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About a little elbow room

Kimberly Mayer received a B.A. from Emerson College, Boston, and an M.F.A from Goddard College. Her memoir, "The Making of a Master Gardener" was awarded first place in the Pacific Northwest Writing Association Literary Contest. She recently completed her first novel, "Black Angels," and is currently at work on a sequel to it. Kimberly lives, writes, and revises in Seattle, Washington. Currently, Kimberly is a Contributing Blogger at "Pyragraph," the online magazine for the arts. http://www.pyragraph.com/?s=Kimberly+Mayer

O Canada!

Slip away for two weeks and what happens? My dear, dear, President Obama loses his mind and threatens air strikes over Syria.

We keep returning to Canadian waters in our boat. The goal this time was to go beyond The Puget Sound, through The Gulf Islands, up the Straight of Georgia, and into Desolation Sound. In speaking to my father, I called it our “destiny” when what I meant was destination. But I don’t know; maybe it is our destiny?

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Located between mainland British Columbia and Vancouver Island, Salt Spring Island, in particular, has a distinctive history. In the mid 1800’s ex-slaves from Missouri who had made it to California came up from San Francisco at the invitation of Sir James Douglas, the first provincial governor of British Columbia. Here the British granted all the rights denied them by the United States: the right to vote, to become part of the local militia, to homestead and own property. Some of their descendants are established there today.

Then in the 1960’s and 70’s, American draft dodgers began arriving on Salt Spring and once again the island opened its arms. Again, many stayed and are among the artists, musicians, farmers, and small business owners contributing to the quality of life there today.

Are they ready for another wave of American ex-pats?

I don’t want to come home if we have to go to war. With all the work there is to do, we have to protest this now too?

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Away, Away

“…. And as a nap slowly steals her away, she feels herself engulfed in a wave of absolute calm. She shuts her eyes. Drifts off, untroubled, everything clear, and radiant, and all at once.” Khaled Hoseini, And the Mountains Echoed

I am on my back on the deck and my eyes are closed. The boat is Desolation Sound bound, inching through the Puget Sound, Gulf Islands, and up the Straight of Georgia. I feel like I’m living in an Annie Dillard novel, illustrated every few miles on shore by Edward Hopper lighthouses, the only structures around. My husband tells me dolphin are leaping in our wake when I nap. That, he thinks, will keep me from sleeping. What he doesn’t know is I may be dreaming of whales. 

As we make our way a sailboat motors by named “Breeze.” Moon jellyfish are pulsing beneath us, mountain peaks rise rounded, pointed, and tilting like witches’ hats, and Crayola white clouds as drawn by children. Otherwise it’s trees, trees, trees forevermore—a landscape that’s all-preserved, all-good, except when you think about bears. Whenever I step ashore, I think about bears a lot.

When I was young and growing up Catholic, I thought the ideal way to die would be in my sleep, in church. This required some practice in falling asleep during sermons. Remember when nearly every elderly person used to “pass away,” as they said, “in their sleep”? Lately everyone seems to die of specific causes, and so I was almost pleased to hear of someone dying in her sleep. Since that strikes me as a simple, peaceful and painless way to go, it’s good to know it can still happen.

I don’t need the church now, but I do need my sleep, day and night, more than ever. I am a napper. There, I’ve admitted it.

I had to help persuade my dad at eighty-something, still steeped in Protestant Work Ethic, into napping. “It’s alright, dad. Think of naps as prayers.” Does he know what a running start I had on him?

Napping and life go hand in hand for me. Just as in boating when we shove away from the shore–and leave it all behind, I love flying above the cloud cover, when it’s hard to imagine a country down there with all it’s configurations of land and water, all its human strives and heartbreaks. Away, away–apparently I am drawn to that.

Stretched out on my back on the deck, I could be anyone, anywhere, any age.

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Social Media Off-Roading

What-are-the-Factors-of-Cheating-in-a-Relationship1You can never accuse me of being too familiar with popular culture. Mention a television show, and the chances are I’ve never heard of it, never mind seen it. And as games go into The World Series, Superbowl, or NBA Finals, I often have to ask who’s playing. And so I recently stumbled upon a couple social networks for adulterers, a good ten or twelve years after their inception.

It came across my desk in a curious manner: by way of poll results among their cheating members. Illicit Encounters, which operates out of the UK, found the Audi to be the most owned car, followed by BMW and Mecedes. “Cars can reveal a lot about their owners,” suggests Mike Taylor, spokesman for Illicit Encounters. “All the cars in the top 5 represent our members; they are typically successful, motivated, high achievers who are less likely to settle for something they find unsatisfying, be it a car or a relationship.” Not surprisingly, the website’s poll also found that “72% of Illicit Encounters members were likely to change cars within three years to refresh to a newer brand or model.”

Ashley Madison, the online dating site out of Canada for married cheaters, discovered that most of its female members shop at Banana Republic. Furthermore, a third of the women surveyed stated that they had doubled their spending on appearance since they started cheating, according to a report in The Huffington Post.

Top dining preferences were Morton’s and Ruth Chris. “Chain restaurants are larger and less conspicuous,” explains Ashley Madison CEO Noel Biderman. “Steak houses are always a popular affair destination since they’re not only dimly lit but also commonly found in business districts, close to hotels where these types of dates typically end.”

According to Ashley Madison, a new member signs up every nine seconds. “Next to Facebook, we’re probably going to be the fastest growing social network on the planet,” boasts Noel Biderman. With 19 million anonymous users in 27 countries, Ashley Madison has a translation engine for those interested in hooking up internationally. “America is the largest market for adultery,” says Biderman, but he fully anticipates that the next largest market will be Japan.

“I did not invent adultery. Along with marriage there is infidelity. I am merely trying to create a near perfect affair,” explains Noel Biderman.

As a former sports agent and sports attorney, Biderman estimated that “90% of my work dealt with adultery. So I thought starting a site in which married people could communicate would be profitable.” And when he read that nearly a third of the users of internet dating services were married people pretending to be single, he knew he had found a niche.

But even in the course of researching for this blog post, my hands felt a little dirty. And I wondered, why are we listening to him? The man who states “Monogamy, in my opinion, is a failed experiment,” is married and claims to be monogamous himself. “It is interesting,” writes Ilana Angel on Jewish Journal.com, that Biderman “is ‘allowing people to be honest,’ when the honesty is with strangers, not the person they exchanged vows with.”

Amanda Biderman, the person he exchanged vows with ten years ago, has her own issues with it. “I would be devastated if Noel cheated on me,” Amanda Biderman said on The View, “but I would not blame it on a website. It’s servicing a need out there, and unfortunately it exists. It’s sad.”

And she adds, “Cheating is destructive.”

Nevertheless the slogan for Ashley Madison reads, “Life is short. Have an affair.” Amanda’s face is the corporate model. Seems like an awfully nice woman to find herself in the middle of a cyber pimping business.

Audis, Banana Republic, and Morton’s. What is it I resent in the results of these polls? Why, it’s what it implies: that the rest of us, the monogamous, are driving around in Fords and Chevys, wearing L.L. Bean apparel, and eating at Olive Garden.

I hope not.

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Wish You Were Here (or 911)

dogs-playing-pokerTruth be known, there are currently more dogs than children in Seattle. At last count, 45 pet- friendly hotels, 38 pet-friendly attractions, and 150 pet-friendly restaurants. You say you want to go out to the San Juan Islands this summer? No problem. Dogs are seated like passengers on Kenmore Air Seaplanes. All of this puts Seattle in one of the top twenty destinations for travel with a dog.

I am not at all surprised. I live here. In our neighborhood in Queen Anne the local pet store, All the Best, is nestled between two popular watering holes for humans, The Parragon and Hilltop Ale House. The first time I walked in I was taken back by all the dog furniture and dog clothing (rain gear and fleece jackets) on display.

Oh, I get it, I thought. Dogs are the new American Girl Doll!

Some of us spoiled our daughters in that sense, and now we can spoil our dogs. And we do, even as they sleep in our beds and wear their own fur coats.

Dog people meet dog people, and often learn the dogs’ names long before we learn each other’s. Thus I knew Max and Millie (Teacup Yorkies) before befriending Sandra and George, and Callie (a Yorkie-Shitzu mix) before becoming Teri and Dan’s friend. However, six years later I am still “Coco’s mom” to many on the hill.

So at a time when some dogs have their own facebook accounts, why was I surprised to hear from Callie, the Yorkie-Shitzu, while visiting Whistler in B.C. Canada? She was staying at the Westin and posted a photograph of the hotel’s monogrammed doggy bed, bowls and snacks. (Teri and Dan presumably had their own).

And there you have it, the blog post I was going to write. Oh the places we were going to go, and the fun we were going to have! Doggy lattes and biscotti at dog bakeries. Dog cake mixes, dog birthday cakes, dog party hats and treat boxes. Homemade ice cream for dogs. Dog cards. Dog houses: cottage style, log cabin, Mediterranean or modern. Four poster beds with a Simmons Beauty Rest mattress for dogs (coil spring, covered in fleece). Waterproof fleece dog jackets, raincoats, cooling coats, goose-down filled coats, and faux fur lined “dreamcoats.” Dog shoes, dog boots, boot liners. And doggie doorbells that hang low enough from door knobs for pets to reach…. you can see where this was going.

Then my daughter in San Francisco phoned, waking me from my reverie. Suddenly the blog post title changed from Wish You Here Here to 911. Dogs, it seems, are under siege in San Francisco. Have you heard? Tainted meatballs poisoned with strychnine have been discarded on city streets in various neighborhoods including Twin Peaks, Lower Haight, Cole Valley, Hayes Valley, Bernal Heights, and Diamond Heights—dog frequented neighborhoods all. Community members have found and picked up hundreds of these tainted meatballs. Pet owners such as my daughter, need be vigilant on walks.

Last week a Park Police Station Inspector told a community meeting that the tainted meatballs may have been planted by someone afraid of dogs. Others suggest that the perpetrator detests dogs. That this individual has mental health issues is as clear as gun laws in Florida are flawed. Oskar, a much loved dachshund, was killed. No one wants to lose any more.  For we are now the dogs’ best friend, and it’s our job to protect them–if only from the worst of us.

Anyone with information is encouraged to call (415) 554 9400.

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Meditation for the Greatest Generation

“It’s difficult to think anything but pleasant thoughts while eating a homegrown tomato.” Lewis Grizzard

One day my mother phoned a number of her old, long-distance friends and every one of them was in some point of transition to a retirement home. One was already settled, a block from the water’s edge in Juno Beach, Florida.

“But how can this be?” she cried, “When just a few years ago I was only sixteen!”

My parents are presently caught up in their own such move. My mother is subject to purging moods where she would get rid of everything and run like her house was on fire. Whereas Dad would have it that they just not go, and fights it every step of the way.

I arrived on the scene and found a sofa missing and the living room rug rolled up but rug pad down, in a house that was still on the market. I was at a crossroads: assist them in packing or restage their house for showing? Or both.

It is important that family help. Mom and Dad had hired a lady, “a down-sizing expert” she called herself, who came and helped herself to things. She combed through their drawers and closets and went off with—well, they are not quite sure what she went off with or where it all went. A Cardinal Cushing Consignment Shop was mentioned, and I have every intention to go there to look for a silver salad utensil that I had expressed interest in. It was perfect for serving a dish we adore in my home, Insalata Caprese (sliced fresh buffalo mozzeralla, sliced fresh tomatoes, fresh basil, seasoned with salt, drizzled with extra-virgin olive oil or balsalmic vinegar or both).

My mother and I have done this dance before–she wanted a debutante and what she got was a hippie. There were visits home from college where my blue jeans would magically disappear in the laundry, after all the time invested to soften them, before manufacturers ever dreamed of stone-washing. So I became accustomed then to walking down to The Child and Family Services Thrift Shop in town, combing the racks for my blue jeans and buying them back. I would do this again for that silver utensil.

Which brings me to the tomato. I have a friend who just this week packed up all her belongings and moved from Seattle to San Diego for the tomatoes. Well, there were other factors on her list, but tomatoes, she tells me, were in the top three. I can understand that. I had an aunt who once said of the caprese salad, “I could live on this!” She was the one who introduced me to caprese, and I must say there has never been a more delicious, or more simple, salad since.

I would like to tell my parents it’s not all about the big things in life, like the move, but rather, the little things, such as vine-ripened tomatoes.

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Reign of Water

What is the phenomena when something you love in life, rises up and knocks you down? I recently had that experience returning from a writing workshop in Tuscany where we were forever outdoors, well fed, enjoying wine, morning, noon, and night, basking in and absorbing all the natural and artistic beauty, and giving back by way of writing. If I were to design a heaven for myself, this might be it.

My intention in coming home, was good. Something along the lines of I will just try to bring it all back with me. I saw no reason for it to end. I still had my Tuscan magazine piece to finish, and if possible, I would like to feel as inspired here as I did there.

And so upon landing, as soon as I had unpacked all my notes and books and recipes, I flung open the doors of our house and made every effort to turn our little English Tudor in Seattle into an Italian Villa. By slow-cooking our meals, braising beef, veal, pork or lamb, my husband and I would embrace eating and drinking with the same daily seriousness as the Tuscans. And the wine would continue to pour….

That first night I made Balsamic-Glazed Short Ribs, which smelled divine all day but in the end was too rich a dish for us, too late at night. And the wine, whatever happened to the wine, so pure in Italy? I am not the first to suggest that one can drink quite well in Europe with no adverse effect, but come home and…. Well, I suspect additives and preservatives to meet the requirements of the US Food and Drug Administration. I know everyone is currently bent out of shape over privacy issues with NSA, but personally I am much more concerned about this.

In other words, I tried to bring the Tuscan lifestyle home and it didn’t translate. Instead, a perfect storm ensued: the wine hit, food poisoning, and dehydration…. And for what I would describe as a week, though my husband says it was just days, I lay about trying to get some water into me, drop by drop.

I had all that time to think about water.

Where my mind was not allowed to go, however, was to food and drink.

So I thought of a handful of friends who have stopped drinking over the years. You know who you are, I love you, and thank you. You pulled me through and showed me where to go if I ever got out of the trouble I was in.

I may change my mind oneday, but right now I’m pretty passionate. I want to let this gentle “Reign of Water” run its course—and see where it goes. Perhaps it will be my most productive and prolific period yet.

I’ll toast my water goblet to that.

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Under the Tuscan Umbrella

I had the good fortune this month to attend the Travel, Food and Wine Writing Workshop in Tuscany with Nick O’Connell. A group of writers drove and flew in from France, Australia and The States to wine and dine and concoct stories as varied and honest as a Tuscan stew or ragu.

Landing in Rome I would have know exactly where in the world I was, if I had been transported there in my sleep–which of course I was. The villas, the landscape. The planted trees atop hills spaced like musical notes….

We considered ourselves fortunate for the verdant green landscape. Deep forests, gray-green olive groves, promising vineyards, and fields of bright yellow Scottish Broom punctuated with orange-red poppies. At this time of year, we were told, the hillsides are typically gold.

I should have known, for we had flown atop a mattress of cloud all the way.

In Siena my friend and I sat under café awnings in the shell shaped piazza, the Campo, watching monsoon rains wash the stones and run down Roman aqueducts. But for the most part, it was a soft rain with sunbreaks.

Our group walked the vineyards, and strolled among monks in the abbeys. Hiked La Madonna, the path along the perimeter of the hilltop town of Montalcino, where the park drops off into the view like an infinity pool.

When we weren’t eating, drinking or writing, we were walking….

Tuscany is rose country. Roses grow over walls, roofs, and over all, like bougainvillaea along the Riviera.

I fell in love with bells in Siena. Bouquets of bells, from every church and cathedral. But before the bells, an owl woke us each morning. Carried through the narrow canyons of city streets, the three same notes, then silence. Three notes, and silence….

People in Tuscany are very present. The people of Tuscany are not on cell phones.

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Rosemary for Remembrance

If I could live my life over again, I’d start gardening at an earlier age.

My first mentor in the gardening world was a woman we called “Mere.”  (My grandfather loved to work the land and grow things, but Mere was there when I was ready). And for all her horticultural knowledge and experience, she could not be accused of being a garden snob. I like to think I inherited that too.

Mere, or Marge Potter, was my grandmother’s friend, having grown up together in Connecticut. Marge recalled the day grandma’s father surprised his little girl with a pony in the kitchen on her birthday, as she was coming downstairs to breakfast. My grandmother lived her entire life in that enormous house, whereas Marge moved with her husband to Cleveland, and later, retired in San Diego. And that is where I was living at the time with my husband and our two young daughters. As a courtesy to my grandmother I went to call on her old friend, never guessing I would become so enamored with her too.

Marge is the one who threw me out of the house and down the garden path. She believed in herbs the way a witch or an old medicine man believes in them. Herbs had meaning and health benefits and a prominent place in her garden always. We spent many a late afternoon and early evening sitting on her terrace where a weathered, wooden St. Francis sculpture held court in the herb garden, my daughters tumbled about on the lawn, and the sun set over purple hills.

Today in Seattle, and everywhere we have lived since knowing her, I have made an herb garden of my own. My herbs grow in pots that have become wonderfully mossy and white, and perch upon a black wrought iron etegere that looks decidedly French. A St. Francis stands on my terrace as well. We use the herbs in cooking, enjoy the scent, and as much as an herb garden is a part of our lives now, it is also a memorial to Marge. I think of that every day I water.

Many of the herbs, such as the vigorous mint and oregano, hop around and seed themselves between pavers on the terrace. Marge would approve and say something like, “They know where they want to go.”

So I water them too.

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Having Babies

Everyone remembers their first time. Where they were. The time of day. The anticipation…. I remember my first time. Where I was: at home. Who was home: no one, I had the house to myself. How I had waited! Holding it, loving it, and finally, just content to have it in my arms.

It was some time before I even considered opening the envelope.

I am talking about the first time I received a manuscript to read. Deliveries such as this usually come Fed Ex. Chances are you requested it, or the writer asked you to be an early reader. Either way, it’s flattering. To be that trusted and to know that your opinion is valued. To be afforded a look before all the world can see it.

The first friend who sent me a manuscript—it was also her first novel—had to know what a thrill it was. As an aspiring writer myself, I studied her words and the way she put them together. I studied how the manuscript was printed and bound, the illustration she had found for the cover, and the care with which she had selected her title. I read passages over and over, and made notes on the double-spaced, single-sided pages, as she requested. I felt I was part of a book launch. And I was deeply jealous.…

She is the one who spurred me on in writing. I was between coasts and between arts at the time, and she prescribed Julia Cameron’s “The Artists Way,” a course I have been practicing now for fourteen years and counting. Writing grounded me. I found I loved it more than anything. Whatever else I may do, I know now that I will write my way through.

Then I lost her. Her life went into flux. A name change, a move…. and now I am trying to find her. She needs to know that I still believe in her novel and am always keeping an eye out for it. More than anything, I hope to hear that she is writing. And I want to thank her for changing the course of my life.

The most recent manuscript to land on my lap came electronically, of course, but I printed it up nevertheless. This baby weighed in at a healthy 9 lbs. I say “baby” because a book may be the closest thing to having a baby that a man can have. This one is a memoir. A memoir that moved me to places no one would ever want to go, places we didn’t know existed. And took me inside what it must be to be a nine, thirteen, and fourteen year old boy, a dear boy at that. I wanted to rescue him at every turn.

In the end, at 3 am, I sat there stunned, in my house so quiet, his manuscript upon my lap. Finding it incredulous that my friend had lived through it once, and then again in the writing. A writer lives twice.

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Assisted Living

Life and art collided for me in one simple gesture of going to the theatre on Friday evening. Don’t you love moments like that when what you do, and what you know to be true, are in complete sync?

Maybe I don’t mean “collide” so much as commingle. But it can be startling when it happens.

Or as writer Sarah Bird notes, “It’s gratifying when you’re in a world, and you see that the author gets that world right.”

Startling, humbling, gratifying….

This week I attended the preview at ACT Theatre in Seattle for the world premier of “Assisted Living.” Written by Katie Forgette, Assisted Living imagines a scenario in the not-too-distant-future in which an overwhelming number of elderly baby boomers–a “tsunami,” the playwright calls it–are housed in prisons. Prisoners having been outsourced to make room for them.

Or rather, for us.

It’s bleak, it’s debilitating, and it could be what’s coming. But for one thing: a band of residents with a love for theatre find each other and form a troupe. Together they give readings, write plays, perform, and save their own souls, during permissible social hours, of course.

Artistic Director of ACT, Kurt Beattie, refers to this as “…the survival instincts hard-wired in the human spirit, and the essential elements of a life worth living; community, hope, and love.”

Playwright Katie Forgette works in a retirement home. “We have a theatre group and we’ve read everything from Hedda  to, yes, Glengarry. What can I say? They’re a game bunch.”

And I see this every week in the writing workshop that I run in a retirement home in Queen Anne. What started as a six- week, I believe, teaching practicum requirement for my MFA, is still going two years after completing the degree. But with writers and individuals and relationships blooming, how could I ever leave?

And I know we’re next. In such a residence, I for one, would be despondent if a MFA student, or a writer, wasn’t coming in to offer something of this sort. I would consider it my saving grace.

It’s all about finding your tribe, at any age, anywhere.

“Assisted Living” runs through May 12 at ACT Theatre, Seattle.

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