State of Liberty?

State of Liberty?

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

There's been recent buzz about eastern Washington seceding from Washington State. The cascades would draw the border and the east side would be known as the state of Liberty.

It's been proposed before. Conservatives living east of the mountains feel underappreciated and continuously out-voted by the overpopulated urban metropolis. I suppose there is upside to it. The red politicians would cater to the conservative and rural needs of central and eastern Washington. (I could go into all sorts or political hullabaloo here but will spare that.) The biggest concern is whether Liberty could survive on tax revenues from its now scarcer population. And what would happen to all the tax money eastern Washingtonians have paid, you know, for decades? Anyways, it'd have to pass a vote. Would the unofficial voting control headquarters of western Washington actually kick us out?

Another important question is: how would fishing licenses be affected? There would probably be separate ones for Washington State and Liberty. I'm not sure how many people fish on both sides of the state since fishing techniques are vastly different, but it's something to think about. If I'm now a resident of Liberty, I would essentially need an out of state fishing license to fish in Washington; the state I used to live in. And vise versa. Hunting licenses would create the same issue.

Some outspoken proponents, yeah yeah, congresspeople from the east side, are very enthusiastic about the idea of a newly seceded state of Liberty. And their enthusiasm is catching on. In fact, I've seen various internet comments in support of it. Eastern Oregon, desperate to detach from similar red-blue-east-west contradictions, wants to join us; and north Idaho seeks division from psycho southern Idaho. I think Montana would stand its ground. Being remote, it's practically another country anyway. They probably have bigger shotguns. We'll just leave them alone.

At my writers group on Thursday night (May 18th), we briefly discussed how it was the 37th anniversary of the Mt. Saint Helens eruption. After swapping a few stories, someone mentioned the possibility of Mt. Rainier blowing; which would be even more devastating that Mt. Saint Helens. Before Mt. Rainier would blow, the heat from the volcano would first melt the snow, thus, causing massive west side flooding. There would be panic to no end as millions of people would flee the area and could only go in three directions: north, east, or west over the sound if they owned a boat. The peninsula residents would be trapped, unfortunately.

As I pondered about this notion of Mt. Rainier demolishing western Washington, I thought of something so incredibly simple it was brilliant.

"Hey! If Mt. Rainier blew its top, we'd get our state of Liberty!"



Copyright 2017 Jennifer E. Miller

Clothes Dryers Point to Boats

Clothes Dryers Point to Boats

By, 

Jennifer E. Miller

I am a happy camper. My clothes dryer got repaired this week! Going a whole ten days without a dryer is much easier than going with out a wash machine (been there; done that, too), but it's still an inconvenience.

The dryer crapped out on while it was running a cycle. I happened to be walking by and zzzzzzztttttt! the drum stopped rolling. All the lights on the front were still on so I knew it wasn't a tripped circuit. After some basic troubleshooting, it wouldn't restart, which left me with no other option expect to call the repair company. The lady who answered the phone seemed to think it was a blown fuse. If she was correct, then the repairman would be able to fix it on site in one visit. She was not correct. Something melted on the circuit board and they had to special order a whole new board. Why must all these new machines have complicated electrical components anyway? Sure, they make the machines come with convenience and bells and whistles; but it's irritating that there wasn't anything mechanically wrong with the dryer. An electrical component halts the function of a clothes dryer.

Luckily, I was able to continue with laundry chores, except I had to hang dry everything. I don't use fabric softener in the wash because, in the past, it's gunked up the wash machine. Until the temporary demise of the dryer, I'd been using dryer sheets. Therefore, hang drying made our items stiff and crinkly. The towels were especially rough. T complained daily about how his towel assaulted him and his sensitive skin by raking it off layer by layer. I noticed this, too, when I took a hang-dried hand towel with me to the gym to dab off my sweat. Instead of gently wiping away perspiration, I got a deep exfoliation on my face! People noticed I appeared extra red which they chalked up to me working harder than usual, but it was the towel burning color into my epidermis. After calming our second-degree charred skin with a gallon of industrial strength aloe vera gel, I decided it was time to find another alternative: my trusty neighbors.

We have good people living around us and they allowed me to haul over a few loads. The wake of our unforeseen tragedy was a gift to them, too, because as the loads were drying they got to spend the entire time talking to me! Or was it the other way around? My point is that a perk of otherwise dealing with broken household appliances, is that it's an excuse to bother your neighbors and force them to visit with you. We caught up on family affairs or discovered more of each other's interests. After throwing in something like a fourth load next door, I noticed the owner across the street was outside working in her garden. Since I don't talk to her much, I started up a conversation, asking if she was planting pumpkins again, etc. etc.

The folks across the street, I'll call them Barb and Tony, are retired and own a boat similar to T's. Come to find out, their boat sank over the winter. Luckily it was moored (as opposed to occupants on it) when a hose burst, allowing water to enter the hull. They found it at the bottom of the icy river in the morning. I listened in disbelief and noted that their boat wasn't all that old and what a strange thing to have happen. Barb commented that T got a new boat recently, which I confirmed. I told her how this, being our third boat, is the most expensive, yet T insists it's "worth it." Furthermore, to determine the worth of this new money-sucking toy, I decided to keep track of the price per fish relative to the cost. I only tally the fish he keeps. Catch and release doesn't count; I can't eat those. I count the crappie as one fish each, but the trout/salmon/steelhead in pounds. For example: a ten pound salmonoid counts as ten fish; ten crappie count as ten fish regardless of size. I simply divide the cost of the boat by the new fish count total.

The maiden voyage yielded fish at $1571.43 each. After a summer, fall, winter, and part of this spring, the cost has now dropped to a more reasonable $358.70 per fish. My meticulous record-keeping had Barb in stitches. She said when their replacement boat finally arrived from the factory, she was going to start keeping track of Tony's fish, too.

So, you see, a busted appliance may cost a hefty dollar to fix, but it was a great excuse to annoy spend quality time with the people around us. Hmmm. Maybe I should add the cost of the appliance repair to the price of the boat. You know, make it "worth it."


Copyright 2017 Jennifer E. Miller

The Iconic Geranium

The Iconic Geranium

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

Lately, I find myself nostalgic. I'm writing a story, which has developed into book-length, about grandkids who want to help their Nonna (grandma) with the holiday cooking. I'm weaving humor, sincerity, and nostalgia into it. While the story is fictional, many of the aspects are taken from my own childhood experiences, which has allowed me to flashback and reflect. One of those reflections were summer days with some special people.

Summer days at my grandparents' house was an ordinary thing for me. As I've since found out, many kids hardly knew their grandparents, so I consider myself fortunate to have them lead large roles in my life. A day would usually start off by Grandpa picking me up from home. Pulling up in the long driveway of my grandparents' house, I was greeted by cement flower pots with the spikes plant flowing in the morning breeze. It was as though the long palm-tree like leaves waved at me. The pointed tips were known to poke skin if one wandered too close. Other flowers nestle with the spikes plant were pink petunias and indigo lobelia. 

The plant that was the most iconic at Grandma and Grandpa's house, however, was the geranium. I hated those things as a kid. Their pungent aroma made my nose turn the other direction. Grandma's geraniums were always red; a color I did not care for as a youngster. Even though there was pink, white, even purple to choose from, Grandma consistently selected red. She planted them in containers near the front door. They trailed over the edges of hanging baskets both in the front and the back patio. With the screen door open, allowing the summer air in, I'd occasionally hear water splashing onto the ground. It was Grandma watering her hanging geraniums with hose stretched above her head. 

Those stinky geraniums may be more about the familiar feeling they provide versus their ornamental value. In photos of Italy, I notice it's common to see them hanging outside front doors. I'm guessing Grandma's mother, an Italy native, planted them, too. She could have easily carried this cultural tradition here, and naturally, Grandma continued it. 

When I see or smell geraniums now, my mind transports me back to those carefree summer days at Grandma and Grandpa's. I can hear the sprinklers: click click click click.....chug-chug-chug-chug.....click click click click. If I listen close enough, I can hear the sound of water droplets upon the blades of grass. The giant blue spruce tree, with its branches gently angled toward the ground, made a hiding place at the base of the trunk. Bringing toys and various other treasures, I'd climb under the branches and pretend it was a portal where I could talk to forest animals. The birds flutter and chirp their way throughout the yard. Killdeer commonly nested in the thick shrubs and I got winded many times trying to catch one of the babies that escaped. When I'd tire of the play, I went back across the damp lawn into the house. In doing so, it was necessary to pass the pungent red flowers reaching out at me, as though guiding me back home.

Here I am now, in my own home, craving a bit of my childhood that went by entirely too fast. My planters sat empty through the ridiculously long winter, so I headed off to the greenhouse for flowers. I selected spikes, red geraniums, and indigo lobelia to foster my memories. I also purchased a purple and white variegated geranium, too, which got planted, along with some lobelia, in a hanging basket. Even though my potted arrange is slightly different than Grandma's, it reminds me of that feeling in past summers. 

So there you have it. The reasoning behind the plants I chose for my yard this year. The nagging tug of my conscience saying you need to do this was strong enough to act upon. Surely, I'm not the only one who plants or decorates to carry on traditions. I'd love to hear what my readers do to maintain their traditions.

Copyright 2017 Jennifer E. Miller