“Can you believe she’s trapping cats?” I asked my next-door neighbor, Carol.

                “What do you mean?” asked Carol.

               “Yesterday, she stopped by and asked me for a description of my cat and wrote it down on a yellow legal pad like she thinks she’s captain of the Cat Police. Said she was headed straight to the pound to get a trap and warned me to keep my cat off her property. “

                “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Who would drive an hour and a half round trip just to pick up a pet trap?”

               “She’d better not trap my Hobo.  Maybe she doesn’t like his loud meow, but… poor old boy.. he’s so deaf he can’t hear his own voice anymore.”

               A few days later, while I soaked in a hot tub, I heard Carol frantically telling my answering machine, “She’s trapped a cat, and it’s a big black and white tuxedo. Looks like Hobo. If no one claims him in half an hour, she’s taking him to the pound. You’re not answering and I don’t know what to do. “

                We’ll see about that, I thought, as I quickly ran a towel over my body and slid some jeans over my damp legs. I finished dressing and ran out the door and down the street, where I found her standing proudly next to a cage containing a big tuxedo cat, his fur standing out like porcupine quills and his eyes wide with fear. He looked bigger than ever.

                 “Hobo,” I asked, “are you all right, buddy?”

               “Your cat?” she asked, visibly disappointed to have been caught in the act of trapping my pet.

                  “Looks like him,” I said, “but the poor thing’s so scared it’s hard to tell for sure.”

               I bent down to open the cage as a worn leather boot firmly planted itself in front of the wire door.

               “Don’t let him out unless you’re sure he’s yours!”  she said, her face turning red. “I’m plenty tired of all these nasty felines doing their business in my rose garden and howling under my bedroom window.”

               I realized that if I wanted to save Hobo from this vicious woman, I’d have to act quickly and take him to the safety of my home. I grabbed the handle of the cage and hurried towards my house. The cat shifted as I picked up the cage, making the lopsided load difficult to carry. I walked as fast as I could, but the trapper, not burdened by a heavy crate, easily matched my pace.

               “You sure it’s your cat?” she asked, raising her left eyebrow and striking an almighty pose. “If it’s not, he’s going to the pound. This one yowls so I can hear him for a block. I want to be sure he’s yours before I release him.”

               “Oh, he’s mine, all right. And you’ve scared six of his nine lives right out of him.”

                I reached the door of my house, flung it open, and released the door of the cage. The cat saw his opportunity to escape. He raced from the cage to the spare bedroom. I handed the neighbor the empty cage and slammed the door shut between us.

     The cat was free, but it would take time for him to recover from the trauma. I lay on my tile floor, peering under the bed through dust bunnies and plastic army men left by the grandchildren, staring into pure fear.

               “Come out, Hobo,” I said, but he wouldn’t budge. I slowly reached my hand towards him but brought it back quickly to reveal a long, bloody scratch.

                “Poor boy” I said. “You’re so scared. You’ve never scratched me before. I’ll just leave you alone and let you calm down.”

     I set his food and water bowl near the bed, and added a bribe of canned tuna to entice him out of his hiding place. I left the room, softly shutting the door behind me, and called my husband to give him a full report.

               When he came home from work, he went into the room and called loudly to Hobo. There was no response. He looked under the bed. Hobo was not there. He searched the closet, looked between teddy bears and building blocks, and still couldn’t find him. The cat had vanished from a closed room!

               We gave up and went to dinner. Upon our return, my husband opened the bedroom door and searched again for our old friend. Coming from the area of the bed, we heard a faint plea for help ….unlike Hobo’s usual loud bellow. Still, we couldn’t find him. We pulled off the bedspread and the pillows. No Hobo. We pulled off the sheets. No Hobo. Finally, as a last resort, we removed the mattress. There he was, between the mattress and the box springs, looking like a cartoon character that had been flattened by a steamroller.

     I left the room while my husband firmly held our terrified cat, petted his shiny black coat, and repeated calming words.

               Movement outside the living room glass door caught my attention. There, begging with loud meows, was our Hobo.

               What? Then whose cat was in the bedroom?

               My husband opened the bedroom window and shut the bedroom door to allow the mystery cat to escape and return home. But the next morning, he was still there. We left the window open and waited. We checked again, but fear had glued him to the spot.

     In the afternoon, I went to town. When I returned, a neighbor who lived a block away was walking away from my house, her arms folded protectively around a big black and white tuxedo cat, while our Hobo slept peacefully in his favorite corner of the couch. 

Hobo would never know I’d hopped out of a hot bath to save him from a trip to the pound. The old fellow lived in his silent world a few more years, talking to us in his loud voice, and enjoying the security of his home. The neighbor never again trapped cats.  The other tuxedo cat, too, lived out his life in the neighborhood. The trapper’s roses bloomed profusely, and I like to think the tuxedo cats had something to do with that.

by Pat Nelson

 Every fall when leaves turn orange and pumpkins decorate yards, a think of Halloweens past. When I was a child, my mother usually created a costume for me from discarded clothing, scraps of material, face paint, and imagination.

My best friend Marilyn and I liked to dress in the same theme. One year, she dressed as George Washington and I dressed as Martha. In those days, it was still safe to trick-or-treat from house to house, whether or not we knew the homeowners. Some residents handed out gooey popcorn balls or homemade chocolate chip cookies. If they gave us apples, we didn’t have to check for sharp objects.

As soon as it was dusk, we would start ringing doorbells. Some boys, intent on collecting as much candy as possible, would race from door to door with pillowcases, trick-or-treating from before dusk until past the bewitching hour of 9:00. Marilyn and I trick-or-treated until about 7:00, when we went to a party at our school.

When my children were young, they begged to go to a haunted house. I gave in one year and promised them a trip to the Haunted Mansion in Longview. My daughter was sick a few days before the event, and she was so looking forward to going that when her fever subsided, I gave in. Part way through, she became so frightened that the ghosts and goblins had to let her out the side exit, and her fever returned.

Both of my kids enjoyed entering pumpkin-decorating contests, and both usually won prizes. One year at school, my daughter entered a particularly charming pumpkin. A medium-sized pumpkin, the head, perched on a plump pumpkin body. Whimsical gourds became eyes, nose, mouth, ears, arms and legs. Alas, her pumpkin was disqualified because it was decorated, not carved. However, a carved watermelon took the prize. For her, it was a lesson in “life’s not fair.”

Each Halloween, I think of Maggie McQuarrie, a 70-something Woodland Library supporter who passed away a few years ago. The tiny woman loved to dress up in costume, and one year borrowed a green, feather-decorated sweatshirt from my grandson, along with a bird headdress, just to surprise her “morning coffee” friends at McDonalds. On Halloween, she dressed up and knocked on our door. We felt kind of sorry for the kid who had to go out trick-or-treating alone until we caught the scent of her cigarettes and heard her raspy voice say, “Trick-or-Treat.”

From the time my grandchildren were small, they dressed up and joined 1000 other costumed kids in marching past the businesses on Woodland’s Goerig Street and Davidson Avenue, down one side and back the other, stopping at each business to trick-or-treat. Woodland continues this tradition each year, blocking streets to provide safety. Many businesses that would like to participate, but that are not located in the designated trick-or-treat area, set up booths along the route in the Grange Hall at 404 Davidson Avenue.

Area kids will form their own Halloween memories this October 31 when they trick-or-treat downtown Woodland between 3:00 and 5:00 P.M.

For The Daily News, Longview, WA.  September 19, 2008
Reprinted with permission         

Art took many forms when the Woodland Community Library sponsored Art in Horseshoe Park on Sept. 6. Eighteen pop-up canopies formed a horseshoe on the lakeshore. The types of art displayed were as different as the dachshund and the St. Bernard two visitors walked through the show.

The first artist I visited with was local artist and art instructor Debbie Neely. I’ve never felt like an artist myself…I couldn’t even stay in the lines of a coloring book… but several years ago, Neely did her best to draw out the talent in me when she taught Beginning Drawing for Woodland Community Education.  She introduced me to scratch art, where you use a sharp metal tool to scratch your drawing into an ink or clay-covered board. Surprisingly, she was able to teach me to use the right side of my brain, and I produced several recognizable pictures in the class. Now, I enjoy doing scratch art with my grandchildren.

          Cheryl Hazen displayed mosaics, and The Northwest Oil Painters Association exhibited paintings. In addition, there were artists displaying clothing, blankets, jewelry, hats, paintings on porcelain, sketches, and more. At every booth, I enjoyed something different.  

Art took another form, too, as students from Premier Martial Arts of Woodland performed. Sondra Smith, porcelain artist and teacher, summed up her craft on the back of a plate, “I’m not moody, disorganized, or self-absorbed. I’m an artist.”

For artist Dennis Hatch, a Native American flute maker who lives in Washougal, his art of flute-making has become a full-time occupation. Hatch  is a member of the Sault Ste. Marie, Mich., Chippewa Indian Tribe (Anishinabe). He makes Woodland flutes, so it seems fitting he came to Woodland to show his work. Flutes on his website www.nativefluteonline.com range from $250 to $1000.

          A beaded necklace by Valeri Darling of Darling Designs was a real show- stopper. Her first piece of beaded jewelry, a slot machine necklace, took two years to complete. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” Darling said.

The piece showed three 7’s in 3-D, lined up across the “win” line of a slot machine. To make it more realistic, the slot machine even had a handle. The sides of the beaded strap read “Win Win” and “Hit the Jackpot,” and across the top it said, “Big Time Winner.” Coins strung on beads poured from the bottom of the machine. “This was all done with needle and thread,” said Darling. “You cant get one bead out of place.”

Not all of her necklaces take two years to create, but all are one of a kind. “Most take 12 to 14 hours,” said Darling. Visit DarlingDesigtnJewelry.com to see the slot machine and other designs.

          Attendees munched on homemade chocolate chip cookies and banana bread from one vendor’s booth or ate tacos, burritos, and tortas from Roman’s Taco wagon, and then they cooled down with goodies from a bright yellow ice cream truck, which periodically played its magical tune.

          Out on the lake, where trout had just been planted, fishermen showed off their art of fishing, but the trout were biting so fast that art or skill didn’t seem to be required.

On the other side of the boat launch, 17 Ugandan children took a break from performing their art of song and dance by wading and splashing in the lake. Most of the children, ages 6 to 14, are orphans, many whose parents died of Aids. They are on tour singing and dancing to raise money through donations and the sale of their CD to help support the IAM Children’s Family orphanage in Uganda. They’ll be back in Woodland performing at the Woodland Christian Church at 6 PM, Sept. 27.

Iris Swindell, organizer of the Woodland Community Library’s first annual art show, organized Art in Horseshoe Park as a fundraiser and to draw attention to the need for a new library in Woodland.

A thin girl with straight brown hair and dull brown eyes sat down beside me in a classroom twenty-some years ago, put her head on her desk on her folded arms, and shut her eyes. I was there as a volunteer, helping elementary students to improve their reading skills. This little girl’s eyes weren’t dull every day, but she often arrived at school sleepy, and sometimes she hadn’t eaten breakfast. On those days, she started school with two strikes against her.

Another child I worked with was alert and attentive, but lagged behind some of the other students in his reading skills, which undermined his confidence. He needed a little extra attention.

Every elementary classroom has students like these who can benefit from one-on-one help. Teachers can’t always provide individual help, so they must count on volunteers.

I’ve volunteered in my granddaughter’s classroom for the past two years. She attends  a small country school, with only 18 students in her class. Because I’m a writer, I chose to help with writing. This September, I will start my third year with the same group of kids. When I first decided to volunteer, I cleared it with the teacher and then filled out a form at the school office to have my background checked.

Two years ago, as I sat at a low table in a little chair, students brought their folders to me one by one. I checked to see that they had completed their homework, and helped them if they had not. I listened to them read, and worked with those who needed extra help. Because I worked with the same students each week, I came to understand their individual learning styles or difficulties, and as time went on, I became better at directing my help towards the students who needed it the most.

Other times, the teacher allowed me to present a writing lesson. One day, the students all sat on a carpet in front of me, cross-legged, as I talked to them about what goes into making a book. I had written a book many years earlier, so I showed them the manuscript, the editor’s copy, the page proofs, the galley proofs, the cover design, and the finished product. I explained to them that each of the books in their classroom had gone through the same stages. They were especially interested in learning that even authors make mistakes, and enjoyed seeing the red proofreading marks on the edited manuscript.

Parents, grandparents, and other interested adults can help students boost their skills, interests, and confidence by volunteering in a classroom on a regular basis. It doesn’t have to take long. Last year, I helped with writing just thirty minutes a week. The children knew me and I knew the class routine, so I slipped into the classroom quietly just before the writing segment, and observed to see who needed help or a little extra encouragement.  As students got to know me, they started voluntarily coming to me for help, and they were proud to demonstrate their accomplishments. They liked showing me that they had hung my newspaper columns in their classroom, and they talked to me about my articles.

Last year, I presented an exercise on observation. I brought a basket full of items from home, and each child drew one item and filled out a description of the item based on using their senses. Those descriptive words then became part of a short story.

Students from the classroom  won first, second, and honorable mention in a county-wide writing contest, and I was excited to celebrate their achievements with them.

If you would like to share your own time, skills, and experience with a classroom at an area school, plan to sign up soon. Woodland’s school offices open August 18, and other school offices are about to open as well. By calling now, you can get the background check started, and you and the teacher can discuss your schedule. You’ll be giving a lot more than time. You will be helping youngsters thrive. If you would like to make a difference, this is a great way to do it.

SIDEBAR

School Volunteers Checklist

1.       List your areas of interest and expertise.

2.       Note the days of the week and hours that you can be available on a regular basis.

3.       Contact a school of your choice to sign up as a volunteer.

4.       Arrive at class a few minutes early and enter the room quietly, disrupting the classroom as little as possible.

5.       Sign up again next year. You’re always needed.

by Pat Nelson

Reprinted with permission, The Daily News, Longview, WA August 1, 2008

Photo courtesy of Bill Dunlap
Pictured, left to right: Bill Dunlap, Bob Nelson, Claudia Yoder, Jeremy Wenzel, Scott Price, and Kristy Fitzjarrald-Deuchars

Woodlanders Bill and Barbara Dunlap and my husband Bob Nelson, along with Vancouver resident Claudia Yoder, manager of Big Deals in Woodland, were among 430 bike riders raising funds to fight multiple sclerosis July 19 and 20 in Sweet Home, Oregon.

Epic Imaging, the largest outpatient imaging facility in the Portland metro area, was lead sponsor for Bike MS 2008: Covering Bridges. Rides included a 10-mile family ride, or choices of 59, 76- or 100-mile rides on Saturday and 55 or 19 miles on Sunday.

Last February, when the days were dreary and Bob’s exercise had dwindled to changing the channel on the TV, Bill Dunlap called and asked if he would like to be a member of Epic’s team in a bike ride to be held in July. The idea of some fresh air and exercise sounded good to Bob, who had participated in a Livestrong ride in 2007. He recruited Yoder, who had previously participated in a Livestrong ride and Cycle Oregon.

The three started training in Woodland, and occasionally in Vancouver, while their other teammates trained in Oregon. Throughout his training, Bob kept changing bike seats, hoping to find one that felt as good as the couch he had left. In the end none could provide that same comfort, and he went back to the one he started with.

Early in their training, the Dunlaps reserved some of the few available motel rooms for the team. There was also camping at the high school, with showers and rest rooms available for use. Event wristbands got riders in to breakfast on Saturday and Sunday, dinner on Saturday, and a barbecue on Sunday.

The four team members arrived at Sweet Home on Friday, July 18, and met up with the rest of their teammates.  Bill had decided to ride 76 miles. My husband and Claudia Yoder chose the 59-mile ride. For Bob, that was about fifteen miles more than his longest ride in training. Barbara Dunlap chose the 10-mile family ride, but exceeded her own expectations and rode 20 miles.

Bob had worried about the weather, hoping the day wouldn’t be too hot. He was happy to start the ride on a comfortable, overcast morning. The ride started at Sankey Park near the historic Weddle Covered Bridge, and other covered bridges along the route provided pleasant scenery and relaxing rest stops. He was surprised by Sweet Home’s rolling, and sometimes steep, hills, which started appearing early in the ride.

Six and a half hours and one flat tire later, his legs spent but his spirits soaring, Bob completed the ride and gathered with his teammates. The original bike seat must have been a good choice, because he said his bottom didn’t feel too bad after riding sixty miles. Some of his teammates couldn’t say the same. I convinced him that he should take precautionary measures so that he could sit on the bike seat again the next day, so he treated each of his teammates to a bag of frozen peas to sit on to ease the pain.

The next morning, he chose the 19-mile ride, and ended the weekend proud to have been part of Epic Imaging’s journey to help defeat MS.

Visit Pat Nelson’s website at www.storystorm.wordpress.com.

Reprinted with permission, The Daily News, Longview, WA August 29, 2008

When my husband,  Bob , and I recently spent four days exhibiting wholesale sleds at the Seattle Gift Show, I strapped my fanny pack around my waist to avoid losing it.

For four days, that fanny pack bounced up and down on my hip as a reminder of how smart I was not to be carrying a purse. Then, as we packed up and moved out, I removed the fanny pack to get my cell phone. We were in a hurry. After all, hundreds of vendors were all trying to move out at the same time, and there would be a long line at the freight elevator.

As my husband pulled a flatbed cart stacked 5 feet high with merchandise and a handcart stacked to the top with plastic totes, I followed with my own tower on wheels: first, a rolling tote filled with flyers and orders, topped by a printer in a carry-on bag. Next was my laptop, followed by a plastic grocery bag full of snacks, and finally, my fanny pack, with the strap securely (I thought) over the strap of the rolling tote.

Three-quarters of the way through the exhibit hall, I checked. My load was secure and my fanny pack was still there; I held both the tote handle and the strap of the fanny pack in my hand. When we reached our truck a few minutes later, the fanny pack was missing. We re-traced our steps, but couldn’t locate it, setting in motion the steps of damage control.

As we drove home, I made a mental list of what I’d lost and what I would have to do to prevent identity theft. That evening, I called credit card companies and cancelled cards. That meant that any charges I had made that had not yet processed would be rejected.

The next morning, I took my passport for ID and got a replacement driver’s license. I went to the bank and cancelled my ATM/debit/Visa card and asked what I should do about the checkbooks that were in my fanny pack— checkbooks for three different accounts. I knew that if I had to close the accounts, I would have to re-order checks, and I had a large supply of business checks that I didn’t want to waste. I would have to list all of the outstanding checks for the bank so that they would be honored when presented to the bank. All of the places where I make automatic monthly payments would have to be notified. I would have to get by with temporary checks for about 10 days.

I hoped the bank would allow me to keep the accounts open, but they did not. As I signed forms, I realized I would also have to notify the merchant services company that processes charge cards for my business. And what about the automatic payroll for my employees? Or monthly and quarterly tax payments that I make online? I realized I had caused myself a lot of work by carrying checks I did not need:  I needed only one of those three checkbooks. I should have left the others home. For the one I did need, I should have carried only the number of checks I anticipated needing, and I should have noted those check numbers at home so that I could stop payment on them.

Luckily, I had removed my cell phone before I lost my purse, so I didn’t have to cancel that to avoid fraudulent charges; my house and car keys were not in my fanny pack, so I didn’t have to change my locks; and I wasn’t carrying any rental cards, such as for movies, that someone else might use. My Social Security card was in a safe place, not in my fanny pack.

Years ago, when I worked for a credit union, my boss told me that one day we would live in a cashless society. I didn’t believe her. When I lost my fanny pack, I realized how close we have come to that society.  I felt paralyzed without the credit cards that I use to pay for groceries, gas, and other purchases. I couldn’t go to the ATM or write a check for cash. I had to remember to get cash during banking hours. I could no longer place orders online.

Three days after the loss, I received a call from a vendor who had found my fanny pack when leaving the show and who was sending it to me. The bank had not yet closed one of the accounts, saving me some problems. I’m happy the fanny pack didn’t fall into the wrong hands, causing me even more grief.

From now on, I plan to carry in my purse or fanny pack only what I need. I’ll make copies of the cards I carry in my purse, and I’ll list the numbers of the checks that I carry in my purse so that if they are lost, I can stop payment. I’ll also list all of my automatic payments and contact numbers.

And next time, I’ll take the time to strap on that fanny pack. 

By Pat Nelson for The Daily News, July 11, 2008

Reprinted with permission

Best friends come and go, so a friendship that has lasted more than 50 years is something to brag about. My longtime friend, Marilyn Herold of Longview and I celebrated her birthday and our friendship recently with lunch at Woodland’s Lewis River Golf Course.

Whenever we get together, we reminisce about our childhood days. I moved into her neighborhood in Longview when I was nearly nine, the summer before fourth grade. I was shy, and even though I wanted to meet the tall, pretty girl on the other side of my backyard fence, I was afraid.

One day when Marilyn was playing outside, my mother walked me to the fence. I hung my head as we approached, and mom urged me on and then introduced me to Marilyn. Marilyn was 10, one grade ahead of me and as outgoing as I was shy. She invited me to play “store” with her. Mom helped me climb the picket fence, where empty soup and vegetable cans neatly lined a wooden shelf in Marilyn’s make-believe market. That’s the day we became best friends.

At lunch recently, with the beautiful Lewis River flowing by, we talked about the memories that our friendship is made of. We were always looking for a way to make money. We sold lemonade and comic books from a small table in Marilyn’s yard.

Couponing was our favorite moneymaker. At that time, grocery stores would allow you to exchange cents-off  coupons for cash, whether or not you bought the product. We would look through the magazines in the grocery store until we found one that had coupons exceeding the cost of the magazine. One day, we found a 15-cent magazine with 35 cents worth of coupons. We bought the magazine, clipped the coupons, returned to the store and cashed them in. We bought another magazine with the proceeds, and repeated the process again and again.

At lunch, Marilyn asked, “Do you remember when we used to coax dogs with tags to follow us home so we could get a reward?”

I was shocked. I couldn’t imagine stooping so low just to make a few bucks.

“No,” I said, “I don’t remember ever doing anything like that!”

But, as the days went on, the memory returned. I remembered that the first dog really was lost. We called the owners. They were happy to get their dog back, so they gave us a few dollars. That gave us an idea, so we coaxed a couple of other dogs to follow us home Although we were thanked by their owners, there was no reward, so we gave up that venture.

Other times, we went through the neighborhood with a wagon and knocked on doors, asking if anyone had bottles they didn’t want. There was a deposit on soda and beer bottles, so we loaded our wagon with bottles and hauled them to the store to trade them for cash.

In the summer, our parents bought seeds for us and we grew vegetables. Then we sold the vegetables back to our parents. In the fall, we made Christmas cards. The longer we practiced our business ventures, the less shy I became.

Whenever one of us went outside, we called to the other, with a loud “Eee-Ah-Kee,” a call we had heard on the show “Lassie.” I was always disappointed if I hollered out the friendship call and there was no reply.

We talked on the telephone a lot, too. Marilyn and I thought we were the luckiest girls in the world because our families shared a party line. When she talked with friends on her phone, I was able to join in by picking up the phone at my house.

In the spring, we brought home free baby chicks from the feed store, even though my mother warned us not to. We raised rabbits in both back yards, and pollywogs in a jar on top of our oil stove. A washtub in my back yard held salamanders that Marilyn and I caught in the nearby slough. We often walked to the slough with a gallon jar to get the nasty green water that we knew our salamanders liked. We each had a dog, and we entered them in neighborhood dog shows, beaming with pride as they sat, rolled over, and barked on command.

We have so any great memories of our years together. Now, we both watch our grandchildren as they choose friends, and we hope they, too, can find life-long best friends.

Scott and Nona Perry and Tasha

by Pat Nelson
for The Daily News, Longview, WA July 17, 2008
Reprinted with permission

Kauai, Hawaii — Home away from home. That’s what a house on the island of Kauai in Hawaii has occasionally been for a team of house sitters including three Woodland couples and families from Kelso, Castle Rock, Vancouver, Portland, St. Helens, and Deer Island.

House sitting duties for my husband, Bob and I, began in 2004, when my son and daughter-in-law, Steve and Laura Ellsworth asked us to go to Kauai with them. Laura called her friends on Kauai to inquire about a good place to stay. It turned out her friend would be “off island” the same time we planned to be there. To our good fortune, they offered us the use of their home.

The next year, that couple had friends who needed a house sitter for six weeks. The four of us were recommended. We couldn’t cover the entire six weeks, so another couple stayed part of the time, followed by Steve and Laura, and then Bob and I. We all loved having a home instead of a motel room to return to at the end of the day.

Our house sitting perks include a two-story home, a lap pool and use of a mini-van. Duties include caring for the house, the pool and grounds, and three pets. The dog, Tasha, is a Borzoi, or Russian wolfhound. She is black with white spots and tall and slender. Because she constantly sheds, all the floors upstairs and downstairs must be swept and mopped each day before it gets too hot. It didn’t take any of us long to fall in love with this gentle, sweet dog who remembers us from one visit to the next and welcomes us with a big smile when we arrive. The two cats enjoy being well-fed and well-loved.

Since our first visit, the owners added an aquarium and a fish bowl containing a beta. A goldfish is visiting until September while its owner is off island.

This month, I came to Kauai alone for some quiet writing time while my husband trains for a bike ride at home. I was met at the Lihue airport by Woodland residents Scott and Nona Perry, who were just finishing their house sitting duties. Before they headed home, we spent a day together snorkeling, eating Bubba burgers and shave ice, and sifting through sand at Anini Beach searching for tiny seashells.

When new house sitters arrive, they overlap with the current house sitters anywhere from a few hours to a few days for a good transition. Last year, the Perrys took over from Woodland residents Ted and Mary Ann St. Mars, who hope to return next year.

When the owners make plans to go off island, they e-mail me. I send notices to our house sitting team. Couples must act quickly. The spots are grabbed up within 12 to 24 hours. Everyone on the list has stayed at the house before and knows the routine. Each couple tries to leave the house and yard in better condition than when they arrived, which makes the owners happy when they return home after a six-week absence.

People often ask me how to land a house sitting job in Hawaii. Many island residents need to be off island for periods of time and might need house sitters to care for their pets or their yards. Lush island vegetation requires regular maintenance. The plants grow fast and constantly drop fronds, leaves, seeds and pods.

If you want to house sit in Hawaii and don’t mind the duties that go along with the job, visit one of the islands and ask everyone you meet.

One day, while house sitting on Kauai with friends Scot and Sue Lawrence of Portland, we decided to see how easy it would be to land other house-sitting jobs.

First, we asked our tour guide at the botanical gardens if she knew anyone who needed house sitters.

“I do,” she said. “I’m leaving next week and my regular house sitter has another job part of the time I’ll be gone.” We were already house sitting, so we couldn’t take the job.

Next, we asked at a restaurant.

“See that motel?” the waitress asked. “The owner goes to London, and she always needs a house sitter. Go ask her.”

We inquired twice and received two leads. We were told some people who live in Kauai year around, house sitting from one place to the next, never having their own place to live. If you’re footloose, fancy free and interested in house sitting, you might try renting a place on Kauai — or the island of your choice — and then ask around and line up jobs. Who knows. Within a year, you might be able to give up your apartment and just move from one lovely home to the next. But don’t accumulate too many possessions … keep life simple for those frequent moves.

Aloha.

by Pat Nelson
Reprinted with permission, The Daily News, Longview, WA 5/23/2008

  A sign stating “Tree City USA” now sits near three newly planted flowering trees at the edge of the lawn stretching gently downhill from Woodland’s skateboard park. In late April, City of Woodland employees and volunteers laid sod to convert the area surrounding the skate park from a muddy mess into a lush lawn.

I’m not a stranger to laying sod, so I was curious when I saw the pallets of healthy grass being delivered to Horseshoe Lake Park. My husband and I installed sod in our front yard in 2005 because of its ease of installation and immediate results. We also liked the idea that it would be less susceptible to weed invasion than a seeded lawn. Those were all good, logical reasons, but the main reason I wanted to lay sod was that I had done it once before, and it was fun.

My first sod-laying experience was 15 years ago when my son, Steve, bought a home. It was a hot day, and I remember being busy with the hose, watering the pallets of sod so they wouldn’t dry out and keeping the already-laid sod and the bare soil moist. Looking at Steve’s brown yard, and then at the pallets of sod, I couldn’t have predicted the rewarding transformation that took place that day, into a dense, green, healthy lawn. As Steve and I carried the sections of turf and placed one tightly against another, a beautiful lawn quickly formed. We were filled with a sense of accomplishment and pride.

Don Schmitt, owner of Far West Turf Farm and Circle S Landscape Supplies, LTD., made the grassy slopes surrounding the skateboard park possible by donating 16,000 square feet of sod. Schmitt’s turf farm and nursery, formerly located on Old Lewis River Road, moved to its present location at 35306 NW Toenjer Rd. a little more than a year ago. The Circle S nursery also has a location in Fairview, OR. Schmitt’s grass is grown from perennial rye grass seed produced in the Willamette Valley. The Port of Woodland donated soil to prepare the area for landscaping. Before laying the sod, City of Woodland employees graded the area and then applied fertilizer and lime on top of the finished grade.

At the skateboard park this April, frequent spring showers took care of keeping the sod cool and damp during installation, and sprinklers have been keeping it moist since then. City employees and volunteers quickly learned that when laying sod, it helps to be able to touch your toes; the task requires repeated bending in order to place the five-square-foot sections of lawn on the soil. The sod is grown in meshed net for support and to aid in installation, and it is cut into sections before delivery. Installers start with the longest straight edge, and work towards irregular boundaries. They fit the pieces close together, without overlapping, staggering the sections like bricks.

One thing I like about working with sod is that it is forgiving. If you need to move a section, you simply pick it up and move it. If you need to create a better fit or round a corner, you cut it with a sharp knife, a garden spade, or shears. Rather than disposing of the scraps, you can keep them damp for possible use later in the installation. These scraps can mean the difference between finishing the project or ordering more sod.

Once sod is in place, it is usually rolled with a half-full water-weighted roller to provide good contact between the roots and the soil, and to eliminate air pockets. Conditions were too wet for using the roller, so workers placed plywood on the grass to keep the soil from being disturbed when walked on and to help the grass roots bond. Large boulders from Kalama were placed around the grassy area, separating it from the parking lot where fishermen gather at the northeast side of Horseshoe Lake.

City employees Scott Summers, Paul Trice, Mark Sarvela, Brent Shelton, Jason Sloan, and Mark Cook, along with volunteers Ken Huston and Blayden Wall, worked on the project. The sod is in place, but that doesn’t mean the job is over for city employees. In a few days, the lawn will be ready for mowing.

The new sod completely transformed the landscape around the skateboard park. Brown soil almost instantly became a lush green carpet of grass, As it turned out, this carpet was rolled out just in time as Woodlanders gathered next to the new lawn to celebrate receiving, for the very fist time, the title “Tree City USA” from the National Arbor Day Foundation.

by Pat Nelson

Reprinted with permission, The Daily News, Longview, WA June 6, 2008

If you’re worried about this summer’s high gas prices putting the brakes on your vacation plans, try thinking closer to home.

We’re fortunate to live close to mountains, forests, lakes and beaches, as well as places to go birding or to explore caves.  A couple years ago, before we were facing gas prices in excess of $4 per gallon, I took my two grandchildren, Max and Chelsea, on a camping trip…only ten minutes from home. We packed up toys, sleeping bags, swimsuits and food and headed for the Echo Park campground, only a few minutes east of I-5 at Woodland, on Lewis River Road.  The trip was so short that the kids didn’t even have time to sing our favorite travel song, which goes like this: “I’m hungry, I’m thirsty, I have to go to the bathroom.”

The adventure started as soon as we registered at the camp store. The kids had fun choosing our campsite. After driving through the small, privately-owned campground a couple times, they agreed upon a spot away from the road, but not far from the restrooms and the heated swimming pool. As long as our vehicle was level, I didn’t care which site they chose. At the campsite, tall trees stood over us, and the aroma of the forest told us we were on vacation. The Lewis River flowed peacefully nearby. The site had water, electricity, and a picnic table, and the three of us agreed that it was perfect.

It was a hot day, and it didn’t take long for us to change into swimsuits and get into the refreshing swimming pool.  Max jumped in, over and over, and then dove for colored rings with some newfound friends. I heard myself saying, “No running,” “feet first,” and “be careful,” all the warnings a good grandma gives her grandchildren when they’re swimming.

At that time, Chelsea was just learning to swim, and as I gave her a push through the water towards the side of the pool and let her go, she paddled fiercely to the edge, emerging wide-eyed with wet hair slicked back against her head, droplets of water clinging to her long lashes, and a wide smile. The same scene was repeated over and over, until , hours later, the kids finally admitted to being tired and decided to play at the campsite.

Max is a picky eater, so my biggest concern about camping was feeding him. With a burn ban in effect, we couldn’t build a campfire to cook his favorite food, hot dogs. We were about to make sandwiches for dinner when my husband called from Woodland to say he was on his way with dinner from Burgerville…including Max’s other favorite food, chicken strips .

At night, we snuggled into our sleeping bags and told stories in the dark. The night was quiet, and we soon fell asleep in a forest that seemed like it was far, far from home.

Later that summer, we visited the park again, but just for the day. The campground allows visitors to pay a fee to swim when pool capacity allows, so Max and Chelsea invited friends to join us for swimming and picnicking.

We’re looking forward to camping there again this summer, so I stopped by recently and talked with Assistant Manager Diane Cretsinger, who told me, “The park has new owners. Now it’s the Lewis River Country Store and R. V. Park.” Diane proudly listed the features of the park: hot food available in the store, firewood for sale, heated swimming pool, fishing hole, bath house, dump station, and gas pumps.

If you want to save gas this year, try a vacation close to home. One more advantage is that when the trip is over, you won’t be faced with a long, tiring drive home.

by Pat Nelson

Reprinted with permission,”
The Daily News, Longview, WA June 20, 2008

To me, this photo of the partially-assembled carnival at Woodland’s Horseshoe Lake represents the word “anticipation.”

 Carnival workers anticipate a busy festival, smiling faces and lots of ticket sales this weekend during the Planters’ Days festival.

Many kids anticipate receiving a few extra bucks from their parents for ride tickets. Teens anticipate seeing their friends. The Planters’ Days Committee anticipates a great turnout for its annual celebration.

I anticipate the smiling faces of my grandchildren and friends who will be enjoying Planters’ Days 2008 with my husband and me. We’ll all be anticipating sunshine for the weekend’s events.

Like a little kid, I look forward to the arrival of the carnival each June. My heart was beating a little faster Monday morning when the first carnival trucks started pulling into Horseshoe Lake Park.

 On Monday, huge strawberries, part of a ride, sat on their trailer, but by Tuesday they had been assembled. By Thursday, after all of the rides had been inspected for safety, they twirled ‘round and ‘round, full of squealing children. On their trailer, they looked like a giant version of the crates of Woodland’s sweet local berries sold at roadside stands.

Carnival employees and managers parked their campers and fifth wheels close to Horseshoe Lake this year, where they could enjoy its beauty. A few swam, not deterred by a strong breeze and cloudy skies. By Wednesday afternoon, many rides had been partially assembled. The Super Loops ride, not yet connected at the top in the picture above, requires that an employee climb to the top to complete its assembly. Perhaps that duty is even more thrilling than the ride itself. I held my breath as I watched a worker descend from the top of the loop to the ground, using the loop as a ladder. It was probably more frightening to me than it was to him.

The Planters’ Days festivities began Thursday as kids paraded down Davidson Street in wagons, on bikes, and in costumes for the annual Kids’ Day Parade. The parade terminated at the carnival site. Opening-day excitement continued with the queen’s coronation. Then, at 10:00 p.m., people lined the banks of the lake and some watched from boats, as fireworks shot into the air, thundered and popped, and reflected off the lake in long, squiggly ribbons of color. For my family, the fireworks show was especially exciting because our granddaughters from Arizona, Lauren, 4, and Brooke, 9 months, had just arrived for a visit a few hours earlier.

Most people who attend the four-day event couldn’t  tell you why the community celebrates Planters’ Days. The celebration dates back to June 30, 1922, when local farmers celebrated the fact that the dike protecting their farmlands from flooding had held for a whole year.  Annual celebrations continued until 1943, when the celebration was discontinued until the end of World War II.  There have been more floods since that first celebration, but most years, the dikes keep the farmlands from flooding, and the celebration goes on.

Saturday, our Kelso grandchildren, Max and Chelsea, will be showing their Arizona cousin, Lauren, some of their favorite Planters’ Days activities: the frog jump, the penny scramble, the bed races, and the firemen’s muster. If the kids aren’t too tired, we’ll take in the Colgate Country Showdown, the Rose City Classics Cruise-In, and the street dance in the evening.

I always look forward to the car show on the Sunday of Planters’ Days weekend when as many as 400 classic cars line Davidson, Goerig, and Park Streets.  Many look like the same cars that cruised in front of my high school every day after school in the1960’s. When I look at those cars, I find myself saying, “I remember when….”

I’ll be watching a new event on  Sunday when the West Coast Outboard Racing Club holds its “Race Against Drugs” on Horseshoe Lake.  We’ll be watching these boats from 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. as they race around the northern half the lake at speeds of 45 to 100 mph.

Anticipation. It’s half the fun. The other half is attending Woodland’s 2008 Planters’ Days celebration.

By Pat Nelson
For: The Daily News, Longview, WA
May 2, 2008
Reprinted with permission

Three weeks ago, on a cold and blustery April day that threatened snow, I looked out at Horseshoe Lake and saw more shoreline activity than I thought the nippy day deserved. Two men fished from an aluminum boat. The wind pushed them along as though they were trolling. Their heads were bundled in hats and hoods, and I imagined them pouring hot cups of coffee from a thermos as my dad, who was a die-hard fisherman, would have done on such a day. Two anglers in yellow rain jackets fished from shore. City workers circled the skateboard park on machinery, leveling the dirt that they would soon cover with grass. A boy rode his bike down a bowl of the skateboard park while his friend, in shorts, sat on the frigid concrete. In the gusty wind, Moose Lodge volunteers held tightly onto the canopies they had just set up for their fishing derby.

It was almost lunchtime, and my computer displayed a temperature of only 48 degrees. I shivered as I watched people going about their various activities on the lakeshore. Three yellow school buses pulled into Horseshoe Lake Park, and then another. I watched as children, accompanied by several adults, got off the buses. Kids walked across the parking lot, and then hurried to the playground equipment, swinging their lunches in paper bags, insulated containers, and plastic grocery sacks as they ran.

I’d always been curious about the many buses that visit Horseshoe Lake Park from other school districts. Reluctantly, leaving a steaming-hot cup of tea on my desk, I snuggled into my warmest coat, grabbed my camera and note pad, and drove to the park to ask why anyone would choose to picnic on such a day.

As the wind whipped my coat, I talked with a teacher named Kim who told me she was accompanying 120 third graders from the Tualatin (Ore.)School District.  They had visited the Lelooska Cultural Center in Ariel where living history programs have been presented for more than 40 years.  My own children had attended the Lelooska school programs 30 years ago when the late Chief Lelooska was the storyteller. He dedicated his life to preserving the arts and culture of the Northwest Coast Indians. A well-known wood sculptor, he carved totem poles, elaborate masks, panels, rattles, and bowls. When Chief Lelooska died in September 1996, his brother Fearon Smith Jr , called Tsungani, became chief. Tsungani carries on the traditions of his brother as storyteller and narrator of the living history programs, sharing the heritage of the native peoples of North America with more than 13,000 individuals each year through cultural programs and the museum.

The Tualatin students attended as part of their school’s Native American unit, arriving at 10:30 a.m.for a cultural program where they were entertained by headdress dancers wearing carved masks, and by drums and stories in the Kwakiutl ceremonial house. After the presentation, they visited the museum before stopping at Horseshoe Lake for lunch.  

I stood talking with Kim near a covered picnic table, next to a tall lilac that was beginning to bloom just in time for Woodland’s annual Hulda Klager Lilac Festival. A Twix wrapper that missed the garbage can somersaulted past us in the wind. Most of the kids had hats on or hoods up, but one boy in shorts didn’t seem to know it was cold.

“The kids love Lelooska,” said Kim. “It’s something they have never seen before. They haven’t been exposed to storytelling, and it’s good for them to hear stories.”

As we talked, she kept her eyes on the youngsters. A girl named Amanda hurried over to report that there were five duck eggs nearby. Next, a boy ran up, rubbing his red hands together, saying, “I’m cold, I’m cold, I’m cold.” We quickly ended our conversation as the adults rounded up the youngsters and walked them back to the warm buses. 

As the kids left the park, the ducks and geese took their places, cleaning up sandwiches, cookie crumbs, and potato chips.

If you visit Lelooska on a chilly day, as the students from Tualatin did in April, the cedar fire in the ceremonial house will keep you toasty warm while you listen to stories and watch the costumed dancers. If the day is cold and blustery, though, how about a cup of hot cocoa instead of a picnic?

Sidebar:

What:     Lelooska Living History Program and Museum

Where:   165 Merwin Village Rd., Ariel

When:    May 10 and May 31, 7 PM, reservations required;

Contact: 360 225-9522

                  www.lelooska.org

 

April 18, 2008

By Pat Nelson
For The Daily News, Longview, WA
Copyright
Reprinted with permission

In preparation for spring fishing at Woodland’s Horseshoe Lake, the Washington State Department of Fish and Wildlife planted more than 8800 rainbow trout and more than 6510 brown trout during the first eight days of April. Another 2,500-3,500 rainbows will be trucked to Horseshoe Lake for the fifth annual Moose Lodge kids’ fishing derby, to be held 8 a.m. to 2 p.m. Saturday. The derby is for children ages 5 to 14.

Moose Lodge volunteers will place a large net in the lake to hold the fish that the hatchery delivers for the derby. Then, they will stand guard through the night to make sure no fish-loving banditos catch the trout before the kids have had their fun.

The cormorants flew in this month just after the first fish were planted. They must have followed the truck from the hatchery.  They eat their share of the newly-planted fish, but according to fishing derby chairman Fred Rotinski, they don’t seem to bother the fish that are in the net. The ospreys, on the other hand, see the fish in the net and dive right in.

Cormorants work together when they fish. Last Friday at dawn, I watched several of the black, web-footed birds pick off some tasty treats with their hooked beaks. First, they flew in low and then settled on the water. They seemed to be just floating along leisurely, with their bodies under water and their long, straight necks sticking straight up like periscopes. Suddenly they started diving. I looked out at a group of cormorants in front of me, only to blink my eyes and then to see no birds at all; they had disappeared under water. I continued to watch the spot where I had last seen them, but after about 30 seconds, they popped up in another spot, and then dove again.

Cormorants can dive from 8 to 20 feet, sometimes even more. Here, though, they don’t have to work that hard because the newly-planted fish swim close to the surface.

The cormorants weren’t the only fishermen out in the early morning. A heron swooped low on the lake, just above the cormorants, surveying the seafood buffet, and three ospreys flew high in the air, often flapping their wings quickly to stay in place, like a helicopoter in a holding pattern, before diving for fish..

Competing with the birds doesn’t deter Moose Lodge volunteers, who have held eight or nine planning meetings to get ready for the derby. They will arrive at the park Saturday morning with 50 rods and reels for the youngsters to use. The kids only have to bring the $2 entry fee.

Volunteers in aprons will have their pockets loaded with hooks and bait. Kids can have their picture taken with their catch, and can even have their fish cleaned. Thanks to donations from local citizens and merchants, bikes, fishing rods, and other prizes will be awarded.

The birds are doing their best to make a dent in the more than 18,000 fish planted in Horseshoe Lake  this month, but there should be plenty of fish left for the five hundred kids expected at the derby. Moose Lodge volunteers are excited about the event. “If you see some little kid catch his first fish, you’ll understand why we do this,” chairman Rotinski said.

Sidebar:

What: 5^th annual Moose Lodge Kids’ Fishing Derby

When: Saturday April 19, 8 AM-2 PM

Where: Horseshoe Lake Park, just  west of the skateboard park

FOR: AGES 5-14

Cost: $2

DETAILS: Poles and bait provided; Food, fun, and prizes.

Santos Lopez Fabian first came to the United States twenty years ago on a visa. During each of those twenty years, he worked in the United States most of the year and traveled home to his family in the Guatemala highlands for a few months before returning to work.

When Santos first came to the United States, he didn’t speak English, but he had a strong body and an even stronger work ethic. During those twenty years, he added to the skills his father had taught him in Guatemala. He worked with concrete, brick, and tile. He worked in the kitchen of a Las Vegas casino. He landscaped, cleared brush, and remodeled houses and commercial buildings. He house-sat, and worked at a bulb farm and a chicken-processing plant.

Santos lived frugally, living with roommates and sending money home to his family in Guatemala, and he saved money for the day his wife could join him in the United States.

Santos’ first child, Ester, was born 18 years ago, making it even more difficult for him to leave his family and go back to work for months at a time. Next was Sara, now 16, then sons Eliazer, 13; Eber, 10; and Darwin, 6.  His wife, Rodriga, worked hard raising the five children, keeping up their home, helping both her mother, Bernarda, and Santos’ mother Maria, and raising crops and animals to feed her family. She also took (in) sewing… and she waited for her husband to come home.

In 2003, we remodeled our retail center in Woodland. That’s when we first met Santos He was looking for work, and we had plenty for him to do. We soon learned that he was skilled at doing many types of labor and that he was reliable and worked hard. Now, five years later, he still works for us part-time, and he has become a close friend.

Each time Santos returned to Guatelala, Rodriga begged him to stay. But he wanted to provide for his family, so he kept returning to the United States, promising Rodriga and the children that he would one day bring them here.

For years, he had prayed his applications would be approved. During those years, he learned English. He took classes, listened to tapes, watched language videos and practiced. He filled out forms and checked often on his applications to bring his family. He waited, and prayed. That was before the September 11, 2001 attacks.. On that day, security tightened and the progress he had made was lost.

Discouraged, Santos began to wonder if he would ever be allowed to bring his family to the country he called home most of each year. He took classes in Vancouver to study for his U. S. citizenship. One day in 2006, my husband and I, along with friends and family, made the trip to Seattle with Santos and proudly watched as he became a citizen of the United States of America.

Once Santos became a citizen, his family’s paperwork moved into a new category. Last year, he started working full time in St. Helens, Oregon, at a good job with benefits. He continued to work for us on Saturdays, saving money for the day his dream would come true.

He went home before Christmas to be with his family. He planned to return as usual before April 15 so he could file his income tax, but this time was different. On March 21, we picked up  Santos and four of his five children at the airport. Daughter Ester remained in Guatemala where she attends college. The family arrived tired but excited, and we drove them to their new home in St. Helens. We took our grandchildren along to meet Santos’ and Rodriga’s children. They weren’t sure how to react to kids who didn’t speak their language, but when we visited them on their second day here., all of the kids played soccer together. When our grandson Max reluctantly left, red-faced, muddy, and smiling, he said, “You don’t even need the same language after awhile.”

Last Saturday, the Lopez family came to our house to visit . There was snow in the hills, and we decided to take them up onto one of the hills to play. We outfitted each of them with gloves, a hat, and winter socks, and then we found the perfect snowy spot to introduce them to winter recreation. Snowballs flew and kids on sleds glided down the hill on their bellies. Their favorite activity of all was throwing snowballs at their mom as she squealed with delight. Santos smiled. He was home in the United States, and his dream had come true.

My friends and I had purchased these old love letters at an antique shop on the Oregon Coast. How, we wondered, did they get there from Texas? We were intrigued, and set out to find their family. Thank goodness for the Internet, because without it, we wouldn’t have found the family genealogist who had researched that very family for thirty years. After a few emails back and forth, I sent the letters home to Texas, where their new owner reads them to her grown children.

Any of us who write for publication know that when you have a good story, you should write it for more than one magazine or newspaper. Each version should be specifically tailored to the publication receiving it. Today, I called the editor of the newspaper in that small Texas town and told him my idea. He was interested, and asked me to email the story. I got the correct spelling of his name, and found out how he would like me to send the story. He prefers email, but some editors prefer snail mail. You must know what the editor wants and follow his guidelines, and you must know the editor’s name when you send the query. “Dear Sir” doesn’t sell stories.

Once I had sent the email, I packed the copies of the letters back into their brown leather bag and put them away. As soon as I did, I realized I wasn’t done. What about the towns those long-ago lovers lived in, I wondered? Would their newspapers be interested in the stories too?

I looked up the two towns and found that they shared the same newspaper. There, in the center of the newspaper’s web page, was a notice requesting story ideas for the 150th anniversary edition. It seemed a perfect fit…and I almost forgot to try it!

So often, we don’t carry our ideas far enough. It can be hard enough to find a great idea. When you do, don’t waste it. Write it for all it’s worth.

Fourteen years ago, a drifter named John, a talented artist, agreed to create a pastel drawing of two children believed to be from Kalama or Woodland, but John left the area before the family received the finished artwork.

I don’t know how this family met John. It’s likely that they saw him sketching on a napkin in an area restaurant. He often went into a restaurant, ordered coffee, and sat for hours creating elaborate artwork on napkins. Often, customers admired his work, and sometimes they paid him to sketch something for them. These jobs gave him enough money to move on to the next stop in his never-ending journey. He never stayed in one place very long.

My husband met John more than twenty years ago when he stopped  by his store in Longview to ask if there was anything he could paint. John agreed to paint signs on the building. That probably wasn’t the kind of painting he had in mind, but he needed money. When he finished the job, he moved on.

For the next six years, John stopped by every year or two when he was in the area, and my husband always found a little work for him. When we moved to Vancouver and opened a store there, John located us and painted our building. We took him to lunch one day, and I can still remember a man in the restaurant saying, “Oh, you’re the guy who’s painting that building across the street.” Bright yellow blobs of paint covered John’s shirt, pants, and worn shoes.

By then, we had seen some of John’s sketches, and we realized he was a very bright and talented artist by choice, and a building painter only by necessity.

 My husband, who had never met or even seen photos of his Indian grandfather, but had been told he looked like him, asked John to capture on canvas what he thought his grandfather would have looked like, dressed in furs.  After a few days of work, John showed us the unfinished picture; it was incredible, but he kept working on it until he no longer liked it, and he sold it to someone in a restaurant for next to nothing. He started again, and then once more. Finally, he showed us two pictures: one that he was happy with, and another that he considered garbage. We loved both. Today, framed and matted, they hang side-by-side in our home. We enjoy looking for the similarities and differences in the two pictures, and wondering if my husband’s grandfather really did look like the man in one of the pictures.

I was so impressed with the Indian pictures that after my daughter was married in 1993, I asked John to do a pastel portrait from her wedding picture. However, after we saw the partially-finished picture once, John left and did not return.

I thought about that wedding portrait, and was sad that it had never been finished. I didn’t expect to ever see it again. Then, one day I received a phone call from a lady in Astoria. “Did you ask a man named John to do a wedding picture of your daughter?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Well, I have it here, and you’re welcome to pick it up. John left the area, and he wanted me to get this picture to you.”

 We drove to Astoria and picked up the beautiful wedding portrait. That’s when we found out John had left another undelivered picture, a pastel of two children.

“I’ll send this one with you too,” she said. “Maybe you can find out who it belongs to. John told me it’s for someone he met around Kalama or Woodland.”

 The children in the picture had probably been in a wedding. The dark-haired boy wore a white hat and tux, and the little blonde girl, not even reaching the boy’s shoulder, was dressed in frilly white. The boy stood proudly and the little girl, clasping her hands together, looked shy.

These kids would be young adults now. Their family probably gave up long ago on ever receiving the picture. Maybe with the help of The Daily News, this won’t remain “lost art.”

 By Pat Nelson
For “The Daily News,” Longview, WA
Reprinted with permission

Wednesday morning, I looked out at Woodland’s Horseshoe Lake and realized that spring is almost here. There was Natasha, back from her winter’s journey south. She sat motionless on a metal railing, her yellow eyes scanning the chilly water for breakfast.

Natasha has always behaved differently from the other blue herons I’ve watched at Horseshoe Lake. She spends a lot of time around people, more out of laziness than love, I think… or maybe she’s just plain smart. She’s likely to claim a spot for herself right next to a fisherman’s chair over on the beach near the skate park, hoping for a handout. She was given her name a Horseshoe Lake fishermen.

In past years, she tried to make a neighbor’s pond her fish market. The neighbor tried adding a gazing ball to the pond so that Natasha would be frightened by her reflection, but that didn’t stop the bird from having her pick of the pond. Next, the neighbor added a sprinkler system on a motion detector to scare Natasha away, but she soon learned that it took a minute or two for the sprinklers to reset, giving her time to fish.

After that, stronger measures were required. My friend spread a net over the entire pond. If you try this, keep the net a couple inches off  the water so that the hungry blue heron does not use it to stand on while poking its beak through the net to nab a fish.

As I watched Natasha Wednesday morning, something must have frightened her because she flew away with a low-pitched squawk, her head folded back onto her shoulders, with her long legs out behind her body. Her broad gray wings resembled leather stretched over a frame, flapping slowly and with great strength. Her 6’ wingspan was impressive. 

Herons use their sharp bills to grasp or spear their prey. With toes designed to navigate muddy lake bottoms, they wade as deep as 2 feet, moving slowly while watching for their next meal. They don’t land on the water, but rather stand and wait motionless, often at the edge of a pond or lake, not just watching for fish to swim by, but also looking for insects, rodents, frogs, and small birds.

Wednesday was a sunny day, and I decided that I, too, would stand on the dock and look at the lake. There, where Natasha had been earlier, I watched a 2-foot steelhead, lazily swim by, and then an even larger one. Both were covered with ugly white patches, but I don’t think such cosmetic flaws deter herons. Earlier in the day, Natasha had probably been watching those big fish, wondering if she dared eat one. Even though herons can swallow fish many times wider than their narrow necks, Natasha must have decided her eyes were bigger than her stomach.

She’s probably looking forward to April, when tasty fish pour out of a truck into the lake for the Moose Lodge fishing derby, fish just the right size to slide easily down her long throat.

When Natasha isn’t fishing, she’s protecting her territory. One day, I watched her as she stood on a small boat with a cabin, peering with her beady eyes into a Plexiglas window. Seeing another bird on the other side of the glass and wanting to protect her space, she began pecking at the glass, but every time she did, the other bird jutted its beak towards her. Whatever Natasha did, her reflection mirrored her actions, and she finally gave up and flew away. She’s pretty smart about fishing, but when it comes to defending herself against her own reflection, I think she’s just a bird brain.

As a young child, I lived on the San Dairy, the farm that supplied the sanatorium with milk for the patients. My dad ran the farm, located right on the sanatorium grounds, with my mother’s help.

The doctor’s son, Jim Ghostley, remembered how clean my dad kept the barn. Dad knew the importance of providing safe, nutritious food for the patients. He had been the San janitor, a part of this community made up of  tuberculosis patients and employees. My parents met at the San when Dad was a janitor and Mom worked in the kitchen. Many couples met there and were married, including my Uncle Louis who did some haying for the San. He married a lady named Inga, a nurse who had formerly been a patient. Inga’s sister Tressa, now nearly 100, worked at both the Lake Julia and Nopeming sanatoriums as a nurse after she had TB, and one of Inga and Tressa’s sisters died while a patient at the San. My uncle Norman, who also occasionally worked for the San, met his wife there when she worked in the laundry. My uncle Reuben was the gardener.

Work on my two books about the amazing patients and employees of the Lake Julia Tuberculosis Sanatorium has taken me from my home in Washington State back to my first home of Minnesota where I’ve interviewed patients and employees and their family members. I hope to make another research trip this year to tie up some loose ends in my rough drafts.

This website is a place to share your stories. I know there are many wonderful stories about Dr. Mary and others. Please share your stories here, and please check back often to read what others have added. All I ask is that you state your connection to the San (example: daughter of nurse; grandson of Dr. Mary; former patient; nurse at another nearby San) and that you include your name. By posting on this site, you give me permission to use your postings in published material. If you do not wish to post your name or information online, please email.

You may email me at casa304@comcast.net. Photos are encouraged.

Please post often.

See my other website: www.storystorm.wordpress.com.

                                              Pat Nelson