Dangers of Shopping Solo

       Since March I’ve been working at my seasonal job scoring standardized tests. I put in a lot of overtime—one week I worked 73 hours. While I was working fast and furiously, I didn’t make it to the gym a single time. Things have eased up now. I’m only working a 40 hour week from home, no weekends.

On Friday after I logged off, the house was extremely quiet. John was out of town. Sarah was also out of town. Johnny and his girlfriend Sarah were out with their friends, about 30 minutes away.  So I did what any bored American woman would do. I went shopping.

This was a targeted shopping expedition. There were two reasons for my shopping goal: new active wear. One, I needed to get myself back on the workout track and new workout clothes would give me a boost. Two, my black workout bras had mysteriously disappeared in the whirlwind rearranging of our house when we got a new roof, and I was tired of looking for them.

I don’t mind shopping by myself. In some ways I prefer it. I can concentrate fully on finding exactly what I want. I don’t have to keep track of where someone else is, or whether they’re getting tired or hungry. I’ve never needed someone else’s opinion of what looks good, or horrible on me. I pretty much know. The mirror doesn’t lie. And I'm a decisive shopper. I don't need someone to urge me to get something or convince me not to.

On mother’s day, Sarah told me that she’d almost gotten me a shirt a Old Navy because it looked like Blue Willow and she knows how much I love Blue Willow dishes. She didn’t get it because she said she wasn’t sure I’d like it. If I went to Old Navy, I’d be able to look for that shirt and get some workout clothes. That’s where I’d gotten my favorite workout pants. Maybe I’d pick up another pair of those too.

As soon as I walked through the doors, I spotted the Blue Willow shirts. There was a tank and one with short sleeves. Neither of them was on sale, so I kept walking to the active wear section.

The sports bras were on sale if you bought two. I selected two of them. A newer version of my yoga pants were hanging nearby. They only had gray ones in my size, none in black. I added a pair to my try-on hand. Then I saw the clearance rack. There were some possibilities there—sports bras, and a beautiful yoga top at half price. The top was a medium! Just my size!

On the way to the dressing room, I had to pass through the clearance area. Someone in Old Navy’s marketing department planned that well. I rifled through those racks and found both Blue Willow shirts at half price and in my size.

A friendly young black girl let me and my 10 items into a dressing room, “Just let me know if you need any help with different sizes or anything.” She looked like she was in high school. I thought she was pretty smart for getting her “summer job” lined up before the other teenagers even started applying.

I hung the clothes with hangers up on a hook, and laid the folded t-shirts on the bench. Let the trying on begin! The yoga pants were great. The fabric on one of the t-shirts was off grain so that went in the “no” pile. The Blue Willow shirt with the sleeves was flattering. I could wear it with my white jeans or blue jeans, or shorts. I hung it on the “yes” hook. The tank version was also cute, but my arms aren’t toned enough to wear a tank other than to work out in. I wavered. Well . . . I could wear it with a cardigan, or just wear it at home. It went on the “yes” hook.

Next on the try-on hook was the yoga top. I loved the cool blue and green swirls of colors. It had a key-hole back, something different from my usual racer back tops. It would be perfect for Zumba or yoga.  I carefully threaded my arms through the body of it and made sure my head was going through the neck hole.

Here's what the key-hole back looks like.

Wow, it was a little tight, but I snaked my way in. Yoga tops are supposed to be tight so that you’re not falling out when you’re twisting around and upside down.

On the hanger this top looked great! I really wanted it to look great on me, but I could see parts of me overflowing the edges. I knew I’d gained some weight from sitting at a computer all day, and not working out. I’d have to go back out and see if they had it in a large.

I grabbed the bottom hem and started trying to pull it back up over my head. As soon as it got to my rib cage, it stopped. I sucked in and pulled the shelf bra up over my fullest area and then tried pulling from the bottom up again. It wasn’t budging. My injured left rotator cuff protested loudly when I tried muscling just one side up.

I started to panic a little. Then I began to talk or argue myself down, “OK Laura, just take a deep breath. . .I can’t. It’s too tight!. . .  Just take a little breath then. Let it out, then give it a mighty heave ho!” I did. It was a no-go.

Grasping the bottom hem tightly, I started tugging and jumping up and down at the same time in the hopes that momentum and gravity would help. After a few minutes of futile pogo-ing, I sat down on the bench with that stupid yoga top bunched up under my arms, as tight as a boa constrictor wrapped around my body.  

I was starting to sweat. It was definitely hot in there. I leaned my head back in exasperation and looked up at the ceiling. Is that a security camera? Yep, I think it is. Well, they’ll be having a good laugh about this. Please God, please don’t let me end up on YouTube!

I stood up and jumped up and down a few more times. The yoga top refused to move. I bent at the waist and wrestled. This must be how Houdini felt trying to escape the strait jacket. But he had double jointed shoulders. I don’t.

I sat down again. I really didn’t want to have to call that nice dressing room girl for help. How embarrassing would that be? I don’t have a bra on. Getting half naked middle-aged women with injured rotator cuffs un-stuck from yoga tops probably wasn’t on her job description and I'm pretty sure it wasn’t what she was looking for in a career or even a summer job. Well, at least I’d kept the yoga pants on if I did have to get her.

I could reach my cell phone, but my entire family is out of range. Who else can I call? No one. It’s too embarrassing to call anyone else. Maybe I should just pull the top back down, buy it and wear it out of the store. Then when I get home I can cut it off.  OK, that’s what I’m doing.

The store closes in 15 minutes. How long have I been in here? 20 minutes? 30 minutes? What if nice dressing room girl comes busting in here to check on me? Uh-oh. I could hear her unlocking dressing room doors. That spurred me on.

One last try. If it doesn’t come off, I’ll go with the buy it now, cut it off later solution. Sitting down, I bent at the waist, rolled my left shoulder forward, reached over it with my right arm and pulled hard. Movement, at last! It creeped up a quarter of an inch, a half an inch, and then I popped out. Free!

I did a happy dance, and breathed deeply! I threw my clothes back on, gathered up the two piles of new clothes—guess which pile the yoga top was in, waved good-bye to the security camera, and bolted from the dressing room.

I have now instituted a new shopping policy. All yoga tops and sports bras will be purchased in multiple sizes, and tried on in the comfort of my home. Those items that do not fit will be returned to the store in a timely fashion. Who knew shopping alone could hold such dangerous embarrassment potential?

Laura Keolanui Stark is writing this in comfortable loose clothing. When she went to Old Navy’s website to get a picture of the strangling yoga top, she noticed that several reviews gave this item only 1 or 2 stars and said things like, “it’s a tourniquet. . . if you get it on, you may never get it off. . .needed help getting it off” so she doesn’t feel so bad now about her sticky situation. She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.

Happy Mother's Day!

This was originally published in The News Tribune, April 1996. I think it still rings true.

         I never truly appreciated my mother until I became one. I loved her unconditionally and put her up on an unearthly pedestal as only a young child is capable of doing, but my perception of her was one-sided. Now that I’m a mom, I’m discovering another dimension of my mother and struggling with so many of the things she made look easy.

Mom and me (3 years old?) by a castle in Germany.

        Motherhood is unbelievably complex. You take care of your child physically, keeping them safe and clean, feeding them, nursing them through sicknesses, teaching them how to get dressed, climb stairs, ride bikes, and so much more. You stimulate them intellectually and worry about their reading, ‘riting, and ‘rithmetic skills. You tune in to their emotions and try to help them learn to control, but not stifle their emotions. You teach them social skills, so they’ll get along in the world, be able to love and be loved. You do all this for the reason all mothers do it, so that your children can not only survive without you, but thrive without you, and be happy. The list of things you want for them has no end.

        Throughout all these preparations for life, there’s an incredible bond between mother and child. The bonding part was simple and natural for me, but letting go, gracefully, is a challenge. Part of the problem is that letting go and bonding happen simultaneously. While your love deepens, you’re supposed to be letting go, but not too much, and not too soon. It’s an ongoing process, two steps forward, two steps back. Children crawl, walk, and run, but still need you to set the limits. While they’re mastering all these milestones, it’s mom’s job to encourage and cheer them on, without showing that at the same time she has a twinge of longing for the days when they weren’t so independent.

         It’s a hard balance to strike, made even harder because the child is also wrestling with the holding on/letting go dilemma. For my son Johnny’s first month of kindergarten, putting him on the bus was heart-wrenching. He’d stand in line with his dinosaur backpack, eager to go to school. The huge, yellow bus would pull up and the line of kids would start across the street. Johnny would march along with them until he was halfway there. Then he’d turn around, run back to me crying, and hug me fiercely. I’d softly reassure him, “You’ll be just fine! Have fun at school!” and send him back when I didn’t want to. He looked so small sitting up in the bus window waving, and trying bravely to fight back tears. I’d paste on a cheerful face and wave until he was out of sight, then through blurry eyes take a deep breath before consoling Sarah and myself that her brother would be back for lunch. Letting go isn’t easy.

First day of school for Johnny (8) and Sarah (5).

      When I was a kid, I thought my parents had total control over us. Now that I’m a parent, I realize that most of their control (and now my control) amounted to creating the illusion that they had control. I learned quickly that it’s impossible to make a child eat, or sleep, or potty train unless they’re ready and want to.  Demanding doesn’t work nearly as well as coaxing. Being a good mom means knowing when to pull and when to push, when to hug and when to scold, when to listen instead of talk, when to ignore behavior that’s driving you crazy, when to lay it on the line, and when to bluff because you don’t have a clue. The punch line is that you will never know whether you did the right thing. There will always be a little doubt whispering in your ear.

        When I was sixteen, I fell in love and got my heart broken for the first time. Afterward, I moped around for weeks wallowing in the pain. My mother, undoubtedly tired of my self-pity, finally set me straight one night while I washed dishes. “You better pull yourself together. Get used to this, you’re going to have lots more boyfriends and I hate to tell you, but this is going to happen over and over. It’s not the end of the world.”

         In my infinite teenaged wisdom I snapped at her, “It’s NOT EVER going to happen again because I’m NEVER falling in love again!” and bolted from the kitchen leaving mom with a sink full of dirty dishes.

         Of course, she was right. By my mid-twenties my heart had been broken so many times I was sure that a “Kick Me” sign was pinned to it.  After each stormy break up, my mother’s observation about recurring heartbreaks echoed in my mind. How did she know? Even after I was happily married, I was still a little appalled that she’d been so uncharacteristically blunt and unsympathetic.

         Last month, my four-year-old daughter’s best friend moved. It wasn’t an abrupt surprise. Her family’s house had been for sale for nine months. Sarah saw them packing up boxes and moving furniture. But the meaning didn’t really hit her until we were at the playground one day and she asked if we could walk over and pick up Jennifer to play like we always had. I reminded her that Jennifer didn’t live in our neighborhood anymore. Her face crumbled as she broke down into hard, deep sobs. My heart ached along with hers as I held her close and tried to rock her sorrow away as if she were a baby again. After forty-five minutes, she calmed down a little. I wiped her tears away and told her, “You know what? Jennifer taught you how to be a good friend. You’ll make new friends, and love them too.”

         She pushed me away, and shot back, “I will NOT! Jennifer’s my ONLY friend, forever!” The floodgates re-opened and as hard as she had just pushed me away, she burrowed back into my chest. I thought of my mother, and smiled, and silently acknowledged how resilient our hearts really are. Thanks Mom, Happy Mother’s Day!

                

Mother's Day 2012, Bellevue, WA.

Sarah is 20 years old now and has made many new friends since her first friend, Jennifer. Johnny is 23 and has no problem getting in his car and going to work in the morning other than wanting to sleep in. My mother celebrated Mother’s Day surrounded by family and phone calls from two of her kids. I had a great Mother’s Day with John, my grownup kids and their friends. I can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.

P90X Work Out Trial

          Two of John’s friends swear by the workout called P90X Extreme Home Fitness. One is a cop who does P90X whenever he gains too much weight. He claims that the pounds melt off. The other P90X friend is a former University of Hawaii football player and current discus thrower who is always in top shape.

           Johnny is friends with a couple in their twenties who decided to do P90X together. He came home and talked about how they’d lost weight and gotten stronger with P90X. He was very impressed. They loaned Johnny the program. The twelve DVD’s have been sitting on our coffee table for more than a month with no takers.

My Zumba teacher Kristyn is a fitness guru, so I asked her what she thought of P90X, and if she thought I could do it. She said it’s a good program and she seemed confident that I could do it, modifying it if I needed to.

So on Saturday I jumped into P90X. The first workout was 60 minutes of exercises for chest and back.  You do a circuit of exercises for thirty seconds at a time. Tony Horton, P90X trainer and creator, urges you on, “You can do anything for 30 seconds, right?”

For chest and back, most of the exercises were varied forms of pushups and pull-ups. Since I injured my rotator cuff doing pushups, I modified most of the exercises. I managed to make it through.

           John and Johnny, who were sitting on the couch watching me or standing on the couch holding a band for me to pull down on, were disappointed that I wasn’t sweating much. That was because I was doing my pushups against a wall, not on the floor, and I usually don’t sweat much unless I’m doing cardio. I didn’t think my back got much of a workout. Maybe it was because of my modifications.

Following the chest/back workout, there was a 30-minute ab workout. It did not include the usual crunches. Most of the exercises were Pilates which Kristyn has “treated” us to in her toning classes after Zumba. They’re hard and because of that, I know how to cheat. I let my hip flexors do most of the heavy lifting. I tried to remember what Kristyn tells us to do to keep from cheating as I struggled along.

         I wish I could say that the next morning I woke up sore, but in reality, I started hurting that night, so I took some ibuprofen. Sunday morning, it was worse. My hip flexors, and chest were not happy. I sat around most of the day, ripping out mistakes I’d made in a quilt I’m working on, and thinking of reasons not to tackle day two of P90X.

At 3:00 I finally dragged my stiff self off the couch and put my workout shoes on. How could I make a fair judgement of P90X if I only did one workout?

Day two was plyometrics—the major reason I was stalling. I hate plyometrics. My not very fond memories of Plyometrics date back to when I worked out at Puyallup Athletic Club, a small club that sadly went out of business. My teacher there would have us jump up onto a surface about two feet off the ground, then jump down, as fast as we could for a set amount of time. If you did well, your reward was to jump up onto something higher. Yay!

    Plyometrics are supposed to be explosive. They’re designed to improve athletic performance. To me, it was grueling and I always worried about catching my toes on the way up and face planting.

An example of Plyometrics.

I was not exactly giddy with anticipation when I slid the P90X DVD into the DVD player. At least these plyometrics stayed on a level surface. I made it through 45 minutes of jumping, and dodging our pets. It was a lot more cardio, so this time I did sweat, although not as much as I do in Zumba.

Plyometrics reminded me vividly of why I love Zumba, and why I was ready to quit working out before I started Zumba. The whole time I was jumping up and down, and side to side, I was breathing hard and thinking it was stupid and boring. There wasn’t any music to get into. I was worried about blowing out a knee or twisting an ankle. It was so boring I actually thought of grabbing a jump rope to break up the tedium. For me, there’s no fun in plyometrics.

Day three, Monday, it was even harder to get out of bed. My hip flexors were chanting, "Ouch, ouch, ouch!" with every step I took. I always hurt the worst two days after a hard workout. The best cure for me though, is to move, to flush the lactic acid out of my whimpering muscles. It was painful, but I managed to lift my feet high enough to get my pants on, and maneuver my arms into a shirt for Zumba.

An hour of Zumba did loosen me up. Afterwards, I did a half hour of Booty Ballet with Kristyn, and actually did some pirouettes! On the way out, Kristyn noticed that I was hobbling along, and asked if I was OK. I answered, “Yep, P90X.” She high fived me, and I headed home for day three of P90X: Shoulders and arms.

The program called for lots of bicep curls, flys, and triceps work. The guys on the DVD were using 25-lb. weights. I was using 8-lbs, and going down to 3-lbs whenever my left rotator cuff yipped at me. I’m hoping that the exercises will strengthen the muscles in my rotator cuff, since I quit doing physical therapy for it. This workout went surprisingly well. It didn’t have a lot of overhead work, my weakness. But it did have lots of curls, which I can usually do until the cows come home, so I got a taste of success. I would do this work out again.

No fancy equipment necessary.

I skipped the 30-minute ab workout, since I’d already spent 2-1/2 hours working out.

I’m sure that tomorrow I will be very aware of it whenever I move my arms. That’s why I’m writing this now. But, I’ll start my day off with Zumba to warm up again. I’ll skip the yoga class at my gym. Instead, I’ll do P90X yoga. In fact, I’m looking forward to it. Yoga is another great “cure” for me when I’m sore from working out. I have my fingers crossed that it’s more “stretching” yoga, than “strength” yoga. When I complete it, I’ll be a quarter of the way through my personal P90X challenge.

Laura Keolanui Stark isn’t exactly sure why she’s doing P90X—curiosity? Boredom? It was free? My friends are doing it? Stupidity? She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.

Quilts: Art or Craft?

          Sometimes people are paying attention when you think they aren’t. On Saturday mornings, I try to squeeze in watching the quilting/sewing shows on KBTC-Channel 12, PBS. www.kbtc.org They air from 8:30 in the morning until 1:00 in the afternoon, so my viewing depends on if I’ve got errands to run, or what the football schedule is. I’ve been tuning in long enough that my family almost considers the on-air quilting ladies as friends who drop in on Saturday mornings. They walk through the family room, glance at the TV, and say things like, “Is this the one who taught Special Ed. before she became a famous quilter?” (Eleanor Burns) as they continue going on their way.  

Recently, KBTC has added a new documentary to the end of the Saturday lineup: Why Quilts Matter: History, Art, and Politics www.whyquiltsmatter.org. It posed a question that led to a surprising discussion and more questions in our family room: What is art? Are quilts art or craft? Those questions were running through my mind as the experts weighed in.

One of the art quilters seemed insulted at a common response she gets when she tells people that she’s a quilter. They tell her that their grandmother made quilts. She retorts, “These are NOT your grandmother’s quilts.”  

This one IS my grandmother's quilt!

I looked at my grandmother’s Hawaiian quilt hanging on the wall and thought, “Wow! I aspire to being able make quilts like the ones that both of my grandmothers made.” Maybe her grandmother wasn’t a very good quilter. Or, maybe the person sharing that their grandmother was a quilter didn’t seem very impressed with their grandmother. Who knows?

Other people on the show talked about the fact that once you took the quilt off the bed and hung it on a wall, especially of a museum, it was recognized as art. It had moved from being something utilitarian to keep people warm, to being something precious that should no longer be used, but admired instead. That was a valid point.

I have sewn a sleeve on every quilt I’ve ever made, no matter what size, so that it can top a bed, be snuggled under as a lap quilt, or hung on a wall. I’ve probably made more quilts as wall hangings, than bed coverings. They’re faster to make, and I have four places in my house to hang quilts. Several times when I’ve shown these wall hangings to non-quilters, they’ve said, “Well, that’s not a quilt. It’s not big enough for a bed.”

Does that automatically make it art? When it’s hanging, it is being used as art, but most of my wall hangings are made up of traditional quilt blocks. 

I think of “art quilts” as being landscape quilts, or abstract quilts with lots of embellishment, more like paintings. I’ve made a few quilts that fit that description, but I don’t consider myself artistic enough to be an “art quilter.”

The show moved on to talk about the quilts of Gee’s Bend, Alabama. “The town’s women developed a distinctive, bold, and sophisticated quilting style based on traditional American (and African American) quilts, but with a geometric simplicity reminiscent of Amish quilts and modern art. The women of Gee’s Bend passed their skills and aesthetic down through at least six generations to the present. In 2002, the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston presented an exhibition of seventy quilt masterpieces from the Bend.

 The Quilts of Gee’s Bend exhibition has received tremendous international acclaim . . .on its twelve-city American tour. Newsweek, National Public Radio’s Talk of the Nation, Art in America, CBS News Sunday Morning, PBS’s NewsHour with Jim Lehrer, the Martha Stewart Living television show, House and Garden, Oprah’s O magazine, and Country Home magazine are among the hundreds of print and broadcast media organizations that have celebrated the quilts and the history of this unique town. Art critics worldwide have compared the quilts to the works of important artists such as Henri Matisse and Paul Klee. The New York Times called the quilts ‘some of the most miraculous works of modern art America has produced.’" (The Quilts of Gee’s Bend™ Quilter’s Collective History.)

I was lucky enough to see these quilts when the exhibition traveled to the Tacoma Art Museum. The Gee’s Bend quilters break many of the “rules” of quilting. These women didn’t run down to their local quilt store to buy enough new cotton fabric to fit a recipe for a quilt. They used materials they had on hand. Some of the fabrics used were from polyester pant suits.  Pieces weren’t cut straight. Blocks within the quilts and borders aren’t squared off. 

They had a free flowing “plan” as they pieced their quilts. They wouldn’t have earned anything more than a participation ribbon at a county fair.

Images of the Gee’s Bend quilts flashed on the TV screen in our family room, and suddenly Johnny who’d stopped to sit down and put his shoes on said, “Didn’t they have rulers? Nothing’s straight.”

The Quilts of Gee's Bend.

John looked up from his laptop, “I don’t like them.”

Was this a “hey, the emperor is naked” moment?

I pointed out that the quilts are very graphic in a modernistic style. I preferred the ones that are just two colors. They are striking.

The show commentators debated again: art or craft?

Johnny wasted no time choosing a side. Gee’s Bend quilts were a craft. Part of his argument was that art is created intentionally. He felt that these quilters weren’t purposefully trying to make a statement. Yes, they looked modernistic, but it was an accident.

He is a music composer, so he has learned to view art through a composer’s eyes (and ears). He asked, “If the cat jumps up on the piano keys, is he a composer? It sounds like some modern music. Did the cat intend to make music?”

John added, “I wouldn’t hang them in my house. They look very primitive.”

I countered, “OK, but there’s lots of art I wouldn’t hang in my house. It’s still art.” And to Johnny, “Those quilters intentionally chose to put each of those pieces of colored fabric right where they are. They aren’t randomly placed.”

I had also thought of that old saying that you need to master the rules before you can break them. Did they know the rules? Were they purposely breaking the rules, or were they just not that great at quilting?

In the end, I didn’t turn either Johnny or John into fans of Gee’s Bend quilts. To tell the truth they aren’t my favorite quilts either, but I do think they are art as well as a craft too.

Quilting is very much like cooking.  There are cooks and chefs. The cooks can open their refrigerator and pantry and throw a tasty dinner together with what’s at hand.  They are practical, make it up as they go, on the fly, and don’t mind surprises. They are direct and want to put food in your belly.

The gourmet chefs spend time gathering just the right ingredients, carefully chopping, and sautéing, planning and striving for a sublime combination of flavors. They have a very specific idea of how they want their dish to turn out. They want what they create to be memorable as well as something to satisfy your hunger.

Cook or chef? Quilt crafter or art quilter? I appreciate both ends of the spectrum. Most of the time I’m a cook and a crafty quilter, but every once in awhile I create a dish or quilt that is art---  sometimes intentionally, sometimes accidentally.

Laura Keolanui Stark has solved her quilter’s identity crisis by calling herself simply a quilter. She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.

The Case of the Missing Branches

          The saga of the storm continues. Sunday, during the NFL playoffs, I went into the laundry room (on the bottom floor of our house) to throw a load of laundry in. When I reached into the pile of dirty clothes in the laundry chute, the clothes were wet. We didn’t get that wet when we were cleaning the yard up although it had been raining.

          I climbed up onto the counter and stuck my head up into the laundry chute, which is under the master bathroom sink. I felt the drain pipe. Was it wet or was it just cold because it’s close to an outer wall? I wiped it with a to-be-laundered t-shirt. It was wet.

          Upstairs, the NY Giants vs. San Francisco 49ers game went into overtime. I waited until the game ended, before I told “the boys” that the sink was leaking. They disappeared immediately, even though dinner was ready, and came back to tell me that the water wasn’t from the sink. They thought it was from the roof, leaking down through the outside wall. We ate dinner, and then they confirmed their “diagnosis” by peering up into the attic.

         The next day, Monday, John called our insurance company. He explained that we’d had over 30 branches land on our roof in the snow/ice storm, and now the roof was leaking. They contacted one of their roofing contractors from Seattle (the ones nearer to us were all booked up after the storm). I was relieved. I didn’t want John or Johnny to get up on our shake roof because it is (to borrow a friend’s gross, but extremely accurate phrase) “slippery as snot” up there.

          When I got home, at 4:45, there were two phone messages from the contractor trying to set up an appointment. John called him. They would meet at our house at 1:00 the next day.

          At home after work on Tuesday, Johnny told me this bizarre story. He was at work when his cell phone rang at 12:30.  It was John, “Did you get up on the roof before you left for work, and take the branches down?”

Johnny guffawed, “No!”

“Well, there aren’t any branches on our roof!”

Johnny was as baffled as his father.

John saw our neighbor across the street clearing debris from his yard. He asked him, “Did you see anybody up on our roof?”

Tom told him that he had seen a man up on our roof the day before clearing branches off. There was no company name on his truck. It made no sense. They scratched their heads, and decided that maybe the mysterious branch clearer had gone to the wrong address.

Second phone call to Johnny: “What’s the password to your mother’s computer?”

“Why?”

“The roof guy is coming, and I need proof that there were branches on the roof.  I need to show him the pictures your mother took for her blog.”

Branches on the front part of our roof.

Branches on the roof on the back of our house.

When Nordic Services showed up, more phone calls were made. Apparently, when our insurance company contacted them, one of their guys was in our area. Before we even set up an appointment, he went to our house and cleared the roof. He didn’t tell anybody.

Case of the disappearing branches solved. It wasn’t a wrong address, clean up fairies, or industrious menehunes. It was an eager, efficient contractor.

That night a windstorm blew through. There are branches up on the roof again, but not as many as before. So, when they come to fix the roof, John’s story will be more believable.

Laura Keolanui Stark will confirm that there really were branches on the roof! She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.

After the Storm

           The best part of this five-day storm was that the predicted high winds were only 25 mph, not 45-50 mph last night and today, Saturday. The ice did more than enough damage. We didn’t need a windstorm to totally finish us off.

           The roads are still slushy and several of our usual routes remain closed because of downed trees and power lines. 140,000 households are still without power, but the sun came out for a little while today. So did people. They came out of their homes to survey the damage, clean up, and do the things they couldn’t while the weather held us hostage. We were almost like the Who’s in Dr. Suess’s Whoville, except we didn’t join hands and sing like they did in “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas,” at least not anywhere that I'm aware of. 

           I took more pictures of the damage as we ran errands. Driving through Tacoma, to us it didn’t seem to have as much damage as Puyallup, but we were in the urban part, so there weren’t as many trees to begin with, and the trees bore the brunt of the storm. 

          Although in Tacoma, a warehouse with a flat roof collapsed. The workers inside were smart. When they heard the building groan, they got out. Nobody was hurt. The News Tribune reported that both of the Tacoma Narrows Bridges were closed for six hours because sheets of ice were falling from the girders and suspension cables.

Tacoma Narrows Bridges. Photo from The News Tribune.

          Back in Puyallup, at the WSU Research and Extension Center, one of the biggest trees was split apart even though it is an evergreen. 

WSU Research and Extension Center, Puyallup, WA. 3-story building in backgroud.

            Overall, the hardwood trees did not do as well as the evergreens. A row of cherry (or apple?) trees that lined one of the streets on my way to Zumba was shattered. Spring is going to look very different around here.

43rd Ave. SE, South Hill, WA (road in front of the YMCA)

           John and I tackled the branches strewn all over our yard. He cranked up the chain saw. 

          I sorted through the debris. Pulling branches out of the pile was like playing an oversized, twisted game of pickup sticks. 

          I dragged limbs to the curb if they were less than six feet long, or to John to cut if they were longer. 

Limbs to be cut up.

"5, 6, pick up sticks"

          I don’t know if the garbage collectors or the city will pick them up, but other people had yard waste stacked up at the curb. It’s worth a try.

           For three hours John cut debris up and I hauled it. Our yard waste bin is full. Our curbside pile grew taller and taller to become the biggest one on our street so far. We’re probably only a fourth of the way through, we still have the roof and backyard to go, but it was a good start.

"Well John (Jones), you sure do know how to show a girl a good time!"--from Indiana Jones.

Laura Keolanui Stark is un-hunkering down. She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com when her internet service comes back.

Ice Days

          Snow day #3, Thursday, January 19, 2012 was actually an ice day. John and I flew out of bed at 3:30 in the morning on Thursday after hearing what sounded like an elephant stampede on the roof over our bedroom. The dogs met us in the hall without even barking. Chicken Little was right! The sky was falling!

We thought it was heavy snow falling off of over laden branches on the Douglas Firs (more than 100 years old) surrounding our house. It was only a few minutes before the “running” sound changed to thunderous thuds.

When we opened the front door to see what was going on, we could see branches snapping, and then falling to the ground. The sound was scary—a loud gunshot crack, followed by whooshing air, ending with a thud, or a bowling alley sound, if the branch was rolling down our roof. We didn’t get much sleep.

We got up, thankful that our power was on and turned the TV on to watch the news. I couldn’t wait for sunrise, so that we could see what was up on our roof, and assess what damage had been done. At 7:30 it was still dark. Had the sun taken a snow day? Was the sun’s power out?

When light did finally eke through the clouds, we could see lots of branches on our roof.  Freezing rain had made sheets of ice that covered the blankets of snow and pushed fir branches to their breaking points. Most of the branches on the roof had landed over our bedroom and Sarah’s bedroom too.

Roof above Sarah's bedroom.

The most disturbing thing was the pile of 10 to 12-foot long or longer branches where Johnny usually parks his car alongside our garage. Each branch probably weighs about 75 pounds. Around here, those branches are called “widow makers.” They would’ve done some serious damage to his car if it had been there.

Johnny's parking space.

His Honda Accord, that survived five hard winters in Pullman, Washington, wasn’t in its usual spot here because Johnny was with his girlfriend house sitting her house. Her mother and stepfather are out of town. Johnny and Sarah had planned to spend one night there. It had turned into two nights and three days without power.

Near-miss of John's truck.

The branches from the Douglas Firs had also missed John’s truck, but just barely.  His F-150 is always parked in front of Johnny’s car, right next to a cedar tree whose trunk is so big it would take three adults holding hands to hug it. John tried to move his truck onto the street, but his back tires just spun on the ice and dug a hole beside the driveway. With branches cracking over him, and our bags of sand buried under the pile of branches in Johnny’s parking space, he decided to wait, and hope his truck wouldn’t get taken out.

Old growth Douglas Fir trees around our house.

Throughout the day we listened to all those branches breaking. It sounded like popcorn popping. A few hours later, when there was a lull, John shoveled the dirt the truck had dug out in front of his tires for traction. At last, he managed to move his truck, with much slipping and sliding, less than ten feet away onto the street. Our two other cars were safe in the garage.

I got on Facebook and found out just how lucky we were to have power. People were using their I-phones to post that they didn’t have power. Our house was in a little pocket of heat and lights. Our neighborhood has underground utilities, but the main streets leading to it don’t. Facebook friends reported that those roads were closed because of fallen trees and power lines. Backyard neighbor Carol posted a picture of her beautiful maple trees that didn’t make it. Then we lost our internet service.

Right lane of 39th Avenue closed.

The kids' bus stop up by the Manorwood Clubhouse/Pool.

What the Manorwood Clubhouse/Pool area looked like in Fall 2010.

Johnny and Sarah K. came back to our house arriving in style. Since his parking space was no longer available, Johnny parked out front. I was looking out the window when he drove up the hill, a little past our house. He started turning left and I thought he was going into our neighbor’s driveway, but he was pulling up on his emergency brake so the back end of his car slid up the hill and he drifted exactly parallel and 6” from the curb. I guess that’s an added skill he learned at snowy WSU.

View from the top of our hill. John & Johnny's vehicles parked on the street.

He and John helped the neighbor across the street push her little SUV into her driveway. Earlier, her husband had parked it out on the street. Later, they went somewhere and when they came home, she told John and Johnny that he warned her to park on the street. But, she said she was doing what she wanted—parking in the driveway.

Downed tree by mailboxes.l

Widow maker hanging off our roof.

Johnny and Sarah said that it had only gotten down to 60 degrees in her house because they had a gas fireplace, but it was awfully dark, so they came back to our house.    We all slept in the basement while the branches rained down outside. Even in the basement, I startled awake with the booms, and counted six direct hits on our house. In the morning, Johnny, who was sleeping on the concrete floor, said that one of the branches hit so hard that he could feel it shake the cement foundation of our house.

The source of all the "bumps in the night," above our bedroom.

Today, day #4, was the day that Puyallup started thawing under our usual gray, rainy skies. When we woke up we could still hear things hitting our roof—mostly giant blobs of snow from trees. The view from the porch wasn’t good. One of the gorgeous maples on the edge of our front yard had split. The red Saturn that our neighbor’s wife insisted on parking in her driveway was covered with branches. There were even more branches on our driveway. John started cleaning up, dragging branches to the side of the driveway, and then shoveling the snow off, so we could get my car out of the garage. 

Our neighbor's SUV parked in their driveway.

I turned on the news which said that 275,000 households didn’t have power. The state patrol had dealt with four times as many car accidents. Tractor trailers were jack-knifed on several highways. Highway 18 between Auburn and Federal Way was closed because of downed trees. Most school districts were still closed. A man in Issaquah died when he got hit by a falling limb as he was taking an ATV out of his shed. SeaTac airport was closed for a few hours. Amtrak stopped service between Seattle and Portland. Someone at the LA Times called Seattlites snow wimps. I’m SURE Los Angeles would handle all this snow and ice better than we did because they’re known for all the snow and ice they get. They’re also real outdoorsy down there in LA.

Beautiful maples in front of our house in November.

Broken maples after the ice storm.

The weather forecast wasn’t good. There’s a flood warning because storm drains are clogged with debris and snow, so the rain and melting snow isn’t draining causing urban flooding. Everyone is asked to clear storm drains in front of their houses. Tonight the winds will pick up, so the trees and power lines that haven’t already fallen will be tested again. The high winds will last for a day. After that, they’re seeing the same pattern that kicked off the snow earlier this week. I wonder why I’m just not feeling the same snow anticipation I was five days ago.

Laura Keolanui Stark had to go roaming in search of internet to post this. Our internet is still down. She can be reached eventually at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.