with bars up and down the dirt of Main St." This Old-Timer called himself a "half-breed" (half Native American, half European) and he was a thin giant of a man, who could carry the ten-ton cowboy hat with the feather in it like the best of them. Like many Native Americans, he could almost speak to horses and once trained for Roy Rodgers; also a veteran of the tough oil fields in Wyoming, he now travels to Russia (and maybe Perth, come to think of it) to inspect oil rigs. If you saw him in person, you'd believe every word of it. He grew up in Lander and told me that Main St itself, only paved in the 1960s or 70s, was made quite wide (a four-lane road) simply because ranchers used to run the cattle right through town. Cattle don't walk in single-file lines except on cliff tracks. Also, I imagine Main St. got wide 'cause everyone wanted to build their stores and bars well away from the cow patties.

With the paved roads came NOLS, the National Outdoor Leadership School, an organization that really pioneered the concept and the value of outdoor education as a means towards strength and leadership.

This was actually the second culture-clash, after the original one with the Arapahoe and Shoshoni tribes whose shared reservation is nearby.

The Indian-White clash was here, as elsewhere, a painful tragedy. The Arapahoe and Shoshoni tribes do not have anything in common, but they were dumped together here; the present-day situation is a complex, painful reality that most people have never deciphered, but the reservation towns are places people generally stay away from. I visited a Catholic church once in Ethete, one of these towns, and met some of the elders of the tribe. They have a certain, un-explainable, ancient wisdom and a way of looking at life and religion that is both pure and also eclectic, in some cases a mixing of sweat-lodge mysticism with prayers to Our Lord. In them, you can see the ancient East in conversation with Western tradition. Most people on the reservations live in abject poverty, as if they are reluctant or unable to tame or cow the land under them, their trailers and tiny houses mongrel descendants of the teepees they once folded up when it was time to move to the next watering place. They seem to live floating just above the ground, in limbo between an ancient way and modern life; and it seems to create a vacuum of purpose for the young. Another acquaintance of ours has spent his life on the St. Stephen's Mission, an oasis of church and school, and he and his wife have--oh yes--one of the few buffalo (or bison, because there are no pure buffalo left) herds in the world. Ron told us as we fed these enormous creatures, "They only stay here because they want to. There isn't a fence that could hold them, and they can jump over anything they can get their chin on." St. Stephen's, with the buffalo herd and the eclectic Native-Christian murals on the walls, is a place you do feel for a moment, some hope, but I often wonder how the Native Americans themselves see hope for the future; it has always seemed that a people whose relationship to nature and movement with her movements is so crucial, yet are forced to live in the modern world of fences, simply have broken hearts.

The NOLS culture-clash was the meeting of progressive, more lefty-environmentalist types with people born from generations of pioneers who have spent their lives in hope of survival and planting trees, building and repairing fences and barns, shooting predators that threatened their very lives. NOLS is a major presence in town; they took over the old Noble Hotel on Main, and they have huge offices, dorms, classrooms, equipment-stocking buildings all over town. They bring in groups of strutting, excited youths ready for the challenge of survival in one of the last true wildernesses.

Then, in 2005 or so, Wyoming Catholic College was born. This has imported the academic into the mix, along with a huge influx of young Catholic families and students into an established parish, into a town that has many little churches of different denominations. As I've got to know both the academics and the wonderful parish people, I have been fascinated by the meeting of  Landerites and a bunch of mostly intense academics, and between generally older Catholics who had got used to a Vatican II style worship and those who are part of that phenomena in the Church, the young who yearn for the grandeur of the old.

Lander, I remember thinking quite early, is a happy town. People think up things and believe they can do them--in this, both NOLS and Wyoming Catholic College do fit here. Perhaps this is an inheritance from both the morally upright surviving Siberia-level harsh weather and the morally down-wrong bandits who suddenly found they could get away with major robbery. "Damn we're good" I can imagine them saying while racing across the tundra on horseback, when the reality was that there were a lot of hiding places and few lawmen. But moral buoyancy or not, still, like an echo of the adventuresome past, there is a buoyancy at each stoplight, as you wave to the at-least three friends you see on each trip downtown; the almost-year-round sunlight, intense high-altitude sun, probably adds to this. Even the yellow caution lights are ridiculously short-lived: Yes, Lander lives strictly in red-light and green-light mode. "Okay this stopped us. But let's get going now."

One of my favorite people here, a woman who has lived here all her life, was described by fellow townsfolk, when they gave her an award, as "The Most Relentlessly Positive Person We Know." That's saying a lot in Lander. And actually, it is true. She's got me to do things on horses that really, I had no business trying. But boy, once you've done it, and the incredibly tense-muscled beast slows back down to a walk, you look out over hundreds of miles, from the Sand Hills to the north, to Table Mountain to the south, and you feel more alive--and positive--than you've felt for ages. Once, I was riding, in that top-o-the-world mood, with a group led by Charlie Whitlock or Shetlock, or some such name, and he said, "Lirk ova thur--yuh kin see the Al Crick maowtins." I queried, quite innocently, "Who is Al Crick?"

"Naw, AWL CRICK."

"Okay."

"Naw, like the animul thit goes 'hoot'."

"Oh," it dawned on me, "Owl Creek."

"Yah."

You're probably, though, wondering about my new blog title. I really want to, without getting lynched (oh, good, the Hanging Tree which sat down by the current jail did finally come down a few years ago), talk about some of the underlying things in this little town, the 'rules.' These say a lot, especially the unspoken ones, about what people really believe, and how 'good fences make good neighbors.' Being in a small town is really more like going on a road trip with a group of people; you start to figure out how best to live with each other: and you can't be fakey for long, because everyone will soon see right through you, yet you can't just say whatever you're thinking, because that just ain't a good fence. So, here's what the title means:

1- Small Town Rule: Who really rules a small town? The City Council? Or perhaps it is much more subtle than that. Is it the Old Timer types who run the coffee Power breakfasts at the local inn, and who, in this way, curb all the young bucks?  In Oakdale, CA, another small town where I lived for awhile, the Power Breakfast was at the Busy Bee Café. Could it also be certain ladies who--somehow through mysterious means and various forms of hospitality and family connections-- influence everyone else, even those thinking they are at the Power Breakfast? A lady saying to another, "Let's have coffee" can very well be a political move in a small town, I imagine.

2-Small Towns Rule: After living in LA-style Sydney, and bits and pieces of Manhatten, and other cities and large urban areas, I've found that small towns have something essential to the human soul that you cannot have in a big urban area--unless, like in Manhatten, your neighborhood becomes your small town. I don't know what that essential element is yet, quite, but know it by intuition.

3- Small Town Rules: Every small town has unspoken rules. Here, in Lander, there's something called "Cowboy Ethics." And there are others that are just 'small town' and these are quite fun, really, and very useful once you know what they are. Just a taste: People seem to know what routes to take through town and through the aisles in the grocery stores so as to avoid lengthy catch-ups, if one is in a hurry--and if you happen to catch each other's eyes, and one smiles quickly and looks back intently at the beets, well, then, that's okay. Catch you another time.

Small Town(s) Rule(s).

The Last Word

Well, now that we're 'back again,' I suppose it is time to move on to another blog title. It will be called "Small Town(s) Rule(s)" and I am going to try and talk about life in a small town. Might not work, because in a small town in Wyoming, we all know way too much about each other already...but I'll try to walk that tightrope for a couple entries and see how it goes. I may get booted back across the Pacific. Maybe I can direct the booting and get across the Atlantic this time. Spain. Portugal. Night Train to Lisbon.

At any rate, I let the dust of Australia wash off me yesterday in the shower, and then over dinner Ana wanted to read to us her diary entry, "Going Home." I thought she should have the last words of this chapter, adventure, or what I call "20,000 Miles to Get a Toasted Sandwich Maker: or a Risk Gone South":

Going Home
by Anatolia

Nobody has the perfect life; everybody wants to appear happy but by doing so, end up taking away more and more of what happiness is. Happiness isn't charisma.

Through this whole journey, what has haunted me the most was not losing people, suffering, the hardships of this adventure, but rather the attitude that was a mask, something I encountered in myself and almost everyone else. I tried to grasp depth, but with the fear of lying to myself by listening to the testimonials of others, I slunk back into a hole of maturity, or the appearance of it. I easily become engrossed in stories, movies, and songs, so much so that I seek to become what so many other artists have sought to inspire.

So, being a searcher for deep and dramatic things, I wanted to come back to Lander as someone new and improved, a weathered adventurer who would not fear anything again. Some of this I did gain, but by trying too hard I lost what I most wanted to come back with--a free, selfless heart and the ability to be what God made me to be at the beginning. What I now know is I'm not alone; this goal is something that takes a whole lifetime and not even achieved then. Only when there is only God, like a song that envelops you completely, only then can God destroy you, what you thought was yourself, and bring you to life. I feel this desire, but I cannot trust Him when He puts me in the thick of it.

We've passed the Wyoming border sign. I will love going home with everything, even if those people I wish to be perfect, to love me perfectly, let me down and even if I let them down. If I continue in humility, it will destroy my pride. For this home of mine is not my home. But it is not separate from it. It is a part, more than that, in the timeless picture of God. It is a musical phrase that will lead on, creating the next; I will only catch glimpses of the tonal note, then it will die out, until harmony will put each piece of the journey together; the note that began it will resound forever.

In our adventure, I had so many countless prayers, but prayer is not really asking, it is receiving. Indeed God knows our prayers before we know them, and even in prayer that is confused and muddled, we are letting God fill a little more. Our prayers for Australia God knew, but it was a prayer that we did not know. In prayer we ask for what will make us happy, as if God has ignored our ideas and plans for happiness. No, we should ask for happiness--it is a sign of the willingness to receive; our asking must reflect God. Then the deepest desires will be gained through the loss of ourselves. In Australia, we lost our dogs, we lost the comfortable security of things functioning. I lost part of my childhood, the appearance of a family whose job will work, whose children will not experience hard things.

There is a lot of pride entwined with the attachment to simple securities and appearances of this world. But I did not hate or condemn myself for these vices. God longs to give Himself to crush this fear in me. Indeed, even Mom and Dad were angry at God and we lost some faith. Though many people have seen too much and others live too easily, too well, to believe, the losses of this dog-loving, pizza-eating, shouting, arguing family whose pride is constantly being destroyed, will be filled with more of God. We have scars, and battle wounds, good memories and a lot of tears, and this was God's way of fighting for us and crushing the deepest wounds inside us, fighting the monsters inside us, and finally freeing us.

To sum up the philosophical, theological and intellectual journeys we made, I would say something like what the Aussies might say: "Keep Calm and Love God."

Back Again

 

We left Huntsville, UT on a cool, rainy morning, well-fed with laughter and love: my cousin Cameron and his wife Ashley are magical people. Ashley is the daughter of the well-known sculptor, Bob Bennett, and is an artist in her own right. Her work, along with other Bennett work, hangs in a gallery in Carmel and she talks easily about lunch with Clint Eastwood, an old friend of her father's.

But Ashley is no star-struck lightweight. She carries deep personal tragedy along with her; after the event that nearly destroyed her, she fought for healing and wholeness, and now pours the depths within her, carved out by fire and water, out for others. Cameron is her perfect partner--a depth of understanding under a layer of silly fun.

Cameron and I laughed hysterically together, a moment jumping forward from our childhood. We talked about how we both rebelled, in our own ways, to the expectations of family, for both good and ill.

So full of love, we started our trek through impossibly high peaks rising again like giants out of the clouds: you drove along their feet and looked up at their heads. I was, inside, deeply grateful for the rain. For many months, I have been irrationally afraid of the drive through the sage sea, dry and endless, that is southwest Wyoming. But instead of burning sun, the water poured down on us like an overflow of grace; the road was a river and it almost ran us off the road with the force.

As we drove out of Farson (where they have big ice cream cones and not much else), and out of Eden (what? Steinbeck irony?), and into the expanse, we could see the Wind River Range, a spur of the Rockies, standing wreathed in cloud, blue-grey sentinels. The last time we traveled this road, on our way to Australia, it was laced with snow drifting across the cement.

The kids made up a homecoming song: a hybrid of Soundgarden's Rowing and some Christmas song. It is a tradition they keep up, and now their voices ring out strong and deep, adult voices instead of cute squeaks. They sang and looked for what they've been waiting for, for months of emotional struggle, of exile: Red Canyon, one of the beauty spots on this earth: a veritable rainbow of different colored rock and sky.

I prayed, as we drove through clouds on South Pass (7000 feet), that Red Canyon would be clear.

It was so fogged in that I couldn't see fifty feet ahead. I've never, in all our years here, seen fog like that in crystal Wyoming.

The kids, keyed up emotionally, went down fast. Ana wondered why on earth God didn't make it clear for them. I had no answer. Life, being the potter's clay, is the answer. Living with God, yielding ourselves to re-forming after mistakes, after disappointment, after success, is the answer.

But Lander waited.

"There's the Trautman ranch!!"

"Holy Rosary Church!!"

"Oh. McDonald's is still there. Oh well."

"Gannett Grill! Ace Hardware!"

And then, down Third Street to Mary Dean's. This place, how can I explain it? Not only is it beautiful, with flowers everywhere and 100-year-old cottonwoods rising out of green grass and a small creek running under little bridges, it holds so many moments of love: Tea with Mary Dean downstairs, hours in almost-heaven with the SOS girls, Mark Randall playing jazzy Christmas carols long ago, deep discussions over Dostoeyvski with the college ladies, talks with the freshmen college girls, the house full of children filming their first movie. There are also memories of pain, too: friends who once sat opposite in all their unique glory no longer there, no longer sharing friendship; times of tragedy when we sat staring, shocked, across the living room. It is the House of Memories.

Mary Dean took the Nomadic Kozinskis up to Cottonwood suite and I laid down in bed that night, thinking of a time, long ago, when once before God provided an earthly mansion n the midst of a certain kind of dependence and poverty, that of the nomad.

Long ago, I drove through the mountains of Virginia, lost in more ways than one. There was no room at my destination, a lonely place that I simply cannot describe. They told me, "Try down the road." Eleven pm. Lady in lobby.

"Well, we're full....except for the mansion. You can have that room for regular price."

It was a mansion, a true Virginia estate home. In my loneliness, I suddenly thought of the verse that Kenon's husband spoke of, the mansions God has in store for us; the ones He builds as opposed to the ones we struggle to gain.

Yes, God, lets Red Canyon be shrouded in fog, and more seriously, Gazans continue to die and leaders who hold people's lives in their hands try to make others in their own image--and destroy everything in the process. But, as I've heard from friends over and over, God also writes straight with crooked lines.

Over these last days, I've reunited with friends and am so grateful for every "We're so glad you're back." How much that means.

Father Dave asked the girls, "Okay. It was tough. What did you learn?"

Ana said, "What true Christianity means."

He replied, "Yes. And sometimes you have to go away to value what you have."

We are the clay; and God takes even our mistakes and makes them times of remolding. We can go ego-defense about our mis-adventure, or we can go claylike.

So, we're in God's mansion until we can get back into our house--and then we have to replace the boiler. Bummer.

Looking Through Solomon's Eyes

Today, we sat in a beautiful old church in Twin Falls, St. Edmund the Confessor. I was busy marveling at the particular beauty of a cherub carved into the wall (usually cherubs are no more than frighteningly fat babies, but this one actually looked heavenly and his face was beautiful, his attention held by something beautiful), when I realized I wasn't paying attention to the readings.

"Solomon was asked by God, "What do you want? I will give it to you.' And Solomon replied, 'Give me an understanding (discerning) heart.'"

I have often heard this verse, but have not understood it...with the wholeness of myself. Sometimes we 'understand' something only rationally, sometimes, only emotionally, sometimes we keep it at an admirable distance.

Perhaps, perhaps, because I have been so, so often in the last few years, in such a position of desperate asking: "Please take this pain away;" "Please heal me;" "Please help this situation;" perhaps because I have begun, with age, to really open the door to the sorrows of this world, the terrible poison of selfishness and pride that drives many of the evils in ourselves, in the world, perhaps because of this my ears were more open to Solomon's answer to the carte blanche of God.

"Give me an understanding, discerning heart."

I put myself there, in Solomon's place, and looked around at his world. Tremendous power, the power of judgment, but yet not a pagan king who is both king and god, but a king who knows he will answer to Him Who Sees. I saw the two prostitutes before him, and I realized that Solomon was in his wisdom, a prefigurement of Jesus; for the essence of Solomon's wisdom exemplified in the case of the prostitutes was a clear sight into the heart of another. I saw Jesus answering, in different situations, not the outward expressions, but the questions of the person's heart. I saw Him with a sight that ran clear and straight, like an arrow, into the center of the other.

His judgment, and that of Solomon, was based on the understanding of the heart.

Just by stepping into Solomon's vision for a millisecond, I realized that his request for an understanding heart was like asking for a spring on the land, rather than a house or servants or comfort; for how long will any of these things last if there is no water? It was like asking for the axe to be sharpened rather than asking for one tree.

I could see, in that millisecond of eternity, that if I had an understanding heart, I would be able to take the pain; I would be praying the best prayer for both those I love and for my enemies, because I would become the person they truly need; I would be praying the best prayer for the suffering in the world because I would become a person who could truly help, and would be able to discern between real love and ideology. I would be able to deal with suffering--better, I would be able to bring fruit out of it, with God, because I would understand....not as one understands logic, but as one knows another and loves them. It is the understanding of wholeness, the sight of love that runs clear like the straight arrow into the heart of the matter.

Solomon's life was not a straight journey, though. I have often felt the sadness of his descent, slow, into sin, and wondered how a man with wisdom like that was taken in. His journey was not a static moment of inspired prayer, but a wisdom that must be coupled with endurance, with perseverance, with the love that expresses itself in obedience to God. A daily, nomadic walk. It is the walk that Christ showed us: He, unlike Solomon, resisted the temptations in the desert, and sweat blood for obedience.

We leave tomorrow, on our nomadic way. I actually am now used to the nomadic life, and I like it. I like stopping at different places--not as on a vacation, from home and then back, but without a home. You really then live in each place, and the experiences are much more intense. Perhaps I have gypsy blood and it is now asserting itself.

I am hoping to get to the house of one of my cousins, Cameron. He's the male version of me, and oh, I had such fun as a child being silly with him. We were the tail end of the grandchildren, always getting in trouble. No one at Thanksgiving at 48 Cragmont Court, Grandma's house, thought we were wise. We were, rather, the jesters of the family.

What I have always loved about Cameron, though, is his open heart. He, like Father Percy, presses the gas pedal on every moment, and he is just--himself, living with you in the moment. That kind of person is precious, though sometimes it comes with a certain temptation to just live in that moment and not see the principles undergirding those moments. But neither is the super-rational wise; in some ways, I think Cameron's passion and openness is a more honest knowledge. Rationality can too easily become our own universe, impregnable to pain, or dissent.

The Endurance Race and Nomadic Rest Stops

I am sitting in the middle of potatoes and cows: Idaho, that is. Twin Falls, at Uncle Dwight's, is the latest nomadic rest stop for the Kozinskis. We're here because our house is not ready for us, and relatives were coming to stay at Orcas; so off island we went, stopping to visit dear friends in Seattle (hours with true friends, with whom you can be yourself, are little 'splashes' of joy) and to attend a Byzantine Catholic Divine liturgy: this was another splash of joy, particularly because the Divine Liturgy is oriented towards heaven.

I have always felt most at home in the Divine Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom. His feast day is my birthday, and though I'm no Golden Mouth, I love the liturgy he passed on to the Eastern Christians. It reminds me of the quiet, mysterious Greek churches of my childhood heart, and the times in Russia, when I was a young woman listening to a choir singing across the river, from inside a building that points to heaven, being almost brought there, the gold and light and very air around me singing with the human voices.

As I sat on Sunday in the Divine Liturgy, in the midst of our nomadic life, I felt as if I was in a field, in that slanting golden light, and I was looking across towards the mountains, waiting; waiting, but peaceful. After the Eucharist I found that my soul was no longer looking out, waiting, but with her Guest. I have never felt so rested except in an Eastern rite; like the sense of place, it speaks to me in unspoken ways because of who I am, the little pieces of colored glass that are my experiences, and make up my ability to receive easily--or not.

But now, as in most moments, I am in a foreign land, on a journey. A loving friend of mine and I used to talk about looking forward, someday, to 'soft landings' but I think now, more and more, that a permanent soft landing is not possible in this life.

However, the soft landings we do have are places of retreat that God provides--it can be your 'prayer hood' or that quiet place in the soul that St. Mary MacKillop went to ride out times of stress, or feasting with loving friends, or the beauty of liturgy, or a retreat house like this one provided for us in Idaho, the home that my Aunt Barbara and Uncle Dwight have made so restful, and beautiful...and we get to enjoy it alone for a week before heading back up into the mountains for more moving fun.

This life is overall, a race of endurance, a test, a means for us to choose Love or to choose Self; to choose to trust through darkness, or to scramble for comfort and oblivion. Oblivion tempts me sometimes.

I am thinking about this now, in the middle of potato fields, because yesterday I found out that an acquaintance, a family friend of mine from college, who has heroically struggled with no less than five bouts of cancer  has died. I remember Kenon when she was first married, just finished with her second battle and wearing a wig, sitting in Santa Barbara Community Church, bravely smiling, bravely embarking on a life out of death. Then years later, after she and her husband adopted three children, another battle...and she took that fight and became a comforter and advocate of kids with cancer; then recently, another bout which she lost on July 16. Kenon, saddled with the stress and pain of constant returning death, lived a more full life than many. Like Jane Austen, who was severely limited by opportunity and money and prejudice, and disease, Kenon created some Great Works of lasting beauty: not novels, but works of love. I know she would say it was all through the power of Christ. She was a walking example of endurance, of running the race with courage. She was even brave enough to face the feelings of betrayal: How can God do this to me, especially if I am trying to trust Him?

Here is a video of Kenon, a few years ago, talking about the "Barrier of Betrayal":

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R6f8Q5y0CqQ&sns=em

And here are some more recent words of Kenon:

"I am very blessed by the presence of dear friends and family in our lives as we walk a new portion of a 25 year old road. Diagnosed at age 21 with Hodgkin's Disease, 23 with a recurrence, 26 with myelodysplasia and had a BMT, and 40 with breast cancer... I thank God for my life so far. Twenty-five years later, I am enormously grateful to have more than doubled my life, been married to a truly remarkable man and had the joy of being mamma to three amazing, talented and loving children. God has shown Himself faithful in a multitude of ways. Graciously, He often lets me "peek behind the curtain" to see how His ways are working out for my best and His Glory. What a privilege!

I do not know what this season of life will hold, or how long it will last. My greatest hope is that all will be used for God's glory, that the body of Christ will be strengthened and that none will give in to "the betrayal barrier." I would be very honored if you would speak of the goodness of God and celebrate His faithfulness with me.

Thank you for your prayers as I enter battle #5. May nothing be wasted in the journey toward true life and wholeness."

Her husband, Matt, writes two days before she dies:

"As Paul writes in II Cor. 5:2 "For indeed in this house we groan, longing to be clothed with our dwelling from heaven." V 1: "For we know that if the earthly tent which is our house is torn down, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens." Shedding the mortal coil is never easy, we groan and groan and groan, but GOD is building Kenon an everlasting house that will fit her beautifully."

And as we pray for a beautiful soul and her family who ran the race well, we also pray for those in Gaza who are enduring so much.

Any of that makes potatoes or perhaps cow patties of anything I'm going through; but as a weaker soul, I know the value of the example of bravery given us by those who go before.

Orcas Pt. III: The Sarwatman/Sparrow Spectrum

Well, in 2014, I spent Australia Day in Australia, will probably spend the 4th in the US, and on July 1, spent Canada Day in Sidney and Victoria, Canada. Does our common parent country, the UK, have a UK Day, or are all these days just a kind of "we got away from you" gesture that would make no sense in England?

On Canada Day, we went over to Vancouver Island, BC from Orcas on my parents' yacht. Now that sounds super-snooty: the Laurel Lee is actually more of a sweet, teakwood and brass campa van on water. It is an "Eagle 32" which has the slight look of a green and white tug. There is a sitting room-kitchen, a pilot house and a cabin with ensuite. We tugged our way over on a calm, sunny day, reaching Sidney Port along with other Canadians and Americans. We put our little courtesy Canadian flag up, above our larger American one, and went through a very polite customs process with a very eager-to-help young man who had just started his job.

Sidney Port Marina was full: Like on Australia Day, I was looking at something cultural from the outside. I think Canadians see us as their 'more powerful neighbors' and they have always struck me as slightly more European, with their reserve and muted colors. They tooted their yacht horns politely and clapped golf-course claps for the fireworks; they had a 'make your own boat' race and they all stood gently, quietly smiling and jumping in surprise when the fire truck tooted its horn for the start of the race--even after the polite warning from the emcee. Worlds, worlds away from Lander where the only warning given is to "Get off the street if you don't wanna be sprayed by the fire hoses at the end of the parade," where we still have rocket shells on our roof at Cross St. I leave them there for fun.

Sidney, BC, like other San Juan Islands, has a marina-world, which is an alternate universe that has its own protocols and cultural mores, but nevertheless, has a more Canadian feel. It was quiet. Even the hoods who pulled up in their overly powerful, faded-red speedboat were polite and quiet.

Like Aussies and Kiwis, Americans and Canadians can hear the slight difference in accent. I bet few others can. There is a little of the Scottish expression left in Canadian English. Eh?

Like Aussies and Kiwis, Cannies have dollar and two-dollar coins. Canadians had the great idea to call their dollars "loonies" for the loon on the coin, and of course, the two-dollar coin is a "twoonie." Maybe Aussies could call theirs "funnies" and "twunnies" for the funnel web spiders. Kiwis could call theirs "hobbities" and "twobbities."

Victoria, though, has widened my view of Canada. It has the beautiful-and I mean beautiful--castle-like structures of Ottawa, but these aren't lost in some city sprawl or depressing weather...the castles reign over a sparkling port where we saw the biggest private sailboat I have ever seen. The thing was probably 150 feet long and the mast soared into the air to about three stories high. What on earth do you need that thing for? Despite that disgusting excess, the city seemed planned with humanity in mind, and whimsy. They had plants shaped like Orca whales, a little white, weedy flower the spouting water. Cuteness.

I had some delightful moments with my dad, working mentally on his book, someday to come out, What Not to Wear or Dressing for Dummies. We saw some teenage girls who made shirts with red hands right on the front and I hope--and hope not--that you can picture it for yourself. We said, "That's an example of what you will someday be ashamed to have worn. Anywhere." We all have these skeletons. On the other hand, there was a very sweet older couple who were dressed in a classic, muted way amidst the sea of red and white t-shirts and red maple-leaf hats. The only clue they were celebrating was the man's shoelaces tucked neatly into the holes of his dress shoes: bright red. They obviously had loved each other for a lifetime. Wealth.

Back at the marina, our boat was on the small side. There's some major money bags out there, and they seem to congregate on marina docks, with their fine china and Provencal tablecloths be-decking their portable table next to their sleek ship with tinted portholes and shiny blue and white paint.

Part of these San Juan islands is now a playground for yachts and wealthy people who have summer homes. The man who owned one private rental dock on Orcas owns a whole island: Speiden Island. It was once owned by another rich person who decided (dumb) to make it a private hunting ground, and (dumber) brought in lions and tigers. Of course the deer and everything that could swam off the island, and the neighboring island people protested the presence of large predatory cats that belong in their native habitats in Africa...and the abuse of the poor things. If you see Speiden, you'll know it was really more like firing squad exercise than a hunt. Dumbest.

But weird, or apple pie American, or muted Canadian, wealth is part of the islands now. It is no longer a frontier, culturally, no longer a bereft outpost on the ends of the earth. Where taverns once stood, Marmalade Tart Boutique tantalizes teenagers with complex outfits. I wondered about this title for a clothing store, by the way. Is it a sly, subtle pun for Jam Slut Clothes, or what?

Helene Glidden, who lived on Patos in the early 20th century, or Ed Lavender, might not recognize it all now. But there it is...things change.

I think the poor-to-rich spectrum is relative. I mean, if you are kind of lower middle-class in the US or Canada, with the same possessions and salary, you'd be considered rich in parts of India. If you are rich in Australia, you'd probably be considered rich anywhere except London or maybe even Sydney. Sydney can drain you dry in a matter of hours...$148 for a 'family savings pass' to the zoo; $38.00 high tea per person at the middling-quality Tea Room at the QVB; I won't even talk about rents. It all made us feel seriously crazy sometimes. London might be worse. The Empress Hotel in Victoria was the worst, though: $59 per person for afternoon tea.

So there's the spectrum of poor-rich that changes depending on where you are: but there is a common, global understanding of 'rich' which you can find in ancient cultures like Afghanistan, that I think holds true even with the shifting spectrum. The sarwatman is the rich man, and he is the man who has enough to get what he wants, to live in his own world, a world that doesn't have the same limits or even laws. In Afghanistan, the poor always resent the rich for this reason, this seemingly super-human ability to create an alternate universe, almost a place in which the punishment of Adam ('you shall bring food out of the ground by the sweat of your brow') is overcome.

Every community has the sarwatman, on their relative spectrum, and Orcas is no exception. One of these was a man named Robert Moran, a Seattle shipbuilder who did, in the beginning, sweat for his success, but by the time he came to Orcas, he was fully capable of building a retreat, Rosario, that still holds the mystique of one man's realized vision of how he'd like to live. "Rosario" is named after "Rosario Strait", named by the Spanish explorers here in centuries past. The name comes from "rosarius," the Latin for rosary. There's this lovely, albeit mostly unknown, and forgotten tradition of Catholic culture here. Does a name retain its power when the meaning has been forgotten?

Orcas is shaped like a pair of lungs, or a moth in partial flight. Between the two lungs is East Sound, a long, thin body of water that almost splits the lungs in two. Along the east side of East Sound  sits "Rosario's" (as it is called by locals), a beautiful white mansion like a queen on a green throne, her sightless eyes watching the water. She was built around 1905, when Mr. Moran was told he had one year to live (I think he died in 1943, so Orcas must have cured him).

Moran was a Seattle industrial shipbuilder, and the mansion, now a resort but kept almost in original condition, has the feel of a ship: the wood is rich--and impossibly thick--teak; the chairs on the porch look more like heavy, beautiful, deck chairs, and even the glass in some of the windows is more appropriate to a ship's portholes; brass dominates, and the place feels as if it could survive a hurricane; the roof is completely copper, heavy stuff. I bet Moran used extra ship parts and stuff he got from Seattle as a Big Guy on the Scene.

And, a side note: Moran's Seattle, that of the late 1800s and early 1900s, still exists--but underground. Seattle built the new downtown dock area on top of the old one, and you can still take 'underground Seattle' tours and see parts of the old city that Moran knew.

Anyway: Driving out of Eastsound (the town) and through the forest, circling up around Mt. Constitution, you make a right next to the fancy "Rosario" sign. Down, down you go, through flower-studded meadows, along a road that has the red madrona trees bowing over you. The circular drive comes into view, with the old Seattle city lamps standing guard, chained together with battleship-grade chains. It is like entering another world, like entering the imagination of someone who had enough money to make it physical.

Mr. Moran's fabulous organ room and theatre is still operational; the manager of Rosario's has done the organ show almost every Saturday for fifteen years, and he maintains the freshness of a first show, inexplicably. You watch a twenties film version of The Phantom of the Opera while he plays the music, as it would have been done in Moran's day. Around the house, and in the library amongst leather and gilt-bound versions of The Modern Economics of Seabed Organizations, you can still see traces of a man who must have had a will of iron and a drive like a steam train, a man who relished wealth and the beautiful things he could surround himself with because of it.

Moran, like Ed Lavender, owned a lot of Orcas Island. He got his water the Roman way: carefully engineered aqueducts from Cascade Lake, halfway up Mt. Constitution. After a chance meeting with the naturalist John Muir (of California fame) he felt called to donate much of his property on Orcas to: us. Moran State Park is the result, with Cascade and places to jump off rocks, fish, hike, and boat. I have watched our kids go from swimmer diapers on the sand trying out the water with their arms straight up into my hands for safety, to jumping off the little ledge into the shallows after they learned to swim, to swinging fifty feet into the air from a strong old pine tree and dropping twenty into the dark water below, screaming all the while.

Mr. Moran built two twin homes near Rosario's to accomodate his children. Apparently the two wives (daughters or daughters-in-law) were jealous of each other and so Mr. Moran built their homes exactly the same, so there would be no fighting. This makes me wonder about how we are, when we have so much and yet it isn't good enough. The twin houses on the hill have always seemed to me a monument to The Stupidity of Envy Especially if You've Got Way More Than You Need. Maybe I'll sneak a plaque up there sometime.

Mr. Moran got old, and sold to another millionaire who bought the place because he needed somewhere to stash his eccentric wife. Apparently, she is well-remembered in Orcas, maybe because she fits, somehow, that off-the-edge stereotype: She would ride her motorbike into Eastsound daily, in her pajamas, and was a kind of hippie girl...but I imagine Rosario's to have been, for her, a kind of gilded asylum--which the sarwatman can also make, unfortunately, for himself and others.

Somewhere in time after the Eccentric Lady, the place became a resort; it has a marina, it's own electrical plant (Moran liked to be self-sufficient), a two great pools, a snack shop, a pretty good restaurant, and a spa underneath the house, where Moran had built an original spa with Roman-style baths and a bowling alley.

Orcas, thus, has another side to it than the off-the-edge hippie types: it is the people who've been pretty smart with their money, like our friends who were in the automotive parts industry and some successful writers and artists: the writer of Jonathan Livingston Seagull lives on Orcas. In the last fifteen years or so, the retired population has grown tremendously, and many people here are very blessed to be able to summer here, like the Morans once did. These people are why I love going to the second-hand shops in Orcas. You can find some amazing stuff.

I don't sense a huge resentment problem here, though, between the rich and poor on Orcas. Marx would have failed here, most likely. My guess is that the lack of resentment is partly due to the gratitude one so easily feels here, in the natural beauty: everyone on Orcas, maybe besides some imbalanced teenagers (is that redundant?), is in a way, in a group of few who somehow, can live here. My friend, Karen, dreamed for years of moving back to her childhood home, and has finally done it. The gratitude pours out of her about this. She is not a sarwatman, but feels like one.

There are the genuinely poor, and I find that there seems to be a strong movement on the island to help people have homes, like the Opal housing for islanders. I did meet a lady once who was on the verge of homelessness. She was old, and I met her at the Island Market. As I talked to her, she mentioned friends on the island who were ready to help her out at a moment's notice. Long-time locals seem to have a strong network: sometimes I get the sense that there is a deep undercurrent-desire to keep the old-timer, local population on-island, to not let Orcas become just a sarwatman fantasy-land, an inaccessible place for regular people.

There is another universal spectrum, though, a poor-rich spectrum, that does not measure wealth kept in property, but about something else. It is the wealth Socrates was searching for, and the Buddha (the prince leaving his palace is a compelling response to the material spectrum of poor and rich), and the Sufis, kings and queens and common people who have left everything behind in search for a kind of wealth. It is the quest that the Rich Young Man in Christ's parable could not complete, because he was so attached to his sarwatman status. Giving away everything meant, in first-century Palestine (which was much more like modern Afghanistan), that he would cease to have any power at all and become one of the helpless ones in an often brutal culture. I imagine it is why Christ says immediately after "sell all you have" that the young man should "come follow me." The implication of becoming a follower, a receiver, was clear--and the next, clear step was to choose who to follow. The young man did not know it is the greatest of power, to give it away--and follow Christ.

This kind of wealth, and freedom, the alternate universe, is called the Kingdom of God, and it cuts across material spectrums. And for some reason, I think of this every time we pass under the "Moran State Park" arch on the way into Cascade Lake. I do have to admit that I can't resist tweaking it and calling it "Moron State Park" even though, manifestly in a sarwatman sense, Robert Moran was not a moron...and he did the give-away part.

Sometimes, I think, you can see these lessons in physical form in the animal kingdom of Orcas Island, a kind of natural book here about God's call to freedom. The eagle at first seems like the sarwatman. The Native Americans seem to have thought this, because the eagle is usually at the top of totem poles, like the one Don Gerard has on his lawn. We've seen our local eagle spy an otter on the beach, who has just caught a fish. With his size and strength, the eagle just takes the fish, and the otter just steps aside; the eagle has got the equipment, and he doesn't. The eagle lives by pure power. So, the otter just trundles back to the sea to make another attempt. Otters do seem to have a much easier time catching fish, though, so maybe they are the real power behind the throne. Okay, over-thinking again. But the eagles, we discovered when we found their nest in a crooked pine tree above PS Point, are trying to feed two eaglets. The dark, solid-brown things are three times larger than crows. They stand on the side of the nest and practice flying, flapping their enormous wings and hopping on their oddly human-looking calves, hungrily looking for their parents to bring them fish and Don's crab bait. The eagles are just fighting hard to just feed their teenagers, which, for them, like our friends with lots of boys, is no joke.

The little sparrows are the poor. They have this beautiful freedom, though. They fly through the dusky-rose air at sunset, bobbing and weaving to catch mosquitos and small flies: but being weak birds, they are prey to so much around them.

A few days ago, though, we saw the physical manifestation of real wealth: a whole pod of Orca whales swam past our house, their huge, shiny black bodies slicing the water with elegance. They are so graceful that they look like they are going slowly, as their fins make a rainbow-shaped movement through the air: but they are going about twenty-five miles an hour, especially when they dive down and shoot through the water like bullets. The forty or so of them are free, totally free. They live by the grace of God, in their element, searching for the food and family He has written into their hearts. One of them danced out of the waves and slapped the water with it's tail. They speak to each other, call out to the little ones, and it all looks like play and delight in the elements around them.

It is their wealth, a wealth in a kind of freedom to be, simply what they were called to be, without attachment to anything that would turn them, warp them, from that end. They are unconsciously humble. Think what wealth is conscious humility, then, a humility born of love, with a proper end.

Then my dad told me what his fellow-boat-friend said: "Man, Ken, it drives me crazy that I have to dump my boat sewage so far out in the Strait...I mean, think about what a single whale lets out in one dump."

That totally ruined all the elegance for me. Everybody poops: It is the great leveler.

Orcas Pt. II: Hippy Musing or Musing About Hippies...whatever

I don't know when the hippies came to Orcas; probably they were born out of fern-spores, kind of like the Smurfs. They would probably like that if I suggested it, depending on what herbs they were actually taking as 'supplements.' You see, I often wonder how Orcas changed from being an American Native land and edgy pirate's hiding ground into a place where Green Rules (who is Green?) and the Solstice Parade is the highlight of the summer. The people who seem to be the heads for the Solstice stuff live, oh yes, close to Enchanted Forest Road...well, not quite. That'd be perfect. They down a ways into town on Beach Road, which is one the main downtown streets with the co-op and yoga center, the Island Market, and the wonderful Island Skillet.

The Solstice house has big stone turtles all over the front lawn, and it looks perpetually ready for a party, with lots of picnic tables, flowing silk flags with incomprehensible symbols, and cartoon-level-perfect lovely flowers planted everywhere. I often wonder how tolerant they'd be if I decided to sit on one of the turtles and drink my fresh  co-op kombucha. Wouldn't they take me in as one of their own?

In fact, they might. I am a kind of hippie, and as I get my grey hair and am just too lazy to color it, I look more and more authentic. When we moved to Santa Cruz from "You Must Wear Black at All Times" New York in 2005, I looked around and said, "Here are my people." I love herbs and organic food and long flowing East Indian skirts and hair, guitars and folk music, Bob Dylan, being shoeless on the sidewalk with sand still sticking to you. But I'm also not a hippie. But I guess that depends on what you mean by hippie.

I like that the original hippies said 'no' to the Vietnam War; I like that they decided to wear clothing that was natural and something Eastern, and stopped trying to look successful. I like our friends from Santa Cruz who were part of the Civil Rights movement in the sixties. But like so many ideologies and movements, when one essential element is missing, the whole thing goes wrong. Many hippies became a symbol of the very excess they hated, which probably one is fated to do if not pursuing Truth.

But here on Orcas, many years after the Vietnam War, I wonder what hippies are now. I sense hippy. But what kind? Perhaps, really, the neo-hippy organic farmers here are not fake but a kind of continuation, perhaps, of the pirate survivalists and also the Native Americans. Or maybe they are Smurfs living in a kind of fantasy-land.

And all this makes me think of Ed Lavender.  Ed's cabin was the last house on our beach before PS (Purple Starfish) Point. In the 90s, I remember feeling from Ed's cabin a sense of silent peace, some loneliness, and the sense of an ending life holed up in the homemade structure. The cabin looked as though it was leaning up for dear life against the huge pine tree and the river-rock chimney; the only sign I ever saw of Ed was a thin wisp of smoke going straight up into the sky. I would look for that and smile at the faceless windows, just in case he could see out. His driveway, up on the end of Blanchard Road (it was a place used by early settlers to load supplies off to take into Eastsound), had an ancient sign with simple letters carved in it: "Ed Lavender." The letter-groves were entirely filled with a beautiful blue-green moss, and this to me in some weird way, was the face of Ed.

Ed was an Old-Timer here; he was a self-sufficient man who lived almost a hermit's life; he owned a lot of land on Orcas, and there is a place downtown, a housing unit area, called "Lavender Hollow." His property near the beach included a virgin forest area of about five acres. As he got older, people stopped believing he was there and slowly began to encroach: dumping garbage (cars, even--and a fridge) in the forest, partying on the point.

One year, I saw no smoke and I was told that Ed had been taken to a nursing home to die. Apparently, he did have a daughter, but we saw no sign of her, and as the years passed, the house began to fall into ruin in earnest. But as long as that house stood, we felt Ed was alive and a part of Orcas.

Ed, to me, was the kind of person Old Orcas was made of, and he became an amorphous symbol, a giant presence, simply because I'd never seen him. He seemed to live the life close to nature off the edge of the continent, a full-day travel of car and ferry ride away from full civilization. His permanence, his ancient connection to sailed ships and no medical care made us feel like temporary flotsam brought up recently by the tide. In his lifetime, he probably knew the last of the Native tribes who summered here. He was probably a boy when Helene Glidden and her family left Patos in the teens.

Helene and her family were also Old Orcas, or rather, San Juan hippies. Helene moved with her something like twelve siblings to Patos Island so that her father could man the lighthouse sitting on the edges of the US and Canada; they moved out of Bellingham to escape the dirt, disease, and poor-quality food of the port in the early 20th century. Helene's mother forced the move so that they could have chickens, a cow, and some fresh air. Green Rules and Organics are Life. Helene records her father as saying, "Please don't make me move out to that G-damn island." Their life was, perhaps, unpalatable to him because it was a hippie one...a return to nature, a certain stepping out of the stream for certain values. Helene's autobiography, The Light on the Island, is hilarious, sad, loving, and full of delight in life. She herself, with her independent spirit and wild ways, was a San Juan hippie (the special brand I am trying to define); she did not follow rules for the sake of worldly success, it seems to me, but valued for real things, like love and adventure and so she was, like many true hippies, a careful and passionate observer, standing a little on the edges of life.

So it seems to me that the San Juans are where the physical reality perhaps does create a genuine organic culture: the islands of great beauty and magical sunsets, and dangerous currents, off the edge of Washington help create people of observation and adventure, people a little off the edge. So perhaps the new age hippie veneer here (turtles and silk flags and solstice) is that: a veneer. Orcas really does have the hippies that just--are--hippies by the very fact that they'd choose to live on an island. I'm getting good at spotting them. They are in a spectrum from the guy at Island Market who wears marbles around his neck with his jeans pulled way up (looks kind of excruciating) almost to his chest and big boots, or the lady who has worked at the spot where, now, I've seen three-or four? natural food stores come and go. The stores change, but she doesn't. Her hair just gets longer and whiter, like a Rip Van Winkle sign of time passing. Don't know how she's managed to stay in one spot, but every year she acknowledges me with an ironic smirk. I don't know why. I keep the tradition going and smile back submissively, which seems to placate her. I wouldn't change it. I am beginning to wonder if she is an Evil Genius Hippie who has been secretly in control of the Natural Food Market Concept and somehow undermines each incarnation so that she maintains a kind of control through chaos. It is that ironic smirk that does it. Okay, I think I drank too much kombucha.

Now, being a kind of hippie myself ( I do stop and observe plants carefully and have been known to pat them affectionately and to me there's not much better than a truly eclectic, challenging, open conversation), my idea of a mini-vacation is to go to the natural foods store. I find them wherever I go. Here, the health food store is now a co-op, which I think is great although I do miss the first one...it was so, so--herb-y and more like a barn than a store, and even had old wooden plank floors. Or maybe I imagined that. This one, though, is member-owned, which means it is supposed to reach, therefore, deep roots into the the community and encourage local produce, a more distributivist life. An island is, in some ways, by its position as an island, necessarily local. But is it all fakey, or the good part of hippie?

Perhaps, really, now, it has moved from 90s and 00s more neo-hippy stuff to just regular people really just living here, or committed to learning local farming, like Maple Rock Farm (the mrf van is a fixture here and there are even T-shirts that just have 'mrf' on them) and Black Dog Farm, just up the road from us. Is being a local, though, under fifty on Orcas, tantamount to having a kind of hippy identity? I just look around downtown.

There's the Village Market, where all the young Orcas Specials go. They wear crocheted snow hats all year, maybe at all times (maybe the crocheted stuff is really their hair in a complicated dread-lock), and they look like they shave themselves with shells off the beach. They drive cars that they may live in, and look a little daunting, but they ignore you with great friendliness. The ice cream is cheap in there and these types suddenly lose any danger-hippie-mystique when they start licking soft-serve.

There's also the wonderful second-hand store world of Orcas. An intensely loving Orcas native, a young woman, runs one. She spends lots of time with each customer, hoping their karma will be good in future. She is genuinely kind, though.

There's the interesting housing co-ops here, Opal land grants set aside for locals to have pretty nice little homes: brightly painted, with nice gardens, they look like little Scandinavian homes, somehow. They can buy the homes, but are only allowed a certain margin of profit upon sale--to keep the prices affordable. Interesting idea. Hippie idea.

There's Portofino Restaurant, where there always seems to come some dish of conflict with every order. Once, the owner got in a drag-out fight with a customer; another time a waitress was weeping...there's really rude jokes hung up on the kitchen wall in the back. We now go there partly for the pizza, and partly to watch for the soap-opera. Don't know if that is hippy, or just eccentric.

The locals, the natives, the Real Hippies: I don't know what they think of us Summer People, those of us who yearly swell the population from about 5,000 to 15,000. They are the people who live through the dark and stormy winter, the bar owners and farmers and restaurant owners who have to make it through winter with almost no income.

There's the young people who come here to learn organic farming, and I love their ambiance. They exude grass and herbal scents, mixed with clay and something like manure. They are the ones that I think are born from fern-spores. Where did they come from?

Where do hippies come from? It could that their measure of success, their identity, is somehow rooted in being different. That means that they don't wear deodorant or shave their legs or face and eat raw foods because they are trying to be different--why? Because it makes them feel special. Those are Insecure Hippies. It could be that their identity is about being authentic. This means that they want to express themselves as an individual, to be themselves. This can end up as a grouping with other Smurfs and looking exactly the same, eating the same stuff, smoking the same stuff. In a place as small as Orcas, the draw to authenticity can also be communal...to have, in other words, a community that one can function in--not as a Back in Black object in the sea of people on Fifth Avenue, but as the guy who is trying to make the Co-op work and is limited in acquaintances by the shores of an island. It can be that the natural beauty that is here makes a person want to think about things, to steward nature, and to try and make Small and Local and Green and Organic values that help, really, sustain a healthy community.

I don't know, though. I bet some of that is true. I bet a bunch of it is not. Can it simply be isolation from the real problems in the world? An escape? Or a meditation? Navel-gazing? Or just being yourself in a small town (which you can't really escape being in small towns)? Maybe the Orcas hippie is all of those things at once.

But the hippies and the edgy people are just one layer of Orcas. This has been also a getaway place for rich people, too--probably starting with Mr. Moran, one of the more interesting people to have made his mark here.

TBC.

Stories from Orcas: Part One

While we are waiting to see if we have a home in Lander, or when to start trekking back, we have been able to have our traditional summer on Orcas, the most consistent home our kids know. Orcas has been a part of my life for many years now, and my kids don't remember life without it. So, some stories of the strange, out-of-the-way, magical place that is Orcas seems like a good idea.

In 1992, Grandpa John called my dad in Moscow and said, "I've found you a piece of property to buy" and my dad trusted the word of his step-father so much that he bought the Nina Lane beach-front property without seeing it.

Grandpa John was a Texan who ran away from his home at sixteen in some prehistoric time, when there were still territory sheriffs. He left his father, Sheriff Ames, who lay on his bed after a couple of whiskeys in the hot afternoons and shot flies off the screen, and who probably wore his boots to bed and at all times and maybe even had a wooden leg or a metal plate in his head. I can imagine all kinds of things. After running away, Grandpa John made money gathering bounty money on donkey heads and by joining the army. He was on the last ride of the American calvary across the Golden Gate Bridge, and was well-traveled, and smarter than a whip. He told me, "If I were a young man, I'd immigrate to New Zealand." That was the wisdom that made my dad trust him with buying a property he'd never seen, and I thought of Grandpa John's wisdom a lot when in New Zealand. I could see his new-world, adventure wisdom.

I asked my grandmother once if she'd met Grandpa John's mother. I'd imagine Mama Ames to have been, of course, in contrast to the brutal Texas sheriff shooting innocent flies, a sweet Texas rose who wept on the porch in front of the destroyed screen door, both to wave young Grandpa John goodbye and also to shield him from any stray bullets. However, my poetic vision was destroyed when Grandma said, "She was one mean woman."

Oh. No wonder he left home--and that says something about the man I grew up with as Grandpa, my Grandpa Ken having died of a heart attack when I was only one. Grandpa John, I remember, knew how to keep my brave but sometimes relentlessly, powerfully anxious Grandma in line, and he was a huge barrel of a man (the donkeys didn't stand a chance). "Marthy," he'd say, "putta led on't." And Grandma would huff, purse her lips and attend to the chicken and peas, feeling better.

I loved him--but then again, I didn't have to live with him. Mercifully over the phone, he always guessed how many boyfriends I had, and to my consternation, he was usually right. He seemed to have laser aim at exactly what would embarrass you the most, like, "How many pounds are ya now, girl?" and so at about twelve, I started dishing it back: "Less than you." After that, I was his favorite.

So, in 1992 or so, thanks to Grandpa John, we all came up to Orcas for the first time, and he showed us, matter-of-factly, the ocean front property that has a view all the way to Vancouver, BC, with Patos and Sucia Islands in view, and the Canadian San Juans off to the left horizon. We sat there with our mouths open, and then Grandpa John told us to 'shut yer traps' and started us clearing brush.

It would be ten years before my dad started building on the land, and Grandpa John did not live to see the house. But some part of our joy here is always due to his foresight. He knew a good thing when he saw it. Like my Grandma.

Orcas is an island off the coast of Washington, in Puget Sound. We can see the great cargo ships heading down the Haro Strait to the open Pacific, and the islands are mostly covered in fern and moss pine forests, rolling farmland, and hedges of salmonberry, blackberry, and wild rose.

Our Beach has a life of its own, a little Totleigh Toweresque society that has developed over many years. Before we came, and our property was a kind of meadow and forest, the Gerards on the right and the Caleys on the left had been neighbors for almost forty years. Like goats in a pen getting used to the new one over time, they have become part of our life, as we have theirs; both sides have the same generational turnover, so all of us forty-somethings are slowly realizing that someday, God willing we all last that long, we will be working out fence lines and beach problems together, and I think we're beginning to wonder about each other. Most of them are super people, down-to-earth fellow lovers of Orcas, and like us, grateful every time our respective parents let us hang out.

But the current generation is still, thankfully, around. I can't imagine Orcas without Ben Caley, or Don and Marian Gerard. Don Gerard is an Orcas native, and that means something special. He's almost a legend here; everyone on the island seems to know him and he seems to have a finger in many places all around the island. He lived here long before it was a boutique-posh getaway and was still a pirate-woodsman-survivalist place. Don is a typical Washingtonian: there's good-naturedness that has a hint of some hard-working farmer way back in the roots, an equanimity with eating spam as well as steak; a kind of crafted, comfortable way of life that enables one to be out in the rain without an umbrella. My grandmother, a third-generation Washingtonian used to say, "What do you need an umbrella for?"

I, a snooty Californian, would just smirk and watch more MTV if it was raining. I'm sure she wondered what on earth would become of me if we didn't get up here to realistic Washington. Now I am here, and I get it, Grandma.

Don's wife, Marian, has fought a thirty-year war for her flowers with the in-bred, brazen and psychotic deer that live in droves on Orcas. Don kept building her more and more complicated deer fences with lights and buzzers and who knows what else, but of course he couldn't build down into the beach water--and the nutcase deer swim in the 40 F water. It was fated to end badly for the flowers.

(Once Lucy chased a deer about a half mile out to sea, for example. The deer won and we had to fish her out with the Zodiac. The whole Beach came out to see that one.)

On the left are the Caleys. Ben's second wife, Fay, whom everyone loved, died about five years ago of MS. I remember her only briefly, a still figure in a wheelchair, lit up by the sunset light, out on their porch. Ben now is with Diane, a lovely person, who will row the boys, Dallas (her grandson) and TJ all the way down past the Ditch (the marina) and back. She's stronger than me, both physically and mentally. She tells a story of playing the harp for the Bishop, when she had a bad cut on one of her fingers. As she played, the blood pressure built up and suddenly burst out of her finger, all over the harp--and the Bishop.

One of the neighbors hates Momo, one of our dogs, and Momo hates him. I am not sure where the hate started. I think it was Momo being Screw-Loose Momo. So that will be that for the dogs out here. Lucy did once almost destroy someone's screen door in an attempt to eat their cat, so I can see why the Beach hates the dogs. I used to hear a compressed-lip silence emanating from the houses as I walked them on the beach. We Kozinskis can't even get hold of our kids, much less an ADD drama queen dog and one with a serious, dark-horse screw loose.

Ben, and his son Calvin, who is my age, have lots of great stories of old Orcas lore. The San Juans, including Orcas, were, at one time, smuggler's havens. At one time it was pirate ships with Spanish gold and rum, and now it has deteriorated to Zodiacs with smugglers in Addidas tracksuits and meth. But I think, over the last fifteen years, even they are gone and the only smugglers are retired people in yachts taking corn chips and champagne across the Canadian border, which is two miles off Orcas.

Ben told us about how the airport, which lies only about five hundred yards past the Gerard's, was built. Apparently, a ship captain made a bet with someone in Australia that he could land a plane on a dock. So he came back home to Orcas and built the airport, bought a plane, and practiced. When he returned to Australia, he landed the plane on the dock and came home with his prize: a kangaroo. The kangaroo had been trained to dance to music, and the sea captain let the kangaroo roam around the island, and when he wanted it to come home, he'd play music. The end of the kangaroo was a poetic one: One night, at the Music Hall in Eastsound, there was a concert, and the kangaroo happened to be in the neighborhood. Hearing the music, he rushed into town, went across a road without looking and well, that was it. I now can imagine the kangaroo as our Australian experience getting run over, and somehow, the pieces fit and I feel a certain satisfied revenge. That's not nice and I'm hopeful that I'll get past it. The captain's old home is now The Kangaroo House, and functions as a high-end B and B. That is the way of things.

One fixture at the airport is Magic the freaking bi-plane. At first you think it is cute and then over time, you get annoyed because the pilot charges so much money for a ride. He did let the kids, when they were toddlers, ride in his toy planes, though, so I can't be too annoyed with the cutesy-deceptive expensive rides. A better deal is to simply fly down to Seattle on San Juan air, for less money, or better yet, take the sea plane from Rosario's and land on Lake Union in Seattle...unless you didn't want to go that far.

So our Beach has the airport, the Ditch, the Gerards, the Caleys, and further down, next to the Purple Starfish Point, was where Ed Lavender lived. Next time, I'll tell you about Ed...and magical Patos, and The Light on the Island, ageing hippies and neo-ones, the candy-level joyful St. Francis Church, majestic Rosario's, the weird merry-go-round of checkers at Island Market, and pathetic but kind of cute Orcas parades.