Hello Readers--
I'm a bit uncomfortable with this post, and I don't expect to ask you to give money for anything else (well, certainly I don't expect to ask you to give money for lots and lots of other things, but one thing maybe--you never know), but this particular cause is close to our hearts (or our hips).
Years ago, when Spackle was less than a year old, he had surgeries on both his hips, to correct what was going to become severe dysplasia and, potentially, severe crippling, later in life--like, age ten or so.
Last year, as a 12-year-old dog who was still remarkably mobile because of his early hip repairs, I noticed him gradually becoming more and more stiff, and less and less active.
In both cases, one of the main answers to helping Spackle regain his structural health and rebuild healthy muscle, was Sheila Wells, and Wellsprings K-9.
Sheila and her associates work primarily in a warm, jetted pool, offering carefully monitored endurance training and lots of in-water massage for animals. She has found the pool to be a comfort for animals other than dogs, including a rabbit she saw for a few visits years ago when Spackle was a pup; a rabbit who could no longer hop on land, but relearned and rebuilt the necessary muscle by being suspended in warm water.
As things go, however, Sheila's been doing this for at least a couple decades, and the building and equipment are needing updates far costlier than she can afford. An unusual, valuable, and useful skill does not always translate into enough money for necessary upgrades.
And so, to find funds, Sheila and her associates have begun a campaign on Indiegogo.
Please consider helping Sheila upgrade her equipment, so that she can continue to serve the canine world in her unique way.
Thank you,
Calin (& Spackle)
24 June 2014
20 June 2014
New Beginnings
Yesterday was a long day, tiring and satisfying in equal measures.
I began my morning with my alarm at 4:45am, so that I could hit the road and make the 7:20am ferry from Anacortes to Orcas. Much of the year, most of this early drive would be conducted in darkness, but summer solstice time in the northwest is marked by deliciously lengthy twilights each day.
I felt much the way I do before any big journey when I got out of bed yesterday in the wee sma's: giddily alert after four hours of fitful sleep; bleary-eyed and red-cheeked; thirsty; mildly anxious; mildly nauseated.
Spackle and I had an easy, low-traffic drive, arriving at the terminal in perfect time as the boat was unloading. We had time when we arrived on Orcas to have a (much needed for me by this point) lie-flat, and then around 1:00 pm Burke the Builder and Bart the Excavator arrived, we chatted over first details, and Spackle and I participated in a photo shoot of Digging the First Shovel-Full From Our Front Door (Spackle observed: he only digs when I *don't* want him to). Bart then spent about 30 minutes on his giant machine--not so much digging our plot as scalping it and building a pile of sod to one side, and then Day 1 was done!
Spackle and I caught an evening ferry, drove home through the gloaming, and are quite happy to spend the day today sticking close to the Seattle house.
We're planning to set up a webcam, and maybe also a time-lapse camera, and a Picasa page for house pictures. Yes, we could've done this at any time prior to that first shovel-full of dirt that I dug yesterday, any time during the past few months when we were waiting for the county to issue our permit, but it just didn't seem real until yesterday. Fancy copper kitchen sink aside, until jumping on that shovel yesterday and chiseling out a laughably tiny bit of thickly thatched grass and roots, this whole process has been largely theoretical.
Not anymore! The choices we make now better be the ones we want to live out our lives with! No pressure there!
I began my morning with my alarm at 4:45am, so that I could hit the road and make the 7:20am ferry from Anacortes to Orcas. Much of the year, most of this early drive would be conducted in darkness, but summer solstice time in the northwest is marked by deliciously lengthy twilights each day.
I felt much the way I do before any big journey when I got out of bed yesterday in the wee sma's: giddily alert after four hours of fitful sleep; bleary-eyed and red-cheeked; thirsty; mildly anxious; mildly nauseated.
Spackle and I had an easy, low-traffic drive, arriving at the terminal in perfect time as the boat was unloading. We had time when we arrived on Orcas to have a (much needed for me by this point) lie-flat, and then around 1:00 pm Burke the Builder and Bart the Excavator arrived, we chatted over first details, and Spackle and I participated in a photo shoot of Digging the First Shovel-Full From Our Front Door (Spackle observed: he only digs when I *don't* want him to). Bart then spent about 30 minutes on his giant machine--not so much digging our plot as scalping it and building a pile of sod to one side, and then Day 1 was done!
Spackle and I caught an evening ferry, drove home through the gloaming, and are quite happy to spend the day today sticking close to the Seattle house.
We're planning to set up a webcam, and maybe also a time-lapse camera, and a Picasa page for house pictures. Yes, we could've done this at any time prior to that first shovel-full of dirt that I dug yesterday, any time during the past few months when we were waiting for the county to issue our permit, but it just didn't seem real until yesterday. Fancy copper kitchen sink aside, until jumping on that shovel yesterday and chiseling out a laughably tiny bit of thickly thatched grass and roots, this whole process has been largely theoretical.
Not anymore! The choices we make now better be the ones we want to live out our lives with! No pressure there!
Looking east down the hill. That long stick is the "story pole", which delineates where the floors will be--not, I think, what the story of the house will be. That is my responsibility. The top of the story pole is the height of the roofline of the house. The perspective is misleading, however, because the pole is set up downhill from the home site, and so it's longer than it would be where the house actually is, if that makes sense.
Looking west up the hill toward where the house will be, which is pretty much exactly between the Dacha and that tiny orange tractor in the background.
This photo, and several other great ones, courtesy of Bart the Excavator (using my camera)
MUCH more effective way to clear the land than that shovel!
End of first day's digging--scalped!
18 June 2014
Groundbreaking News!
For real, Orcas Estate is happening! We break ground tomorrow, 19 June 2014.
Ian, alas, will have to be video-phoned in from The OC, where he is attending a conference for work. I, however, am going to be there.
First thing to be postponed because of new house: my oncologist visit tomorrow. Who wants to sit around talking about cancer when monumental digging is going on???
Such a relief! Such an anxiety! So many hopes! So many fears!
Home!
one-fingered on my phone
13 June 2014
Mysterious
I pulled out the vacuum cleaner this morning (oops--4:06 pm is hardly morning) afternoon, and Spackle, as usual, beat a hasty retreat from the kitchen where I was working to curl into an anxious ball on his bed in the living room. I glanced at him as I passed through the hallway on my way to the bedroom, and he was sitting at attention, as he does for his evening peanut butter Kong, but without the vigorously perked ears of joyful anticipation. Instead, Spackle's ears were back and flat against his head, as if someone had given him an ear ponytail. He did not look joyful.
What is it about this home appliance that is so terrifying? Is it the sucking sensation? As far as I know, Spackle has never experienced that first hand. It makes noise, but this sleek new birthday Miele is very quiet, particularly when compared to the ponderous 15-year-old Kenmore that has since been relegated to the basement. Is it somehow the size? Somewhat person-like, but speaking strangely?
It might simply be that nature abhors a vacuum, and Spackle is no exception.
What is it about this home appliance that is so terrifying? Is it the sucking sensation? As far as I know, Spackle has never experienced that first hand. It makes noise, but this sleek new birthday Miele is very quiet, particularly when compared to the ponderous 15-year-old Kenmore that has since been relegated to the basement. Is it somehow the size? Somewhat person-like, but speaking strangely?
It might simply be that nature abhors a vacuum, and Spackle is no exception.
The Subjective Nature of Ownership
Ian and I spent a rich and complex weekend on Orcas last week. As has been our wont of late, we chose to leave Seattle early Saturday morning--i.e. we were on the road to Starbucks on 45th (which opens at 5:00am) by six, and we had arrived in Anacortes by 8:00am for the 10:40 boat to Orcas. We were the 4th car in line for that sailing (note: not the first).
When we arrived on the land we encountered a wide, curving shag-carpet swath of mowed prairie. We conjectured as we followed the road through 4-foot-high banks of swaying grasses: access for West Sound Water? But no, the swath sharpened its curve and curled back toward itself, then suddenly opened into a wide, roughly square clearing. Crop circles? I thought briefly, then I realized that instead of stumbling upon evidence of alien interference we had, essentially, just arrived at home.
Burke had been out on Thursday and Friday with his excavator, getting the lay of the land with an eye to actually commencing building in the foreseeable future (although at an as yet unnamed date), and had realized that, unless all visitors to the site were wearing personal hovercraft, we would not be able to get any sort of perspective on it at all with the lush growth of spring. While setting out the rough outline of your house in the mowed middle of a tall and vast prairie creates a very good idea of where your boundaries are, it also appears that any structure plunked down in that laughably minute clearing will be way too small to live in. Perspective is hard!
Burke met us on our land about an hour after we arrived, and we hauled our 8-foot ladder up the hill and put it in various "rooms", and climbed up and looked at the views we'd have of the north side of the Olympic Mountains, Shaw Island, and the delightfully picturesque and charming village, harbor, and marina of West Sound. I perched at the top of the ladder and gazed out into the future, imagining what I would sew or write in my office, and what I would look up to see while I did it. I imagined what I would look at from my "stage" on the floor below my office, what inspiration my musical improvisation may take from the subtly different view.
It's beginning to feel like a real thing, this future house, instead of the theoretical energy suck it's been for many of the last several months. Not everyone is as excited for us, however.
Moving to a small island with finite resources and a small population of quirky independents, opens one up to a great deal of scrutiny, gossip, commentary, conjecture, advice, and endless iterations of the "joke" that once you're a resident of Orcas, you'll want to keep everyone else out, too, ha ha.
One of our neighbors got up the courage to invite us to look at our place from her deck, and it was eye-opening in a variety of ways. It is very clear that we have, completely inadvertently and completely thoughtlessly, messed up the bucolic, unpeopled view that she had enjoyed for the previous 40 years. She doesn't see the richly saturated emotional and spiritual sides of our little structures. She does not know that our Dacha tells, for us, a story of relationships in our lives, several of which no longer exist. She does not know the depth of our personal investment in Orcas, how much we love--love--to be there, and how staggeringly fortunate we feel to own this land.
We "own" the land, legally, according to the laws and customs of our society. But this neighbor very much "owns" the view up the valley, and we've sort of stolen that from her. "Owning" any part of nature is an illusion, though. Fundamentally, what the title of ownership means is that, as long as we choose to, we have the rights to pay taxes to our government. These taxes are based on an arbitrary cash value assigned to a section of the earth, and we have paid for the right to gain stewardship over this piece.
It's not ours. Someone else will live there after we leave, however we do that, at some unknown future date. The community will evolve, residents will cycle in and out, and we have--we have chosen to take on--a responsibility not just to ourselves and the land in our care, but also to our neighbors and friends.
We believe that being full-time residents will better the situation for everyone involved (ironically, it's easier to be a hermit in a big city). Once we're on Orcas full-time, we will have a better sense of our responsibilities to land and populace; we will have more time to fulfill those responsibilities; and we will be readily available simply to communicate and hash out differences.
We are grateful to this neighbor for telling us her truth, and reminding us that we are not alone in the world; that perspectives are varied, and there is value in the variation.
We are also particularly grateful to have had this awakening just in time to incorporate its significances into the house which, I've just learned since beginning writing this entry,
When we arrived on the land we encountered a wide, curving shag-carpet swath of mowed prairie. We conjectured as we followed the road through 4-foot-high banks of swaying grasses: access for West Sound Water? But no, the swath sharpened its curve and curled back toward itself, then suddenly opened into a wide, roughly square clearing. Crop circles? I thought briefly, then I realized that instead of stumbling upon evidence of alien interference we had, essentially, just arrived at home.
Burke had been out on Thursday and Friday with his excavator, getting the lay of the land with an eye to actually commencing building in the foreseeable future (although at an as yet unnamed date), and had realized that, unless all visitors to the site were wearing personal hovercraft, we would not be able to get any sort of perspective on it at all with the lush growth of spring. While setting out the rough outline of your house in the mowed middle of a tall and vast prairie creates a very good idea of where your boundaries are, it also appears that any structure plunked down in that laughably minute clearing will be way too small to live in. Perspective is hard!
Burke met us on our land about an hour after we arrived, and we hauled our 8-foot ladder up the hill and put it in various "rooms", and climbed up and looked at the views we'd have of the north side of the Olympic Mountains, Shaw Island, and the delightfully picturesque and charming village, harbor, and marina of West Sound. I perched at the top of the ladder and gazed out into the future, imagining what I would sew or write in my office, and what I would look up to see while I did it. I imagined what I would look at from my "stage" on the floor below my office, what inspiration my musical improvisation may take from the subtly different view.
It's beginning to feel like a real thing, this future house, instead of the theoretical energy suck it's been for many of the last several months. Not everyone is as excited for us, however.
Moving to a small island with finite resources and a small population of quirky independents, opens one up to a great deal of scrutiny, gossip, commentary, conjecture, advice, and endless iterations of the "joke" that once you're a resident of Orcas, you'll want to keep everyone else out, too, ha ha.
One of our neighbors got up the courage to invite us to look at our place from her deck, and it was eye-opening in a variety of ways. It is very clear that we have, completely inadvertently and completely thoughtlessly, messed up the bucolic, unpeopled view that she had enjoyed for the previous 40 years. She doesn't see the richly saturated emotional and spiritual sides of our little structures. She does not know that our Dacha tells, for us, a story of relationships in our lives, several of which no longer exist. She does not know the depth of our personal investment in Orcas, how much we love--love--to be there, and how staggeringly fortunate we feel to own this land.
We "own" the land, legally, according to the laws and customs of our society. But this neighbor very much "owns" the view up the valley, and we've sort of stolen that from her. "Owning" any part of nature is an illusion, though. Fundamentally, what the title of ownership means is that, as long as we choose to, we have the rights to pay taxes to our government. These taxes are based on an arbitrary cash value assigned to a section of the earth, and we have paid for the right to gain stewardship over this piece.
It's not ours. Someone else will live there after we leave, however we do that, at some unknown future date. The community will evolve, residents will cycle in and out, and we have--we have chosen to take on--a responsibility not just to ourselves and the land in our care, but also to our neighbors and friends.
We believe that being full-time residents will better the situation for everyone involved (ironically, it's easier to be a hermit in a big city). Once we're on Orcas full-time, we will have a better sense of our responsibilities to land and populace; we will have more time to fulfill those responsibilities; and we will be readily available simply to communicate and hash out differences.
We are grateful to this neighbor for telling us her truth, and reminding us that we are not alone in the world; that perspectives are varied, and there is value in the variation.
We are also particularly grateful to have had this awakening just in time to incorporate its significances into the house which, I've just learned since beginning writing this entry,
NOW HAS A PERMIT!!!!!
Theoretical dwelling, community, personal, and stewardship questions all about to manifest!
04 June 2014
Day of Restored Abundance
Some of this restoration I did myself:
In process: 5-year-old cedar decking, never been sealed, covered with mold and algae and, in typical Seattle weather, slick as snot (as my mother likes to put it), and dangerous for a nonagenarian dog with a limp and severely compromised limbs. He's an amazing dog, is Spackle. What I used to clean the deck: Simple Green (couple tablespoons at a time in a small bucket of water), a stiff-bristled plastic scrub brush, a hose, and elbow grease--my own, probably 6 hours' worth over two days.
THIS WAS SUCH A SATISFYING JOB, as you can see.
Done! The finish I used seemed to be, essentially, watered-down Elmer's glue. It had a vaguely pumpkiny smell. I used one gallon, down to the last available drop, and I finished 10 minutes before Spackle's appointment, and I was only 3 minutes late to the vet (which is not usually, and wasn't today, late at all at our vet).
My camera came home this afternoon from its lengthy post-Cabo Verde spa vacation, its interstices degritted and its exterstices newly smooth and black again. My phone camera, which took the pictures in this post, will be re-relegated to primarily taking snapshots of Spackle flagrantly flouting city laws, off-leash and swimming at Gas Works park.
And poor Nublu: freshly fixed up and spa-ed herself after some tipsy bully Acura SUV scraped her side and lamed her, as she rested next to the curb at home. She, at least, is ready to move to the country!
Nice legs! Oh, I mean, look at that filth and those scratches! OUCH!
Super, SUPER OUCH.
All better! I was worried, from the way the bed was tilting after that tire came off (!), that serious damage had been done to the drive shaft (is that a thing?) or axle of this brand new (not even 5,000 miles and a first oil change yet), planning-to-have-for-twenty-plus-years, super cute and fun to drive, pick-up truck. But everything checked out, and she was totally fun to drive back home.
Three big things like new again!
16 May 2014
Public Service Announcement
IT IS NOW POSSIBLE TO RECYCLE STYROFOAM IN THE SEATTLE AREA.
I think this is a super cool thing to have available here, and today I dropped off my first giant bag of wonky Styrofoam blocks. I got a brief look at how they're processed, these blocks, which is with heat and pressure, which turns the lightweight blocks into a dense, heavy, extruded snake of hot plastic, which is back-and-forthed into a mold, and then stacked with other cooled, molded plastic blocks, which are about 12"X24"X8", and weigh 65 pounds. Sixty-five pounds! The same size block of Styrofoam in its white form wouldn't weigh more than one pound. These blocks of dense plastic are then sold to an endless list of manufacturers wanted plastic bits.
In case you're in the Seattle area and have a ton--or rather, a 5-pound truckload--of Styrofoam, you can take it to Styro Recycle, http://www.styrorecycle.com/, which has a drop-off place at IKEA, outside the southwest corner of the parking lot (the side NOT by the entrance to the store).
Mom, you can stop throwing it away.
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