Procession of the Species

Photo by Steven M. Herppich, copyright The Olympian

I love this place.

I especially loved it yesterday, when I watched my first Procession of the Species.

The Procession of the Species is held in OlyWa every April, typically (though not this year) on Earth Day. In a nutshell: It is a parade to celebrate the natural world. Sound a little hippie-ish? Well, it is (this is OlyWa, after all) -- and it isn't.

All of OlyWa is invited to participate in the Procession, and to my surprise, the entire community comes out for this event -- not just the local hippies. Everybody, young and old, takes part. Under the theme of "the natural word," people dress up as floral and fauna (or something representative of floral and fauna). Their costumes, most of which are handmade, are amazingly beautiful and clever. There were lions, wolves, fish, turtles, spiders, butterflies, trees, cacti, flowers, flamingos -- the list goes on and on.

The participants march in one of four groups: Earth, Air, Fire and Water. At the head of each group is a corp of drummers and other musicians, along with standard-bearers carrying giant batiked windsocks and banners.

There were hundreds of people in the parade, and hundreds of people lining the streets to watch the parade. No politicians handing out stickers, no firetrucks, no Shriners in tiny cars, no floats, even. Just people in costumes or hand-built contraptions, dancing, playing instruments and having a dandy time.

It was like one giant, unprententious piece of performance art. People work on their costumes and batik banner for weeks -- sometimes months -- in a public studio right down the street from our house. They take it seriously. Last weekend, we drove past a group of people "practicing" for the parade in the street. They were drumming and dancing, getting their routine down pat.

SMH shot the Procession, and I accompanied him as the "lens assistant." I almost backed out because it was cold, grey and rainy. But, I braved the elements and by the time we got to the staging area, the sky was clearing and the sun was beginning to shine. And by the time the parade started, the sun was bursting through blue skies, making the colors glow.

Photo by Steven M. Herppich, copyright The Olympian

There was really something magical about this event. The adults seemed to love it as much as the kids (maybe more), and everybody was in the best of spirits.

Check out The Olympian for more pics.

Cartoon coworkers

This is my last week at the Visitor and Convention Bureau. Sniff, sniff. It has been a great job. I love my boss, and I wish I could fold her up, stick her in my pocket and take her with me to my future jobs. (She is so tiny, I could almost do that. Slender-tiny, not midget-tiny.)

I am going to miss a lot about this job. But you know what I'll miss most? Two coworkers who have unknowingly entertained me on a daily basis. Until a few weeks ago, their identities were a mystery to me. They were nothing but disembodied voices.

These voices belong to two ladies who work on the other side of my cubicle. Together they run the operation of a big summer festival in town.

My "relationship" with the women began one morning, when I was the first person to arrive in the office -- or so I thought, until I flipped on the lightswitch. In doing so, I accidentally hit the wrong switch and turned off one row of lights. From the other side of the office, a gravelly voice erupted: "HEY WAIT A MINUTE! TURN THAT ON!"

Not only was I startled and embarrassed by this outburst (being a new employee), I was extremely alarmed by the voice, which sounded like it was the product of several thousand cartons of cigarettes. I continued to hear this voice everyday, engaged in abrasive phone conversations, office banter, etc. I grew to fear that gravelly, disembodied voice.

A few weeks after the lightswitch incident, a new voice came on the scene. This one was even more gravelly, with mannerisms just as abrasive. But my fear turned to a peculiar fondness as I came to look forward to daily conversations like this (for the full effect, must be spoken outloud, in a deep, hoarse voice):

"Hey Jan, you know what time it is?"
"No, what time?"
"PUFF TIME!"
"Let's go!"

Seems I had been working next to Marge Simpson's twin sisters for well over a month. I became convinced that if I peeked over the cubicle wall, I'd see two cartoon characters, Patty and Selma Bouvier, smoking, side by side.

It's only been in the past few weeks that I've actually seen the bodies that match the voices. They are not cartoon characters at all. But one of them does bear a striking resemblance to a certain boss I once had at the CAM, who was a little cartoonish herself. (Incidentally, she was not small enough to fit in my pocket.)

Easter in the Pacific NW

SMH spent last Saturday shooting some Easter goings-on in the area. From his photos, I learned two things:

In OlyWa, the Easter Bunny is much more frightening, and he arrives by parachute. (Did this rabbit step out of my nightmares? If I were a kid, I'd be heading for the hills.)

Most kids collect eggs. In OlyWa, children fill their Easter baskets with tiny little babies holding bottles.

We spent Easter in beautiful, beautiful (and sunny, sunny) Port Townsend. After spending a ridiculous amount of time looking for a restaurant, we settled on the The Landfall. Mmm-mmm, right choice! SMH has a keen sense - he always spots the good places. My baked blueberry French toast was superb (though it was no J+P brunch item, I'm afraid).

Port Townsend is filled with lovely Victorian homes. One particularly remarkable B+B was for sale for $1.7 million. I would really, really like to own this B+B. I am going to have to get the money job. Oh, that's right, I work in non-profit. I am going to have to win the lottery.

Port Townsend, we decided, is a flawless combination of Traverse City and Mackinac Island (because, in the end, it all comes back to the Midwest, doesn't it?). Wonderful old architecture, quaint shops, vibrant main street, and right on the water. It was a great place to spend our Easter afternoon.

Easter memories, good and bad

For the past week, I have been on a mission: To find the best Easter Brunch in OlyWa. After the first couple days on the case, I revised the mission a bit: To find an Easter Brunch in OlyWa.

Actually, they do exist here. I've gotten a couple leads, one of which we'll choose today. The problem, you see, stems from my aunt and uncle, who every year create an Easter Brunch that is simply unbeatable. They have made it impossible to find a passable brunch by setting the bar much too high.

So, this year, we'll be missing their annual culinary masterpiece: honey-glazed ham (for years, this was the only day I ate ham), cheesy potatoes, asparagus, spinach-and-feta quiche, raspberry(?)-and-cream-cheese jello mold, deviled eggs, rolls and pineapple muffins. Then, to finish the meal: Graeter's ice cream and Bonbonerie cookies. Then, after pure, shameless gluttony, everyone retires to the beautiful parlor (for conversation about 700WLW, the Archdiocese of Cincinnati and the latest funerals). Every year, my aunt offers me leftovers, and every year, I greedily accept. Not this year. I weep for our epicurean loss.

Easter evokes a string of childhood memories, the strongest of which are tied to my grandmother (my dad's mother). Why? First, my grandma died eleven years ago in April, right before Easter; this was the only time I have ever witnessed a person literally take their last breath, so it made an impact. Second, when we were kids, my grandparents always hosted an Easter Egg Hunt for all the grandchildren in their backyard. The coveted grand prize, hidden in a gold L'eggs egg, was a 50-cent piece. That amount of money blew our little minds. And third, my grandma always celebrated Easter by making an elaborate lamb cake.

This lamb cake was her magnum opus. It was a three-dimensional, lamb in-the-round, complete with white coconut for its white fleece. I can imagine the cake perfectly, sitting on my grandparents' buffet, right below the huge, creepy painting of the Last Supper (which was there for my careful study year-round, not just for the Easter season).

One might think that the memories of this lamb cake would be charming - the stuff of warm holiday sentiment. Unfortunately, the lamb-cake memories are a bit tainted.

I always felt a certain revulsion about my grandparents' food. I am not being mean-spirited when I say this. Aside from the fact that the snacks they fished out of the pantry were always stale, there are two experiences that spawned this revulsion:

1) One time, when I was about five years old, I witnessed my grandmother stuff a turkey. It was the most vile thing I had ever seen, and I remember self-consciously suppressing a gag. I couldn't believe she was sticking her hand in the turkey. And, worse, I couldn't believe the horrible, wet, squishing that sound this act seemed to generate. Today, I'll try almost anything in the kitchen, but you will never catch me stuffing a bird.

2) Another time, my sister and I snuck into a bag of chocolate at my grandma's house. All the adults were in the living room, probably watching Lawrence Welk, giving us the perfect opportunity to snoop around the office. We hit the jackpot: A brown paper bag filled with Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and Rolos. No sooner had we made the discovery than we began quietly tearing into the wrappers and biting into the chocolate. The moment that followed is seared into my memory forever. Before biting down, I was stopped short by the sight of little white worms poking through the chocolate. My sister was not so lucky. She had already bit into -- and ingested -- the worm-riddled Rolos. I can't even bring myself to write anymore about it.

Now, back to the lamb cake. I have a clear memory of eating the cake and thinking it tasted alarmingly like soap. I even thought to myself, Does Grandma scrape little bits of soap off the bar and think it will pass for coconut? (She was senile for most of the years I remember her.) But to this day, I am not sure if this is an actual memory or one that I conjured up in response to my previous experiences. If that's the case, that poor lamb cake has gotten a bad rap.

On this note, I'll turn my thoughts back to more pleasant Easter memories: Brunch at J+P's, jellybeans, Papas eggs and chocolate bunnies. Just no worms with my chocolate, thanks.

The faith of a child

Perhaps our distance from home has made me a little sentimental. Or maybe it's the Easter holiday -- holidays always rattle my cage of memories. Whatever the reason, I've been experiencing an overload of childhood flashbacks lately.

I was thinking about Good Friday yesterday, and remembered this incident:

When I was a fourth-grader at St. Clare School, the students were given a special task. Each grade had to select one student to accompany the parish priest as he made the Stations of the Cross. (I associate this incident with Good Friday, but come to think of it, we were usually off school on Good Friday -- so this must have been just a general Lenten activity.)

I was selected to be my class's representative, having been voted by the students as "The Most Holy." I swear to God, it's true. Of course, in fourth grade, I wouldn't have sworn to God, on account of my holiness. My classmates' decision was not unwarranted; I collected holy cards, I knew all the decades of the rosary, I made the St. Anthony Novena with my parents every year, and I seriously considered "nun" as a career option. My faith was strong.

But the vote put me in awkward position. Because I was terribly shy, I was nervous about having to stand before the entire school. Also, I came to discover that "Most Holy" was a dubious honor, as it became grounds for merciless teasing at the hands of one Matthew Reynolds. (Matthew, who made my life miserable in grade school, died when we were 18. At his funeral, our friend Pete revealed a truth that every young tormented girl should know: He only teases you because he likes you.)

To make matters worse, the teachers had warned us countless times about the priest, who was serving as a temporary fill-in until they could secure the "real" parish priest. "Father is stern and strict. He does not fool around. One time at an all-school Mass, he made a little joke during the homily, and one of the students laughed too long -- and he YELLED at the student in FRONT OF THE WHOLE SCHOOL. So mind yourself around him." This sent me spiraling into unbridled anxiety, and forced me to seriously consider my behaviour. How was I to act? Surely, Father wouldn't make any jokes during the stations, so I wouldn't have to worry about laughing...right?, I thought. Was I to act ultra-serious? Ultra-pious? How would I act appropriately, and yet not bring teasing upon myself?

By the time the day of the Stations rolled around, I was a nervous wreck.

I don't remember much except having a severe stomachache from nerves. And standing at each Station, getting increasingly tired, and shifting my weight from one leg to the other. And staring only at the priest, so as to avoid eye contact with anybody else.

I thought I got through the ordeal sucessfully. But that night, my sister laid into me: "I can't believe you. You were up there, with your hand on your hip and then your arms crossed, acting like you were too cool for the Stations of the Cross. It was like you didn't even care. You didn't deserve to be chosen."

I was horrified. I had not intended to act like that, but maybe I had put off an air of disaffection. It's funny now to think about how much weight I gave my sister's opinion. She was in fifth grade at the time, which means that she was well into the nascence of her hellion stage (which would last until about age 20). After reprimanding me, she probably went off for a smoke with her friends.

I'm sure I prayed especially hard for forgiveness as I made my way up the steps of Immaculata that year.

A few years later, I lost my "Most Holy" status when I developed new interests: teenage angst and Camel cigarettes. At that point, Matthew Reynolds wasn't teasing me as much. He too had developed other interests, like stealing cars. And Camels, too.

Today, I heard a story on the radio that included the comment: "It would be wonderful to go back and have the faith you had as a child." Clearly, this person didn't suffer from faith-inflicted stomachaches when he was growing up.

House hiatus over

After a couple weeks without a computer, we are finally back online. I feel like a junkie getting her long-awaited fix.

Time has flown--it's hard to believe that it's been two weeks since we moved. We are slowly getting settled in. The house is still littered with boxes yet to be unpacked, but we are making progress. The two most important rooms--the kitchen and the bathroom--are in good shape, having been scrubbed from top to bottom.

The biggest drama of our move has been the "oil tank episode." Luckily, it's not nearly as dramatic as it could've been--I should say, not nearly as dramatic as our recent luck with moving would indicate--but dramatic enough. A huge, old oil tank, which was buried deep in our side yard, was removed as we were completing the move. Removal required all kinds of heavy machinery, like diggers and backhoes, which completely destroyed our front lawn (and our neighbor's side lawn) as well as our front walkway. But the walkway was replaced Friday, and the lawn will be reseeded this week...so, aside from the very muddy lawn, we should be in good shape.

Yesterday, our next-door neighbor came over to introduce herself, bearing a bottle of wine. This gesture was incredibly kind, considering the havoc we have wreaked upon her yard. And last week, we met some other neighbors--hippies who live behind us. Now, when you live in OlyWa, the fact that your neighbors are hippies is not even worth observing. Saying that you live next to a hippie here is like saying that you live next to a Catholic in Vatican City. They're a dime a dozen.

What caught our attention about these hippie neighbors is the fact that there seems to be some kind of hippie commune behind us. No, no, not like a Jonestown compound. It's just a little house where a bunch of earth mamas and papas live. In fact, we never would have even noticed, had we not met several of them in one day.

A few days after we moved in, another one of the hippie fellas introduced himself to SMH and told him that Rose, the previous owner of the house, had let them come and harvest the fruit trees in the yard and he hoped we would do the same. Ummmm, hmmmm, wellll...

Yes, we do have quite a few fruit trees in the backyard, and hey, I'm not selfish. I'm willing to share the fruit...but do I really want people "harvesting" our fruit? Not sure. On top of that, the house has a hot tub built into the deck, and I can't help it but have nightmarish visions of the hippies treating themselves to a nice hot "bath" after a day of harvesting under the sun. Eeek.

The neighbors on either side told us that they have seen coyotes in our yard. (Yes, we live in a relatively urban area, despite the images that "fruit trees" and "coyotes" may conjure up.) Oh, and deer, too, who apparently like to take their own share of the harvest from our trees. So, between the coyotes, the deer and the hippies, I think there are some wild times ahead in our backyard.

Lots more to tell, but so many e-mails to get through...two weeks without Internet is a long time!