Everything Changes

I had an unfortunate surprise tonight. After work I went to "The Grape Escape", my usual wine bar, only to find that it had closed. This place was the Cheers of my early Washington experience, both good and bad. I became a fixture like Norm and spent way too much time there, but it was the hub of my social life when I lived in Bellevue. My good friends Kelly, George and Diane, Steve and Lena, Lonnie and Barb, Craig and Joanne, Jessica, George, Scott and others listened to my travails without complaint. At least they never complained in my presence; no doubt they found my issues less interesting than I imagined and more entertaining than I had hoped. That's friendship for you. We all drank way too much wine together, dealt with the election of Bush in 2004 and held each other for comfort from time to time. And we all joined Lonnie's wine club. I was in the big red club, loads of fantastic limited runs from wineries nobody has ever heard of. Whatever else was true Lonnie and Barb had great taste in wine.

When the Taliban launched rockets into the Buddhas of Bamiyan someone asked my zen master to comment. Without hesitation he said "nothing is permanent, everything changes, next question". Try as I might I cannot move on from my memory of watching Lonnie and Barb building their first wine racks before opening.

Best always my friends, may you be at peace

Ferry Culture

One of the things I love most about living in Washington is riding the ferrys across the Puget Sound. Someone told me last year that it's a lot like riding across the river Styxx and being reborn. My experience has been like that. Like Artaxerxes I found a quiet life in the country and considered it the best of all.

Tonight is a good example. I drove from Sequim to Kingston and had to wait for an hour for the next ferry. Walking along the marina I was greeted by a large Golden Retriever who thought I was a long lost relative. Her fur was soft to the touch and her owner had lived in Kingston all his life, since 1954. His father had owned most of the land that now comprises the Kingston Yaught Club and surrounding environs. He had seen the development of town remove the country store and replace it with a bar. The club was built over land his father once had owned. His opinion of the ferrys was that they were the worst godforsaken form of transportation ever conceived by the mind of man. His description of a friend who opted for helicopter commuting after a 45-day training course were hysterical. I'll take the freeway thank you. Although I had to respectfully disagree his reflections on the impact of development resonated with mine in Tucson, Temecula and Sequim. In every case the town lost its soul, most recently when Peninsula developers decided to build 800 houses on the grazing lands of Sequim Elk. We deserve the world we are leaving to our children, karma in action.

The ferry oozed into port, its sides gently massaged by mechanical arms emerging from the pilons to either side of the docking bay. I stood on the passenger walkway until I could see straight through the center to the other side. The air was clean and the view was crisp. In a few moments I would drive my car onto the ferry and ascend the steps to get some food and a drink. Sitting at the front of the ferry I would watch as people posed for photos, enjoyed the view and breathed clean air.

This is my home, and of all the poor decisions I have made in my life living here is not among them. I am truly happy here.