Category Archives: Homeownership

Homeownership, Social comment

Why Halloween matters

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We are past Halloween, but I have something to say about it.

Halloween matters. In my opinion, it is very important that you send or take your children around your neighborhood, ring doorbells, have them interact with people you perhaps do not know. If you are home, it is very important that you leave your lights on, put out at least an electric pumpkin, and prepare to hand out candy to little clutches of costumed kids. Exceptions exist, of course, where health issues exist, but those are few. If you think there is nothing at stake, you have not thought it through.

It matters for this reason. Halloween represents the reaffirmation of our social trust.

Our social trust says, in one American dialect that puts the matter well, that we are down for our ‘hood. It says we care for our neighbors, and that in a pinch, we would not slam our doors on them. There was a Civil War general who explained his choice of side in roughly these terms: ‘I’m for my country. Then I’m for my state. Then I’m for my town. Comes down to it, I’m for my side of the street.’

Our social trust has been damaged by fear, fed to us by those who prefer to see us cower. When you bring your children to your neighbors’ homes in costumes, you defy that fear. When your neighbors accept that their evening will be disrupted (or energized) once a year by groups of children performing a social ritual, coming onto their property and calling unannounced, they defy that fear. When we all do this, we all flip the bird at those who seek to divide us.

Religion does not play into it. Sending your kids around for candy, or handing it out, will do nothing to endorse any religion. Look around society, if you doubt me, and tell me what percentage of Halloween activity appears religious. You will have to hunt for it. You might find absolutely none. Those for whom it is in fact religious are nowhere near what you are doing on October 31. Ducking it on religious grounds is chickenshit. Chicken shit is very gross. You do not want to be that.

Trunk-or-treat, the bubblewrap solution, is no solution. It does not bring your children into positive contact with your neighbors at their homes. It sucks out the last bit of adventure. It is the fearful solution. It is a surrender. If you are doing that, might as well formally give up, because you have given up in spirit.

When you bring your children to my property in costumes, have them ring my doorbell, and trick or treat me, you tell me that you trust me to be a kindly, decent human being who will treat your young well. You inspire me to prove that true. As you and I exchange smiles while the kids return to you, you no longer see me as some stranger. If you know nothing else about me, you now know that when your children came to my door, I was fun, appropriate and participatory. That’s progress. That’s the village you have been told it takes to raise a child.

If your children’s safety is your greatest concern, this can offer reassurance and comfort. Ask yourself how easy it would be for harm to befall your child in an area surrounded by decent people who are happy to take their turns doing for kids as was done for them in their youth, and who do not reject your child even when it’s simple for them to do so? It would be rather difficult for them to come to harm, would it not? What if something did happen, at some other time? Where would the child go for aid? To a random home, or to a home that at least participated in this annual ritual? You know the answer. It’s not about candy. It is about participation and community. It is about giving the people around you credit for not being evil, unless/until they indicate otherwise.

Every year, I look forward to Halloween, and hope for good weather. I put out my electric pumpkin (this requires an extension cord about the distance of a respectable football punt), I load up on good candy, and I hope devoutly that the kids will come and collect it all. The last thing in the world I need is to eat leftover candy. When the doorbell rings, I make haste to don my monster mask and rush to the door. I open the door. “Trick or treat!” say the children. “BLLLUUUUEEEEEEGGGGGH!” I answer, toning it down a tad bit if they are all really little. I keep making the same noise as I distribute liberal handfuls of Butterfingers and Reese’s cups, though awareness of my cousin’s allergies has made me consider choosing other candies. The kids nearly always love it. They say whatever they say, sometimes thanking me, as I continue my inarticulate growls. I wave to the parent and growl at her. I do not get many trick-or-treaters, but those I do get…we have fun together.

If the kids know nothing else of the people who live at my house, they know there is someone there who participates and has fun with them. The social trust is reinforced. I’m not afraid they will harm my property. They are not afraid I will harm their health. We live near each other, and we are safer. It’s not just them. What if one of their friends was proposing vandalizing me? Think five years ahead: “No way. That guy is all right. At Halloween, he’s totally cool. No M-80 in his mailbox, or I will beat your ass.” I benefit as well.

As long as my doorbell rings at least once each Halloween, wherever I live and for as long as I live, I will put out the pumpkin, don the mask, and dish out good candy. I recently read a sanctimonious and hackneyed piece from Robert Reich that parroted the old peer pressure to vote. It lowered my opinion of his intellect, because it presented nothing new. It was simply peer-pressure shaming, with no originality. It was not designed to appeal to a thinker. All it did was make me consider Reich a hack.

Tell you what, Robert Reich. I do vote. Whether I cast a ballot or not is no indication of whether I vote. I vote by giving out candy to kids. I vote by knowing my neighbors, and resolving issues with them by conversation and compromise rather than lawyers and whining. I vote by making sure that my neighbors know that I will not harm them, that I will watch over them, and that if the chips are down, they can trust and come to me. I vote against fear. I refuse to live in fear. I will promote a living region without fear. You and your political faction’s promises are unimportant by comparison.

When you participate in Halloween, this unofficial but longstanding tradition, you do a good thing, whether you are a parent, child, or homeowner. It matters more than people imagine.

Homeownership

Flytember in Flydaho

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If you ever read William Golding’s famous novelized Survivor variant, and yearned to be the lord or lady of the common housefly, now is the time and here is your place.

For some reason, every September, all the fly eggs in Boise hatch, and they are on everything. There is almost nothing you can do to keep them out of the house. They harass animals without mercy. Are you going to a fast food restaurant where the door necessarily gets opened hundreds of times a day, and there’s a drive-through window? Just bring your own fly swatter.

We went through this last year. As luck would have it, it began just as I arrived. I wanted anti-aircraft cannon. I kept a fly swatter right by my recliner. I spent hours hunting down the little bastards.

Since I have a fundamental hatred of flies, this is not a fun time for me. This year I bought an electric flyswatter; looks like a mini tennis racket. I soon realized why not everyone owns one of these: it’s hard and heavy, thus you cannot swing it anywhere that you might break something (window, TV, lamp, mirror). If you are good enough to swing it through the air and nail them, you will kill them, which you could have done anyway with a badminton racket covered in screening or cheesecloth, or even a small towel doubled up. I dislike them enough that I am finding excuses to use the electric one on them.

If we were staying, and I would be anticipating another autumn of this fly-ridden situation, I would be gearing up and experimenting with the fine art of fly slaying. As it is, I’m just hoping that September in Portland will be less disgusting.

In the meantime, I wish I had a small army of frogs.

Homeownership

On patrol with my weed killer tank

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I did something dumb related to property maintenance. This is nothing new.

This is not as dumb as some of the things I have done, most of which have related to irrigation. Simply put, I made too much weed killer. I have a 4-gallon backpack spray tank, and earlier this summer, I made a full batch. The thing is a bastard; difficult to get into, nozzle tends to clog just as you get all rigged up, feels cold on your back so you can’t help wondering if it’s leaking toxic chemicals down your spine.

What was I thinking? I didn’t need four gallons of weed killer even then. Now it was almost September, and I didn’t need three gallons now. But what do you do?

You can’t just dump it out in the street. Good lord.

You can’t throw it into the dumpster. That’s unconscionable.

You can, I suppose, figure out where is the waste dump around here–information you otherwise would never have needed to mess with–and then probably learn that there are a whole bunch of requirements and you’ll have to come back. Well-deserved for bad planning? Sure. Are you going to do that, if you have a better option? Not so much.

So you plan to use it. Problem: on what? There is enough in this tank to kill your whole yard about eight times over. Might be enough to kill a tree. Every weed on the perimeter, you will slay. Okay, that used up an eighth of it. What’s next?

I donated it to the neighborhood.

Of course, my spray tank pump was on the fritz, and I had to spend a fussy half hour fixing it first. After, of course, getting rigged up in the thing. But I won that round, and went to work.

After assuring that every pertinent weed on my property had been well and truly hosed down, I went on weed patrol. I checked with my neighbors: any weeds you want killed? Here I had hope, because I have neighbors who rent, who would lose a lawn maintenance contest with a platoon of gophers, and who were sure to have a back yard full of enormous weeds. “Wow! Thank you!” No problem, kids. But I still had half a tank. Argh.

Then I remembered all the times I had gone for walks along my street, and all the times I had thought to myself: this is what you get in return for minimal property taxes. All these weeds have been bursting out of the sidewalks and pavement all summer. The city is obviously not going to do a damn thing about them; this is Idaho. I suppose the homeowners are probably supposed to, but it’s clear that they will not, and equally clear the city will not make them. Of course, it is just as clear that if I do it myself, I might slightly improve the look of my immediate neighborhood at selling time, and absolutely no one will care so long as I don’t hit a yard.

Out went Weed Patrolman. If it looked weedish, and wasn’t on private property, it got a hosing. If anyone noticed me, they probably either thought I was OCD or nuts, but no police showed up. And at least this way, the stuff got used for its intended purpose.

If I had any guts, I’d send the City of Boise an invoice for labor and materials.

With my luck, they’d send a SWAT team out in an armored car. Because, you know, the government was basically just giving them away.

Homeownership, Married life

Painful lessons, which cost me a grotesque sum to learn, about selling a home

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It’s bad enough to undertake a major project, and then learn–too late to remedy matters–that you did it all wrong. If you didn’t take away any lessons from the experience, it was all for nothing. But if you learned anything, why not share?

Okay. Time for the after-action report.

My wife and I recently sold a home in Kennewick, Washington. We got far less for it than we had expected. It was a painful, miserable experience I wouldn’t recommend to anyone I liked. We did a lot of things wrong, assumed things that weren’t correct, avoided remedies we could have obtained. This was a hot mess, costly and painful. Was it all our fault? No–but blaming others for one’s own bad decisions is a losing game. I include bad trust decisions in that.

Mistake #1: selling a vacant home.

Why it’s a mistake: you will still have to pay the utilities and all the other maintenance costs. Buyers will like it less, so it will be harder to sell, and you will get less money for it when you do. Once they figure out that they won’t get caught, kids will vandalize it. The police won’t protect it, as protection is a non-revenue activity, and they are too busy raising money through traffic tickets. It will cost double to insure it, the insurance will be less comprehensive, and if you think you can get away with just not telling the insurance company it’s vacant, you’d better rethink that misguided notion. You must pay to have it mowed, watered, weeded. It will be an open cash hemorrhage seeping arterial money all year round (guess how we gained perspective on that).

Better: either stay in it until it goes into contract, hire a home caretaker service, or even let your nephew live there rent-free. Work out whatever you must in order to make sure it isn’t vacant, so that someone at least mows the lawn, notices sprinkler damage, spots pipe leaks, flushes the toilets, and runs the water. That way, if a contractor turns off your heat in winter, and doesn’t turn it back on again, someone will notice, and that someone probably will not be a buyer’s real estate agent.

Mistake #2: selling a home from out of town.

Why it’s a mistake: because you are out of sight to a listing realtor, you are out of mind, and unless it’s a huge property with a massive commission, you may be irrelevant to his world. The closing process will be more cumbersome due to the distance. You will have to pay someone else to perform minor repairs that would be within your capacity if you were present. And if you decide to spruce something up to improve the appeal, you will not be there to supervise the contractors’ work. Since you are out of mind to your realtor, he will not check on their work. That’s their cue to do a shabby job, leave a mess, overcharge you, and when you find out, try to blame someone else. They won’t even understand how you could object to that. It’s just what is done.

Oh, and if you have to Fed Ex the closing documents, do check the tracking number on the tag vs. the register slip that you get at a Fed Ex Office with a tracking number on it. Otherwise, for example, you may see to your horror the next day that your closing documents evidently went to Fort Worth, Texas rather than Kennewick, Washington. You will be relieved when the title company informs you that they actually got the right documents, but I don’t recommend those fifteen minutes of tachycardia to anyone. This would not have happened if we had not tried to sell a home from out of town.

Better: don’t leave town until you’ve got the proceeds. That way, none of the above is a problem.

Obviously, the combination of selling a vacant home from out of town is worse than the sum of those two miserable parts. Brilliant, weren’t we?

Mistake #3: hoping to sell it without having to repaint the crazy cat lady wall colors and replace the scuzzy-looking carpet.

Why it’s a mistake: because people are stupid. People take one look at the weird colors, or grungy carpet, and their impression of the property is formed. They don’t say: $3000 and that’s fixed. I’ll offer that much less. I figured this out watching those idiotic house hunter shows, in which someone takes one step inside, doesn’t like the carpet or the paint job, and forms a negative impression. The buyer doesn’t care that you already priced in that $3000–she will price it in again.

Better: spruce it up yourself before you list it. If you can do it yourself, great; you won’t have to deal with contractors. But if you can’t do it yourself, you can at least keep an eye on the contractors, and they will grudgingly do it right because otherwise, you can prove that they did not.

Mistake #4: believing assurances that a realtor will keep an eye on your property, even if he claims to have a relative who does that.

Why it’s a mistake: because the realtor won’t. That’s just something they say to make you feel better, because you can’t verify it. And if you actually fall for it, the realtor now knows that you are a moron: someone too dumb to know the difference between truth and fiction, good service and bad. An easy mark, an unquestioning client, a supreme fool. There is now no need for the realtor to pay your listing any attention whatsoever; if it sells itself, wonderful, if not, it’ll sit there and fall apart. Not his problem.

Better: make your own arrangements to see that the property remains in good condition. Keep living there, or get someone else to do so. Rely on your agent for nothing related to the matter.

Mistake #5: listing it too high at start. While I believe that a lot of people do this, hoping someone will fall in love with it, people’s love levels are limited by a sense of good value.

Why it’s a mistake: because your best chance to sell it is probably when it just hits the market, and everyone is interested in showing it (and it’s not stale on the market). If it’s too spendy at that time, you miss that timeframe and can never get it back.

Better: spruce it up, list it reasonably at the outset, and hope for the sale to come from that early attention.

Mistake #6: choosing a listing agent because he was the protégé of one you knew and respected.

Why it’s a mistake: because it’s quite possible for a terrible agent to make a pretty fair living off a retired agent’s old customer base. You can’t assume that the standards were passed down. And just because someone is a good buyer’s agent does not mean he will be a good listing agent.

Better: interview at least three agents. Do so at the property. If possible, choose your candidates by referrals, but have them over. Ask them what they would list it for. Ask them how they would market it. Ask them point blank if there is anything about the property that would make it a low priority for them to sell, and do so in such a way as to invite candor without recrimination. You don’t want an agent who, deep down, doesn’t even want the listing.

Mistake #7: adhering to a listing agreement with a failed agent.

Why it’s a mistake: because you can often act to rescind a listing agreement prior to its expiration. Never continue to deal with an agent who is not bothering, or whom you have come to despise, or whom you suspect has deceived you. In what universe should a lousy agent collect a big commission after an extended period of frustration, during which you hated him a little more every day of your life?

Better: read the agreement carefully, call his managing broker, and ask to rescind the agreement. The typical requirement is that if you re-list it, you list it with another agent within the same regional association. The main purpose of listing agreements is to make sure that you don’t cut the agent out–that if a sale results from his marketing, that he is not deprived of his fair compensation. Expect a stipulation that you either remove the property from the market for an unacceptable length of time, or re-list it so that someone else gets paid. I’m not here to help anyone screw an agent who did a good job, but it is stupid, stupid, stupid to pay an agent who did a lousy job. And turn a deaf ear to the managing broker’s entreaties to choose a different agent from that firm; that’s a terrible idea. The spurned agent will fill the new one’s ears with venom about you. For this deal, at least, you and that firm are done.

Mistake #8: renewing a listing agreement with a failed agent while/because the home is in contract.

Why it’s a mistake: wait, if he has it sold, is it really a failure? Perhaps, if you aren’t happy with the deal and were desperate, and didn’t just rescind the agreement. But the deal may fall through, especially because a failed agent may not properly qualify a buyer or represent your interests in proper fashion. Note that this doesn’t mean you should attempt to evade paying the commission due; if it resulted from a failed agent’s marketing, and you had a valid agreement, that’s his sale. You’d best make your peace with it, because to do otherwise would likely be actionable. It would also make you a failed seller.

Better: want to make sure an agent strives to complete the deal? If the agreement is expiring while the home is in contract, and you hate the agent, don’t renew the agreement. Then he knows that he either gets this one done or loses it. You don’t owe him an explanation. You don’t owe anyone an explanation. You don’t have to renew it. If the deal completes, you have to pay him. If it does not, you’re looking for a better agent.

Mistake #9: choosing to list with a ‘top producer.’

Why it’s a mistake: because a top producer is by no means necessarily the most competent agent. He could just be milking someone else’s old book of business. He will have less time to devote to your property. He doesn’t have to care. We were warned against this by competent guidance, and failed to heed the guidance, which is stupid in capital letters. Oh, and if you think that talking to the managing broker will solve anything, think again. Top producers bring in the most money. Your satisfaction is less important than the firm’s revenue stream. Sorry. He brings in piles of money, and the price is a few PR casualties. He was making an omelet, and you were just one of the broken eggs. If you imagine that the managing broker would discipline a top producer just because you told a tale of outrage, you are Linus, the manager is Lucy, and your innocence is the football.

Should it be this way? No, but ‘should’ is useless. Many impotent wails in history have included the word ‘should.’ What ‘should be’ has no bearing. What a noun is or is not, can or cannot, will or will not, does or does not, is reality. In reality, in the world of sales, high producers are like star athletes at SEC schools: the rules and law are different for them. Don’t be surprised if the MB tries to take over the conversation and tell you why you are wrong, why the agent is fantastic, and why you’re just a whiny-butt. My advice: interrupt him the minute that starts. Tell him that you were treated abominably, and that if he wants to hear how, you’re willing to tell him, but if he’s just here to invalidate your experience, the conversation can end.

Better: ask your candidates how much business they do. Go to the finalist’s office. If the I Love Me wall includes a dozen Top Producer awards, forget it. You want someone who does a fair amount of business, but not so much that yours won’t matter. And you want someone who has something to fear from a managing broker.

Mistake #10: dropping the price because your agent is useless and you’re desperate.

Why it’s a mistake: because if your agent sucks, you should be rescinding the listing agreement instead, or not renewing it. The reason to drop the price is because you have decided that your price is above market and that no one will pay you that much for it, not in desperation because you think it’s your only way to influence the situation. I’d rather not say precisely why, but if you do that, you will walk away with lasting resentment and a feeling of having been cheated, when deep down you will realize that it was your own inexperience that caused you to cheat yourself.

Better: obviously, sack your agent and find one who isn’t useless. Have no soul nor remorse.

Mistake #11: assuming that once you are in contract, everyone will do what they’re supposed to.

Why it’s a mistake: because people are, pardon me, fuckups. Even when it’s counter to their interests. Buyers dawdle with loan documentation. Lenders piddle about assembling it, then demand more on short notice. Agents dawdle informing you of everything. Buyers decide they want to modify the contract even after everyone has signed, and expect you to swallow the modifications without demur. Title companies tell you one thing, then do another. Inspectors miss glaring things, yet come up with stupid things, and buyers want them dealt with. Drywall contractors cut into water pipes by mistake. Yard maintenance people and nephews break sprinkler heads. Neighborhood kids break windows. No one just does it right. People are fuckups.

Better: expect a steady stream of unforced errors, egregious blunders, sloppy omissions, lazy functionaries, arrogant demands, and deceptive statements. Odds are good that if you perform precisely as the contract requires and good business practice would suggest, you’ll be all alone on your little island of virtue, waving across the water to fleets of ships of fools. Be pleasantly surprised by the one or two people in the transaction who seem to take their duties seriously.

Mistake #12: reading this and deciding that there aren’t any good people in real estate and mortgages. Not one we made, but one to warn you about.

Why it would be a mistake: because, how do you think I learned all this, and figured out what we ought to have done? From one of the good ones, albeit not one in a position to participate in this transaction due to geography, who gave generously of time and wisdom without any expectation of compensation, and volunteered to do more if asked.

Better: take this away from this post. It’s not that there are not good ones. I have proof that there are. It is that you must learn to identify the good and the bad, and be ready to jettison the bad and work with the good.

Because everything useful you have learned here was influenced by the good. And the good deserve to be paid. This costs too much to pay the bad.

Homeownership, Married life

Hospitality tricks and thoughts

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I’m happy to say that a lot of people who visited us have said embarrassingly nice things about Deb and I as host and hostess. That’s quite an honor; not sure what to say. A greater one is that people keep coming back from Europe, the Caribbean, Russia and nearer points in order to pay us a visit. What the hell do you say to a Swede who has already visited you twice, and now can’t wait to bring his new wife back your direction, other than välkommen? For someone to visit you from afar once is a compliment, but also a satisfaction of curiosity and an extension of trust. If they come back, well…how do you thank them for such a profound compliment to your house? Nothing is adequate.

In that situation, I just try not to screw up.

But I guess I’ve picked up a few bits here and there, things that seem to play in, and if you’d like to make your guests happy (who would not?), maybe they’re worth sharing.

Ask about animals and allergies. I myself am fairly dog-phobic, for example. While I can endure dogs when I go to visit, and I must (it is the dogs’ home, not mine), I have special respect for those who make an effort not to allow Rover to charge me, investigate me, or put three coats of saliva (plus primer underneath) on me. That is a profound kindness and one I never forget, so I always ask people if they like dogs or not, and if they do not, they will not be subjected to them. Allergies likewise; I have a cousin who is literally deathly allergic to peanuts in any form. If he visits, we will go Full Peanut Nazi. Some people are terribly sensitive to gluten. Some are vegan. Will we prepare all-vegan meals for everyone so that the vegan can be happy? No, because that’s not fair to the rest of us. But we would no sooner serve her something she despised than we would serve barbecued pork to observant Jewish or Muslim guests.

Overload the bathrooms, especially the guest bathroom, with extra toilet paper. Seriously. Stuff the whole cabinet with it. Everyone’s afraid of ending up camping on the can a lot, no one wants to have to ask for more of the stuff. Just cram every spare storage space with it. It’s one thing to forget to put shampoo in the guest bathroom; it’s another to run out of TP.

Give them the freedom of your kitchen, pantry and booze cabinet. Guests are often uncertain what they may eat or drink. I tell people: “There are no waiters here. If it’s food or drink, and you are hungry or thirsty, do not ask permission. Just go get it. If we are running out, let me know and we’ll get some more. Be at ease. Everything we have to eat or drink is meant to be shared.” What, they might drink your single-malt? Don’t worry about it. They probably won’t, but if they did, then they took you at your word, which is honorable. I find that people behave very kindly and with restraint when treated this way. I also find that a lot of guests decide they themselves would like to cook something, and that many actually bring things to share. Let them! Everyone wins. Guests feel better when they feel like participants, invited not simply to sleep and eat in your house, but to be members of it. You watch. You don’t have to wait on anyone. When they go to the refrigerator for another beer, they’ll ask if anyone else wants one, you included.

Try out your guest bedroom and bathroom. Yeah, spend a night there yourself per season. Use them. You’ll find out very quickly what’s missing, and what the room needs in what seasons. It’s a sauna in summer? Fans, fans, fans. It’s a Frigidaire in Janury? Quilts, quilts, quilts.

Don’t wait for people to ask you about laundry. Offer it. People don’t really want you to handle their laundry, so make up some crap. Explain that you are doing laundry today, and it would be no trouble to fit them into the process. Everyone wants bags full of clean clothes. Have them bring it and stuff it in, fill up the extra space with towels if need be, and run it. Have them come down and switch it to the dryer when it’s time–they do the switching, you handle the controls. When it’s done, just tell them. They can get out their own laundry; they don’t need help.

Don’t hesitate to ask them to help with minor stuff. Every guest worth a damn would like to contribute some form of participatory help with anything that’s needed. No, you aren’t going to ask them to dig trenches or log a forest, but if there’s a piece of furniture that you suddenly have all the hands on deck to move, ask them.

Comfort over fancy and ostentatious, every time. Don’t buy a flashy guest bed; go ahead and use the old one, but put memory foam or something on it. Load it up with excessive pillows (any more than four per person is a little extreme). Fancy coverings? Faaaaaa. Use one of the quilts Grandma made, the ones that are a little worn and real and crafted. Put some bath salts in the guest bathroom and pointedly suggest that if they want to take a salted bath, they should do so. Expensive snacks and drinks? Nah, just a good selection: dairy, fruit, soda, libations. None of it has to be spendy. It is better that it be plentiful, so that they feel un-self-conscious about having all they want.

Welcome them into your regular life. Too many hosts work too hard at making every moment special. I have had guests who had just come from busy people-filled weekends and were eager to chill, relax, recharge. They didn’t have any great yearning to do anything. No problem! Adults don’t want to be baby-sat and squired around. As long as they know what the options are for activities, that’s good enough. One of the best visits I had back home to the ranch in Kansas occurred in the middle of the grape harvest. Deb was surprised to find us all getting ready to pick grapes. I explained that this was Kansas agriculture, as played with live ammunition: when it’s time to get the crop in, the crop will not wait. And we had a blast. We were part of the ranch’s regular life, and when we had absolutely amazing beef brisket that night, we felt great about gorging on our share. Whatever’s going on, let your friends play their roles in it. There is a subtle dynamic in which people enjoy good things more if they feel they have earned them. No need to manufacture it, but if it happens naturally, don’t fight it.

I don’t give a shit if your home is tiny or gigantic, nor should you. Whether you live in an Airstream or a mansion doesn’t matter. The best you can do is the best you can do, and if you do it, that shows your pride in your home. I have stayed in mansions and I’ve stayed in trailers. I’d rather stay in a relaxed trailer than in a mansion where I felt like I had to maintain a steel rod up my posterior. I think most would say the same. There is no home that cannot be made kind and welcoming and hospitable.

The embarrassed guest whose embarrassment is treated with tact and silence will never forget you for it. People get sick during travel; stuff happens. Find a way to make them as comfortable as possible, however they are feeling. Want to make a friend for life? Clean up their puke, without complaint, and never mention it again.

Ask no one into your home, and allow no one into your home, whom you are not prepared to trust. You cannot do trust halfway in your home. Either you believe your guests would not pick up and pocket a loose penny, much less a $100 bill, or they don’t belong. Trust your guests, or do not let them in. Don’t do it halfway. I have in-laws who can never, never, ever return to my home again. No, they did not steal. They did something infinitely more loutish. Which leads to…

The unpardonable sin is to impair the hospitality of your home for others. The drunk who becomes scary and violent, the taunter who cruelly hurts others, anyone who ruins all that is good and welcoming about your home–fuck them. Yes, I mean kick them out. Don’t ever let them back in. Most often they are family, long accustomed to being pardoned for bad behavior toward better men and women than themselves, taking the approach: “I am a complete asshole. I am permitted to be a complete asshole, and no one may object. If they object, I would Be Angry. I expect people to put my feelings above those of others, even though I deserve the least consideration, and I in fact deserve to be kicked in the testicles. This is how I go through life: being a Class B Dick, based upon the implied threat of escalation to Class A Dick.”

Nope. Think of everyone else, think of the honor of your home, and throw them out. Advise them never to return. Never, never, never sacrifice the good guys to make the bad guys happy. This is your home. Defend it. Take out the trash.

And treat the good guys and gals like they belong. If I can summarize it in one sentence, I guess that’s it.

Homeownership, Social comment, Technology

My ant crack dealership

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Bugs are so valuable to the ecosystem we live in. Wipe out a vector of that ecosystem, and the damage ripples through the rest of it. If I weren’t married, I would leave yellowjacket nests alone outside my house, and spider webs alone inside it.

Yet even with my wife absent from the home, there’s no way I am going to tolerate ants in the house. No way. None. I generally support environmental protection, but it’s not as if I feel the need to show it off by being as conspicuously crunchy/green/Whole Paycheck/tilth/organic/etc. as possible. And in any case, that’s not going to change my approach to pest control. If you see a few ants, there are more, many more. If I thought it would work best, without harming the interior health environment of the home, I’d have zero compunction about putting down the insect equivalent of heavy nerve gas, strychnine, or whatever.

For millennials, who of late find themselves much maligned by the very generation who raised them and made the rules for them, I have a fun suggestion. Next time a middle-aged person tries to tell you that everything was better back when, that the old ways and old everything are the best, and that everything now officially sucks (including, by implication, your generation), ask them this:

“Okay, sir/ma’am. I’ll play. So, in 1970, when you had ants in your house and wanted to find the best way to kill them, you would not have preferred a five-minute online search? It was better, right, when you had to go to a library, or hunt up some consumer magazine, or ask your neighbor Vern, and do trial and error while the ants multiplied to invade your entire house? Just so I understand you here, sir/ma’am? Or, as an alternative, are you saying you liked ants in your kitchen just fine, and that it was better that way?”

They’ll harrumph. It’s all they can do. Because in reality, they just want a simpler time in the ways they liked, while continuing to use their Keurigs and research their osteoporosis on the Internet. They only want back the old parts everyone liked, such as cheap gasoline and pensions. I’m not even an old person yet and I am already making plans to call my peers out on hypocrisies to my dying day. (It helps to plan ahead.)

As for me, I’d like cheap gas and pensions back too, but I like even more the fact that I can find the answer to a pressing problem in a short time. Is it always correct? No. Is it a higher-percentage shot than spending the afternoon trying to track Vern down, going from store to store, wasting money on stuff that will not work, and ruining my day? Well, you tell me.

In this case, I went on a net.mosey for ant killers. I found lots of granola vegan non-toxic cruelty-free organic hippie home ingredient methods. Some of them may work very well in some situations for some people. I have never had any such method work for me on much of anything, which is why I tune most of those out. In this case, I found a product called Terro, which isn’t quite non-toxic, but isn’t exactly dioxin either.

Of course, it had a number of product reviews.

Of course, any cretin can post on the Internet, thus any given review might be wrong.

Of course, 933 product reviews does represent at least some sort of a sample base.

Of Terro’s 933 reviews, 750 gave it five stars.

Well, again, I’m not much of a fundamental believer in group opinion or the wisdom of the public. In fact, when I find myself in a majority, I’m tempted to ask myself what I might have overlooked. Even so, I started reading the reviews. Most said some variant of: “I put down these traps, and more ants than I had any idea were in my house swarmed all over them. Two days later there was not a single living ant.”

It didn’t take that many of those to get my attention.

 

Terro is some form of sugar glop–ant crack–mixed with borax. The ants hog it down, tell the other ants that the Ant Pizza Buffet is open, and take some samples back to the colony to share with others. One of those others is the queen, who gets waited on by the proletarian ants. Borax fatally injures the ants’ digestive systems (think of it like Taco Bell taken to its logical conclusion). When the queen dies, that’s disastrous for the colony, but in any case, it’s also disastrous for it when most of the regular ants croak.

Shortly after I put down the traps, long lines of little ants came pouring out of tiny openings in the wall, going crazy for the traps. Some died in the glop, like that kid in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory. Some died before they got back to the colony, which I hope were taken back to be cannibalized and poison some more. Many, I presume, took ‘food’ back to the colony to poison it on my behalf. Some managed to drag little chunks of dirt into the glop, gods know how or why.

It wasn’t over yet. In fact, the little bastards just about cleaned out some of the traps. A week in, I had put down a second box of traps. More armadas sallied forth to scarf it up. Just when I’d think it was over, a bunch would discover a new trap that others had walked past for a week, and swarm on it.

Three weeks to the day after I first started slinging ant crack, and whatever the fates of individuals, it very much appears as if the colony has gone the fate of Carthage. My ant crackhouse can shut down. I have seen exactly two ants around the traps all day, and neither looked real lively.

Somewhere in the ground near my house is Ant Jonestown.

Terro delivers, if you’re patient. I would recommend Terroism as a potential solution to ant problems in the home. Just follow the rules for the conscientious Terroist:

  • Keep animals and kids out of it, obviously. Wouldn’t kill them, I’m told, but borax is not in the food aisles of your grocery store for a reason, and is not one of the four food groups. If you have cats, they may actually have to endure some temporary freedom restrictions.
  • Put down all the traps (six in my package). I had good luck with stringing them out along the ants’ path, so that even the hardiest who ranged farthest would be able to find some poison.
  • Resist the temptation to mess around with the traps once they’re down. The ants could be frightened off, and you want them pouring out to eat hearty. Think about your placement beforehand, and leave them alone thereafter.
  • Don’t spill the gunk on the floor, as I’m told it’s tough to scrub up. While you’re cutting off the ends to open the traps, I recommend leaning them against something, colored (cut) ends up. Make sure they don’t fall, or tip the wrong way when you’re emplacing them.
  • If you have to, use a second box of traps. I bought two the first time, in case that happened, and it was a wise move. Job ain’t done until there are no living ants in sight for a while.
  • To use these outside, I think you’d need a small, heavy cover to put over each trap. Otherwise, something else would probably get into it. They sell outdoor ones, though, so that’s covered.

Yeah, it took a while, but it beats having someone come and fill the house with tabun, or whatever the pest control people use. It was also much less expensive. I spent $30 and I destroyed a large, persistent ant colony. I bet the Bug Brigade doesn’t come out for $30. Plus, if I have a way to rely on my own sense and observation rather than a contractor, after many, many examples of shoddy work, apathy and arrogance from contractors, I’ll do that every time.

Adventures, Homeownership

168 Clif bars

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I just purchased fourteen boxes of twelve Iced Gingerbread Clif bars to a box.

Hey, it could have been worse. Yesterday I was watching Filipino comic Rex Navarrette talking about balut, which to me looks like the world’s biggest hard-boiled egg fail. He described it as the ‘Pinoy Clif bar.’ That’s one of many reasons I like Rex’s comedy, that and my affection for Filipino cultures, from relatives to friends and beyond.

But no, I didn’t buy 168 baluts.

Self-revelation: I can be the world’s cheapest bastard. I pick up pennies in parking lots. I’m still attempting to use up a lifetime supply of drinking straws (want any?). I have enough saran wrap for several kinky parties. I built most of my garage storage out of junk, including a doghouse made from rejected forklift pallet pieces. I hate going to Costco (which is not to say that I hate Costco, just the experience), and my standard check to the cashier is about $550. I built my wife a holder for odd-shaped art stuff which I call the Nebelwerfer, after the WWII German rocket launcher. It’s five coffee cans canted slightly upward in a cluster on a stand. If I ever handmade you a gift, I probably made it out of garbage.

Not that I mind spending money to take friends out to a nice dinner, or to leave a decent tip, or something else socially productive. Nothing is finer than the opportunity to do a hospitable kindness people will enjoy. I do not mind spending money. But oh, oh, oh, how I hate to waste it. Or anything.

So I always check the grocery store’s bargain baskets and shelves. You never know what in hell they’ll be trying to get rid of. Case of decent wine, $7 a bottle? I’m on it. Ten jars of alfredo sauce, half price? Guess what we’re going to be eating. And the other day, I was at my local Fred Meyer buying ant poison and groceries. Stopped by the bargain corner, and saw boxes and boxes of Clif bars. Pumpkin Something and Iced Gingerbread.

I don’t care for Clif bars. Not that I hate them, just that if I were buying a chiseled-calf hipster-beard overpriced bicycle-advocate vegan granola-based energy bar, I’d pick almost anything else first. They neither look nor taste that appealing to me. And that’s good, because not only am I supposed to eat some form of breakfast, it has to meet my strict criteria:

It must cleanse my mouth of the residual coffee aftertaste, which I hate, and is the sole pleasure benefit of me eating in the morning.

It must require zero effort, because first thing in the morning, I will not make any, and if I have to speak, my first words will be vile.

It must be bearable without being appetizing, providing no temptation to overdo it, because I need to be less fat.

It must be minimalist, because I’m forcing myself to do this for reasons of good health. I really don’t want any food in the morning.

Pumpkin anything can be a weird taste for me, but I figured I’d buy a box of the Iced Gingerbread: twelve 59¢ breakfasts, and reasonably healthy to boot, would fit all my specifications. Paid, took home, tried them, found them bearable, and went back to the store to clean them out. Some days it’s helpful being absolutely indifferent to the looks you get, and believe me, when you have fourteen boxes of Clif bars in your shopping cart, you get some strange looks.

Cashier: “Wow. You must really like Clif bars.”

Me: “Nah, not much.”

Cashier: “Then how come you’re buying this many?”

(Such inquiries would be unthinkable some places, such as Seattle with its privacy bubbles. This is Idaho. In Idaho, people are rarely standoffish toward friendly conversation, and there is no invisible ‘I am the consumer and you must deify me’ bubble. Thus, by Idaho standards, this was not at all intrusive. He was acting like an Idahoan, presuming approachability and friendliness, anticipating only goodwill. Standoffishness would have shocked him, especially from a heavyset bearded guy, thus presumably an Idahoan Character. I find this aspect of Idaho invigorating. Seattle tolerates but ignores characters, not daring to comment, and any wacko buying fourteen cases of Clif bars is a character. Idaho talks to them and treats them like people. I will miss this.)

Me: “Cheap breakfasts, and nothing I’ll be tempted to eat two of. Yogurts cost over a buck, and are more perishable. I just saved myself about $80 over the next few months.”

(That, he understood completely. Idaho has a low minimum wage, vestigial social services, and a lot of very poor people, and the cashier was probably one of them. And his count was perfect: 168 Iced Gingerbread Clif bars.)

Cashier: “Enjoy! Have a great afternoon.”

Me: “I’ll try. You do the same.”

I’m writing this in March. By the time I have to start thinking about breakfast again, the leaves will be starting to turn autumn color. By my logic, the sicker I get of them, the better: less temptation, and more eating them out of obligation to realize value.

I was a terrifying accountant, in a past life.

Adventures, Homeownership

Defining Idaho

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The definition is elusive. Idaho has a million and a half people, slightly more than a third of whom live in or around Boise (BOY-see, not BOY-zee). North Idaho has its own identity. Idaho is only something like 25% LDS, but in parts of southern Idaho you couldn’t get elected dogcatcher without a Temple Recommend. It’s famous for preppers, gun fanatics, precious metal trading and potatoes (even the license plates announce this). Many of you have only heard of Idaho, never really been there. What defines it?

One must resist, as always, the tendency to generalize too much on a small sample base, but I’ve spent the past month arranging business with Idahoans, meeting them, having them knock on my door, and otherwise getting a feel. What defines Idaho, in my observation so far?

Rawboned. Your typical Idahoan is spare, rugged and inured to economic and environmental hardship. These are a tough people. Life in Idaho can be physically challenging, and I think it tends to run out those who can’t handle that. I’m not thinking this is a big retirement state, although Boise’s climate is just a shade harsher than that of southeastern Washington. That of other parts (Idaho is the nation’s 14th largest state) can be much harsher. I’m talking Montana harsh, and Montana harsh can sneak up on you and end your life.

Unguarded. Idahoans do not anticipate that people will gratuitously do them wrong just because they can. I have seen many examples of this and it seems representative, from driving habits to knocking on my door. Many places are this way, but Idaho seems a bit more so: people seem to assume the good. I’ve been around much of the state over the years (you cannot really head east from Washington without passing through Idaho). There is a certain refreshing goodwill to it all. A good example might be the seller of our house, whose financing went pear-shaped thanks to US Bank’s mishandling. Could we have kicked her out at closing? Sure, but since we did not need to, we did not. We didn’t need the house for a couple more days, and some discussion with others confirmed that we had followed basic custom by not being insistent when we did not need to. Needless hardassery in human relations is just not the way here, that being counter to a live-and-let-live way of life. Surely there are exceptions, but they are neither approved nor embraced at large.

Friendly. Everywhere I have been in Idaho–even the parts where being a jackass can get your head run through a wall, like Sandpoint–I have generally found friendly people. Consider this: if you have followed the blog for a while, you probably read of my pitiful efforts to buy champagne in Rexburg. This is a town that exists mostly for BYU-Idaho, where something like 95% of the population isn’t supposed to drink at all. That didn’t stop people from helping us figure out where we could buy champagne (and there is no poorer selection of it outside Saudi Arabia). People treated us helpfully even after this glaringly obvious self-identification as outsiders. And I did find the champagne (kicking myself really hard for not buying it in Salt Lake when I had the chance for a better selection). I see this even in Boise, the state’s largest city. If you need help, people tend to offer it, whether or not it might agree with their own world views.

Characters. Idaho has lots. I am already meeting them. And since I qualify as one, and am encountering warm reactions to my quirkiness, it’s hard for me to escape a feeling that Idaho is used to characters, and kind of likes them, unless they are the type who call the cops every time someone is having fun, or who yell at kids (metaphorically) to get off the lawn. I would suggest that Idaho leans toward embracing characters, especially those who seem not to be overly guarded, and who show some evidence of a tolerant attitude (it being expected that there will also be other, very different characters, and if one wishes to be embraced, one has to plan to do some embracing).

Let’s be intellectually honest about inherent biases: I can’t say that much of the above isn’t true for observers who go to any place with a reasonably open mind and sense of goodwill. Perhaps it is. But it does seem to come freely and easily in Idaho.

I think we’re going to like this. I think we can fit in, and find our way here.

Basic education: Idaho’s nickname is ‘The Gem State,’ for the wide variety of precious stones found here. The motto is Esto perpetua (Let it be forever). I have no idea what they mean by that. It was the 43rd state (1890). The state song is Here We Have Idaho, which I’m not sure anyone can sing; it beats Washington, My Home, which I can attest that nearly no Washingtonians know, but shrivels compared to Kansas’s Home on the Range. The state bird is the Rocky Mountain Bluebird. The tree is the White Pine (also known as the Western White Pine), which in my lumber mill days we called the ‘Idaho pine’ and had to sort out from the Ponderosa Pine which was the mill’s focus. I told them from ponderosa by the lighter wood and the purplish knots, in contrast to the rusty brown of ponderosa knots. The flower is the Syringa (sah-RIN-gah), a broad white flower that grows from a big bush somewhat like a rhododendron (Washington’s state flower). Idaho’s state fish is the cutthroat trout.

My thinking is we could plant a couple bushes of syringa out back, without hurting anything, and it might be kind of nice.

Howdy, Idaho. Thanks for taking us in.

Adventures, Homeownership

Nearly gone now

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It is not my habit to write a whole lot about my personal life and feelings here, but right now they monopolize my mind and world, and it is time to write.

Two more days and I am gone from Washington, for thirty-nine years my state of residence.

The process is difficult mainly due to my personal quirks. I am most comfortable with non-change, and am often ill at ease when relative strangers are in my space. When that space has ceased to really be my own–when everything I own is either being carted away or is already packed up–the impact is greater. Plus, everyone you hire breaks things, and it is always guaranteed to be something problematic to repair or replace. I am not sure I have ever had a service provider not break something that was very annoying or impossible to put right. I do not know why; it is just so.

My preference would be to do as much as possible myself, but my knees simply will not permit that. Even what I have had to do has been painful. Naturally, we are doing this in the hottest part of summer, so that adds its own joy. While it’s okay to smell like sweat at the end of a day where one did honest work, that doesn’t mean it’s an entirely pleasant sensation.

So I sit with my computer all crammed into our breakfast bar, and I write, and I chat in Spanish with the cleaning service. They are friendly and polite. In fact, everyone’s been great, really. It’s just hard for me on any level, and there is nothing for it but to bear up.

Through this process, I wondered at what point this house would cease to be home. While it lost a lot when Deb headed for Idaho, it still had elements of the old life, comforting reminders. When they packed up the library, I just went somewhere else. When I came back, and it was gone, that was the point of fracture. If it has my wife and my books, it’s home on some level. With neither, it is not. Now we know.

It’s almost time to get the hell out of here.

For those of you who have never been to Washington, let’s close this phase of my life with a little education, and countering of misconceptions widely held. That’s always fun and usually entertaining. It should probably be a separate post, but nah.

  • Not all of Washington is rainy. Only the western side is rainy, and more so as one approaches the ocean. The southeast, where I will soon no longer live, is bone dry and would be barren but for irrigation.
  • Washington’s politics are viewed as left-wing by the nation because the Seattle area, with over half the state’s population, leans that direction. The central and eastern parts lean right.
  • Washington is that rare state where some of its Native Americans live on ancestral land. While there are conflicts over treaty rights, the Native Americans here have a sense of their political leverage and aren’t afraid to use it.
  • The eastern part of Washington has a significant Hispanic population, in some towns exceeding 90%. The sound of spoken Spanish is unremarkable east of the Cascades. The western part has a significant Asian population as well. As with all minorities, levels of assimilation vary by culture and individual and time their families have been here. I speak better Spanish than some Latinos who live here. There are some who speak English better than I.
  • What you have heard about the beauty of Washington is all true; what you have not heard is how diverse that beauty can be. The wheat country rolls and has its own agricultural beauty, as do hills completely girdled with vineyards, hop fields, acres and acres of orchards, and so on. The semi-dormant volcanoes have snow and glaciers year round. Washington has mountain passes that can be problematic to keep clear all winter, and roads that close entirely in winter. Near Bellingham are acres and acres of tulips. Seattle itself mostly looks like a forest with some buildings protruding. The walls of the Columbia Gorge are majestic, as is the view from Vantage looking out across the Columbia. We have rain forests, deserts, ranch country, jagged mountains, beaches, stands of scrub oak, many square miles of pine and fir and spruce.
  • Washington is one of the best places in the nation to be working for minimum wage, as ours is among the highest in the nation. It has no state income tax, just a high sales tax (not levied on grocery food). If you live near Oregon, you can go shop without any sales tax. Oregonians can shop in Washington without paying sales tax. It’s a rip for Washington, but the alternative is zero business from Oregonians, so that’s the best solution we could come up with. If you go down to Oregon to buy a car, though, there the Washington State Department of Revenue draws a line–you will have to pay the tax to license it.
  • Until last year, Washington had only what I called Soviet liquor stores–owned by the state. Now they are privatized. You could and still can buy beer and wine in any store. In fact, a Washington grocery store with a lousy wine selection is considered a fail. We are winos.
  • Washington is maybe the only state where the employer can make employees pay a portion of the premium for industrial (workmen’s comp) insurance. Varies by job type and occupational hazards. Computer jocks barely notice the bite, but ironworkers sure do. So do both our remaining loggers.
  • I believe Washington was one of the first states to elect a woman governor. Both Washington’s US senators are women.
  • There’s a little piece of Washington sticking out of the Canadian mainland, called Point Roberts. It’s only a few square miles, and is more or less a weekend getaway and gas station community for Vancouverites. Washington also has a Vancouver, which is a suburb of Portland, Oregon.
  • Washington has some amazingly odd place names, and I’ll help you pronounce them: Sequim (SKWIM rhyming with ‘swim’), Puyallup (pyu-OWL-up), Enumclaw (EE-num-klaw), Snohomish (snuh-HOE-mish), Humptulips (HUMP-two-lups), Poulsbo (PAULS-boe), Camas (KAMM-us), Washougal (wa-SHOE-gull), Kalama (kah-LAMM-uh), Spokane (spo-CAN), Colville (CALL-vul), Mattawa (MATT-uh-wuh), Wahluke (wa-LUKE), Methow (MET-how), Hoquiam (HO-kwee-um), Wenatchee (wuh-NATCH-ee), Yakima (YACK-uh-muh), Chehalis (sha-HAY-liss), Tulalip (two-LAY-lip), Camano (kuh-MAY-no), Skykomish (sky-KOE-mish), Kittitas (KITT-ih-tass), Husum (HEW-some), Bingen (BINN-jen), Stehekin (sta-HEE-kin), Cle Elum (klee ELL-um), Pe Ell (pee ELL), Naches (nah-CHEESE), Tieton (TY-uh-ton), Selah (SEE-luh), Naselle (NAY-sell), Satus (SAY-tuss), Ephrata (uh-FRAY-tah), Touchet (TOOSH-ee), Kahlotus (ka-LOH-tuss), Washtucna (wash-TUCK-na), Asotin (ah-SO-tin), Palouse (pah-LOOSE), Chewelah (cha-WHEE-lah), Nespelem (ness-PEE-lum), Tonasket (tuh-NASS-ket), Tekoa (TEE-ko). As you can see, the trend is toward the stress on the second syllable, but it’s by no means universal.
  • Washington’s highest point is Mt. Rainier, fifth highest peak in the lower 48 states. Only three in Colorado and one in California top it, at least outside Alaska. Its lowest, of course, is where the surf meets the sand.
  • It is true that Seattleites can’t drive on snow and ice, because a) they get very little practice at it; b) the city has wholly inadequate means of snow and ice remediation; c) ice can come very suddenly and dangerously when the temp hits freezing in such a wet climate; d) the whole Seattle area is very hilly. Most years we have the annual ritual where the east side laughs at the west’s paralysis, though not at the traffic deaths that are sure to result when idiots in 4x4s think “this is my time, I am master of my environment.”
  • Both sides of the state tend to sneer at one another. To the east, the west is full of tree-hugging hippies who jump into their gas-hogging SUVs to drive (when they could bus) to their cruelty-free fair trade vegan lunches. The east sees the west as effete and self-superior. The west in turn mocks the east for growing food, being backward, voting for Republicans, going to church, and surviving in blistering heat and bitter cold. As with all stereotypes, both have bases in fact yet go very wide of the mark for most people. Not all of the west is that wet, nor is most of it urban. The east has good universities and high levels of education in many places. Seattle has a lot of thriving churches. You’ll see plenty of Priuses out east (including my wife’s, until very recently).
  • Washington is a very outdoorsy state with lots of water, forests, fishing, hunting, hiking and climbing. Hang gliding, ballooning, kayaking, canoeing and wind surfing are popular. No one goes surfing at the beach, though–too often cold and windy, and there are dangerous riptides in places. There are a limited number of days in the year on which you can see bikinis on Washington beaches.
  • Washington provides ready access to all that British Columbia has to offer. Vancouver is larger than Seattle, and might be described as ‘Seattle, only more so.’ The BC interior is inexhaustibly beautiful and wild. Vacations up north are common, though Canadian border control has tightened of late. Likewise, it is unremarkable to meet Canadians all over Washington. The province and the state have much in common on all levels, including a live-and-let-live Western ethic that just doesn’t get in people’s faces without a compelling reason. Oregon is likewise much like Washington with many of the same issues and climates, although I’d say Oregon is slightly more granola overall than Washington.
  • The college football rivalry between the University of Oregon and the University of Washington is the most venomous one you haven’t heard about. Objectivity demands that I give Oregon its due: it has some excellent programs, a great college town atmosphere and some of the most rabid fans in college football. That said, there can be no peace in the Northwest until Oregon is crushed. This is not something we have even come close to achieving in recent years. The Washington-Washington State rivalry reflects the internal division of the state, and is hotly contested, but without quite the same deep loathing as Washington-Oregon. There’s no love lost between WSU and Oregon, either.
  • Far and away the worst trend in Washington, besides a congenital ability to balance the state budget and a tendency to ignore passed initiatives that the legislature just decides are icky, is the political polarization. It’s divided the state much worse than before, with businesses getting into the act and fishing in conversation with customers for signs of political sympathies. Political incontinence is a plague here. Politics is like bodily waste: when handled in the suitable facilities in sanitary fashion, it’s a bearable and necessary aspect of human civilization. When it’s allowed anywhere, disease and suffering predominate. It’s getting worse.
  • If you haven’t visited Washington, there’s a lot ahead for you to discover. Come on out sometime. Most Washingtonians are helpful to tourists, especially if they aren’t littering or holding up traffic.
Editing/writing life, Homeownership, Married life

That Titanic feeling

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It’s a strange feeling, it is. While calling it after a massive maritime disaster isn’t really appropriate–my situation is not disastrous, but hopeful–it conveys a similar feeling. Within five weeks, six at most, I’ll be leaving the state in which I came of age. I look around at all the familiarities, and know that their days are numbered, just as the ill-fated passenger liner’s crew had to confront reality: in two hours, nearly all that they saw would be submerged.

A part of me is tempted to mourn early and often, which is irrational. I should not mourn. I lived thirty-nine years in Washington without considering myself a Washingtonian (nothing against the concept). What is ahead is appealing, reuniting and promising. How many local vendors am I eager never to give one more dime? I will be saying farewell to a city government that is a poor steward of the public trust, a library that cannot find useful volunteer work for an author, provincial myopia about the region’s past and present, complete social stagnation, mostly mediocre dining, and dust storms. I just placed a simple phone call to my ISP and got four different answers from four different people, only one of whom seemed the least bit concerned about the variance. The rest were resigned to it. Said it all.

Yet for a long time it was home, and here I met some of the finest people I’ve known, had many good times, loved our house with its strong natural privacy and kind neighbors. And though I should not mourn, I know I will. My last ride to Boise will be a contemplative and emotional four and a half hours.

Soon we part, Washington. Thank you for all that has been good and wonderful. You’re a beautiful state with many fine folks, and you will always be a destination for those seeking climatic diversity and free spirits. People will also come for the weed.

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In a complete topic segue, it’s about time I made written record of my usual analogy for my status as a published author.

I am not the sort of published author most people think of, and yet I’m not self-published (though I may change that). I have contributed to a good number of books, but all had other contributors. One might say I’m a freelance writer who is entitled to call himself an author, having done his share of authing for pay and print. I edit, write and proofread. Most of my paid writing work is done on contract, which puts me at the lowest tier of the authorly ziggurat. I usually describe it thus:

You probably saw Titanic. In fact, you’ve probably seen it eight times in reruns whether you wanted to or not. You observed that the ship operated according to a class system, which had direct relevance to one’s chances of ending up in a lifeboat. This has direct analogy to the security of one’s position in the literary world. Thus:

Suppose that the literary world is a Titanic. (The way New York is handling things, the analogy is apt enough). The highest class are, of course, first class passengers, would Madame care for some more champagne, veddy good, sah, socializing in that rotunda with crystal chandeliers overhead and an orchestra playing, more caviar, please, waiter. These are the J.K. Rowlings and Danielle Steels, anyone who is always on the endcap at the bookstore. Almost all of them are getting off the boat.

The next class, second, are the leisure tourists. They do not receive the fawning deference reserved for the big spenders in first class, but they are treated well. They enjoy some amenities and general respect. They are the top-selling science fiction authors, the more famous travel writers, and sometimes the self-help book gurus. Most of them are getting off the boat.

Down in steerage is the third class, the people making their own music who live in a different world than the prominent. This category includes most of the crew. These are most indie authors, history writers, the folks that pen Harlequin romances, cookbook authors, most children’s authors, writers of books on religion, and so on. Most people have never heard of most of them. Most of them aren’t getting off the boat.

Continue into the bowels of the monster and you will come to the engine room, full of people stripped to the waist and sweating quarts as they shovel coal into the boilers. These are the stokers. Without them, the ship couldn’t have set sail, but no one in first class can name a one of them. Not only have they no security, but in time of danger, more important people will shut the watertight doors on them. They aren’t getting off the boat.

I’m a stoker.