HANDS ACROSS THE WATER

December 26, 2004. A day that will forever be a date remembered not as a day of celebration but the day of one of the greatest natural disasters of all time. Horrible images were telecast of such devastation that it was hard to really take it all in. Many of us thought we were watching a disaster movie instead of a real disaster at first. But it was all too true. A tsunami had devastated a vast part of southeast Asia – Indonesia, Thailand, and Sri Lanka in particular. These were real people. Real emotions. Real bodies. And so many missing people. So many homeless.

During the time following the tsunami, so many relief agencies were asking for donations. We felt we wanted to do something but what? At this time to we were also still missing our granddaughter after not spending the Holidays with her. In fact, I was pretty much in the depths of despair. After much thought we decided that sponsoring a child through World Vision would not only fill a need for a child but also fill a void in our lives.
I went to their web site to pick out a child. We decided to pick out a child in Sri Lanka. And we decided that we wanted to sponsor a girl. The first three selections were boys. The fourth selection was a little girl. Her birthdate was April 8, 2003 – the same date was our granddaughter, Kyra. It was a sign.

THE TORNADO

One of my hobbies, if you can call it that, is genealogy. The reason I hesitate to call it a hobby is that it seems to have been part of my life for as long as I can remember. It was first researched by my parents and then carried on by me. My dad had done a lot of the research on his side of the family. In fact, it was nearly complete due to his years of work, membership in the Germans from Russia Society and their very complete records.

With the advent of the internet I started to help mom research her side of the family. This chore was a little more difficult. Mom had many lines of her family that had been in the new world for several centuries, the earliest of whom, it was later discovered, since the 1600s. After my dad passed away in the summer of 1997, Mom and I started our research in earnest with help from my cousin Maureen. We planned a genealogical research/family trip to the Midwest for May of 1998.

We should have noticed the black cloud hanging over the trip right away. About two hours from home a water delivery truck lost its load very nearly wiping us out (I was driving Mom’s Honda Accord). However we did arrive in Walla Walla, Washington to pick up Maureen without further incident. The next morning we were on our way. We figured two, maybe three days and we’d be at our cousin Pat’s and then at Aunt Ruth’s farm in South Dakota, our first stop on our way to Iowa, then Minnesota, North Dakota, then back home by way of Montana.

About an hour from Spokane, a warning light came on. We decided to stop at the Honda dealer in Spokane just to check things out, certain it couldn’t be anything serious, after all this was a nearly new car with 5000 miles on it. Wrong. The transmission needed to be replaced. The good news? It was on warranty. The bad news? It would take several days to get a transmission from Portland and then get the car running again. OK, so we were on our way on Sunday morning, Mother’s Day it turned out. We made good time and got all the way from Spokane to Hardin, Montana. This was going to be great. We’d have time the next day to go to Mount Rushmore (Maureen had never been there) before going to Pat’s for dinner. Going through Wyoming the weather was fine. By the time we got to South Dakota the it was horrible. A driving rain all day. We turned off the exit to Mount Rushmore but it was soon very clear that we the visibility was so poor that we wouldn’t be able to see Mount Rushmore. The rest of I-90 from Rapid City to the little town of Plankinton wasn’t any better. Thankfully the there wasn’t much traffic. We arrived at my cousin in the middle of a horrific thunderstorm. I’m still being teased about the clap of thunder that was so loud I almost dove under the dining room table. We found out the next day that lightning hit a house a block away! We left there to drive out to the farm. One thing I love about the Midwest – you can see the lightning lighting up the night from all around in a big storm like this. A big deal coming from the Puget Sound area where we rarely get thunderstorms, much to my chagrin. Our five-day visit at the farm was uneventful weather-wise.

Then it was time for us to travel on to Iowa where we were going to do visit the cemetery where my great-grandfather is buried and also do some genealogical research in the towns of Algona and Bancroft. We stopped at another cousin’s for lunch and arrived at Algona to spend the night. We got up early to the news that Frank Sinatra had died. But we went on to the historical society in Algona and found out where our ancestors had lived and were on our way north to the little town of Bancroft where my grandmother was born. We had the radio on and were listening to news about tornado warnings or some such thing. This was foreign to us from the Pacific Northwest and we weren’t sure what it all meant. They were giving warnings for different counties. We knew what county we were driving in (we had been doing genealogical research, after all) but we didn’t know the names of surrounding counties so where the storm was going to or had been meant nothing to us.

It wasn’t until we met up with a construction crew at the road where we going to be turning off to the old farm where my grandmother was born that we knew something was up. They suggested we drive the three miles into town for shelter until the storm blew over. We figured he knew best even though there was little evidence of a storm brewing about at this time. We took shelter at a small café with a few dozen others where we had a cup of coffee. It did get a little bit windy during this time but quickly subsided and it seemed safe to leave. As it was nearly 1:00 and the library opened at 1:00 we decided to wait and go to the library before going out to the cemetery and the old homestead.

We went to the library where we quickly learned that the cemetery records were located at the furniture store down the street. Mom and Maureen left me at the library to go through microfilm of old newspapers while they walked the block down to find some information about the cemetery.

Soon I was so absorbed in reading microfilm that I paid no mind to the weather outside which was quickly changing for the worst. The husband of one of the librarians stepped in and told her to take her car home and put it under the cover to protect if from the expected hail, but I paid it no mind. I’d seen hail before and silently scoffed at the idea that you actually would have to put a car under cover to protect it. I kept finding information about the Inman and Neelings families from the late 1800s, printing things off and finding more. There’s nothing like an excited genealogy researcher finding helpful information! My excitement was pretty short-lived. One of the librarians soon came over and told me they were going to close down the library and I needed to seek cover underground as her husband, a tornado spotter, had called and a tornado had been spotted nearby and the library didn’t have a basement. They did say I could go to the Catholic church so I quickly called over to the furniture store. I was told to come over there as they had a basement. I quickly gathered my things and ran out to the car. By that time it was so windy the rain was hitting horizontally. That less-than-one-block drive was one of the longest of my life. I parked out front and ran into the store where the owner, his son, Mom and Maureen were casually (almost too casually in my opinion) looking at cemetery records as the sky was getting darker and darker. It was 2:30 in the afternoon and as black as night.

Then the lights went out. Still no one got too excited, they just got out their flashlights. I think we were more excited to find that not only was my great-grandfather buried at the local cemetery, but his parents were buried there as well!! And now we had his mother’s name. Our glee was short-lived.

Then came the sound of sirens. Tornado sirens. The store owner and his son later told us it was the first time they ever remember hearing them. The son peaked out the door – he could hardly hold it open—before ushering us down rickety old stairs into a dank, dark, musty, basement. This basement was so old it had dirt walls! Still I think I was more afraid of bugs and spiders than I was of a tornado. Fortunately we didn’t have to stay down there very long. Obviously our plans for the day were postponed. Our trip to the cemetery would have to wait for the next day. We figured even though the day hadn’t turned out as planned, it certainly made for an interesting story to be told later. Oh, and the tornado? For all the excitement, the wind, the darkness, I would have expected an F4 at least. However, it barely registered on the Fujita Scale. Little damage was done. But we were still glad we weren’t caught out in the middle of the cemetery when it struck.

TIME AMONG THE REALLY RICH

I am afraid of water. There. I’ve said it. Much of this has to do with the fact that at age 10, while taking swimming lessons I was pushed off the dock into water over my head and almost drowned. Ever since then I have been uncomfortable swimming in open water over my head—in a lake or in the ocean.

So what in the world was I doing in November of 1999 on a SCUBA diving vacation? Mainly it was because my husband is an avid SCUBA diver and this was his idea. He had booked this trip without my consent, I might add. He naturally thought a trip halfway around the world to Fiji would be the perfect vacation. I do admit to being a snorkeling fanatic. On our many trips to Hawaii, you can hardly get me out of the warm, crystal-clear water (but I do not go over my head—the one time I did I had to have a lifeline to hold on to). There I was the only non-SCUBA diver along with nearly two dozen divers, each paying several thousand dollars for the privilege of diving some of the most pristine dive sites in the world.

Happily I found that there was culture to be had as well. A half-an-hour’s boat trip away from the island where our resort was located was the island of Ovalau and on the opposite site of the island is the town of Levuka, the site of the colonial capital of Fiji. John and I and four others from the group took a day trip to this lovely little village. After a bumpy boat ride, and a bumpier “taxi” ride (the taxi was a pickup truck with benches in the back) we arrived in Levuka. There we were treated to a walking tour of the town. While in town we bought candy to give to the children we had met upon our arrival on the island. We were aware they didn’t get many visitors and that this would be a real treat for them. We bought several sacks full of candy, knowing the children would probably be fighting for it. But we were wrong. More polite children we had never seen. They all stood around so patiently, all waiting for their turn. Not one child yelled, “He got more than I did!” or “I want more!” Then a few of the boys saw me taking pictures with my digital camera. They had never seen one before. I showed them their image and then they really hammed it up! We were all laughing so hard at their antics. A few of the smaller children had noticed I was collecting shells and started helping me find some of the loveliest shells I have ever seen. Those shells are still some of the most precious souvenirs I have from any trip I have ever taken.

I will never forget the people of Fiji. They were not rich in the way we think of people being rich. But they didn’t know they were poor.

HOME ON THE RANGE

Despite my affinity for the Pacific Northwest where I’ve lived most of my life, I admit to a love for the Great Plains where my parents were born and raised. This is probably because of those month-long trips the family took every summer while I was growing up. We’d wake at sunrise, drive to just over the Montana border the first day, singing songs or playing highway bingo or the license game on the way to spend the time. We usually spent a night in eastern Montana and then arrived at Grandma and Grandpa Weatherly’s farm (my Mom’s parents -- they homesteaded in the early 1900s) the next afternoon. Grandpa and Grandpa finally got electricity when I was very young but they never did have running water so we went from the modern conveniences of the late 1950s/early 1960s to living life like Laura Ingalls from my favorite Little House on the Prairie books. We used the outhouse, carried water from a well/windmill, and took baths in large metal tubs in the backyard. We helped Grandpa milk cows (well, we thought we were helping) and rode the one horse he had left (Ranger) bareback to visit friends on neighboring farms. We would go visit other friends and relatives in the immediate area before leaving for South Dakota to spend time with my Aunt Ruth and Uncle Albert at their farm where we had more modern conveniences. Despite those modern conveniences when I yearn for those wide open spaces, it’s the farm of my grandparents I wish for the most. After Grandma and Grandpa sold the farm and came out to Washington to live we didn’t go back to the Dakotas. So, in 1996 when the cousins from my Dad’s side of the family gathered for a reunion in nearby Carson, I knew the first thing I wanted to do. My parents and 15-year-old daughter had made the trip together. Mom and Dad wanted to rest at the motel in Carson, but I had one thing on my mind and one thing only – Grandpa and Grandma’s farm. But could I find it? The house had burned down over 30 years previously. Would I remember the old landmarks? After all I had been a pre-teen the last time I had been there. But I remembered the old directions, “2-1/2 miles south, 2-1/2 miles east” and off I went. The dirt roads were rutted and lined by abandoned houses and farms. The nearest town was all but a ghost town – the only business still open being a bar. The directions were from the middle of town and I looked at the odometer and went south. In 2.5 miles was an even more rutted road to the left. I took it. Nothing could stop me from my mission. Soon in the distance I could see a rounded hill – something stirred deep in my memory. The hill in front of Grandma and Grandpa’s house!! There it was. Soon I took another left and could make out what was left of the trees grandpa planted as a wind screen near the house. Then the steps – all that was left of the simple clapboard home Grandpa had built after first living in a sod house. But there was more –rusted farm equipment Grandpa had used littered the farm. I opened the window and heard a meadowlark sing. I had come home.

WHERE I LIVE NOW

I am fortunate enough to live surrounded by beauty: The Strait of Juan de Fuca to the north (the body of water separating us from Vancouver Island, Canada), Puget Sound to the east, and the Olympic Mountains to the southwest. Living in the city limits of a small waterfront town we are close to the conveniences yet within a mile in three separate directions from saltwater. On a clear day one can see from Mount Baker to Mount Rainier in the Cascade Range. To top all that off, we have some of the most beautiful Victorian architecture to be found on the west coast and the entire uptown district and the downtown area on Water street have been placed on the National Historic Register. If that weren’t enough, Port Townsend is one of the cities in what is called the “rain shadow” where we average only 16” of rain per year. It rarely gets below freezing or above 80 degrees. And humidity? What humidity? Bugs and mosquitoes? We have some, but they’re not so much of a nuisance that we can’t enjoy ourselves outside on warm summer evenings. They’re more of a problem up in the mountains than down here at sea level. I’ve lived in the Puget Sound area since I was seven years old and have seen a lot of changes in that time, particularly in the Seattle/Tacoma area but up here it’s like going back in time. The pace is slower and people laugh about being on “Port Townsend Time”. I have been fortunate enough to have traveled to many different places in the USA and even crossing the equator and the international dateline as well as being at Greenwich mean time, and although I have found many places of great beauty, many friendly people, and many places I’d like to return to, none of them can hold a candle to the place we’ve chosen as our home now – Port Townsend.