Writing a column in a newspaper was as easy as falling off a
log. I got hurt logging and had a lot of free time. People
always said I should write down what happened on the river
so I did. One of the stories got into the newspaper. Ten years
and 500 columns later, here are some recent columns from
the Commentary Page of the Peninsula Daily News.
log. I got hurt logging and had a lot of free time. People
always said I should write down what happened on the river
so I did. One of the stories got into the newspaper. Ten years
and 500 columns later, here are some recent columns from
the Commentary Page of the Peninsula Daily News.
6-4-08 W.O.Douglas&Me patneal
There’s a disturbing trend among some columnists to
pander fleeting celebrity references as an excuse for
responsible journalism. It was never that way with the late U.
S. Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas and me. From
the day he moved next door to our family home on the Sol
Duc River until the day he recessed to that big Appeals
Court in the sky, Justice William O. Douglas and I shared a
relationship that was beyond words.
Appointed to the Supreme Court by President Roosevelt,
Justice William O. Douglas served our nation’s highest
court through one of the most tumultuous periods of
American history.
As a conservationist, Justice William O. Douglas had a
burning passion to preserve and protect the wilderness. It
was this love of wild places that attracted Justice William O.
Douglas to the North Olympic Peninsula.
I think Justice William O. Douglas came here to get away
from it all. Instead Justice William O. Douglas moved next
door to the Neal Family. We were loggers. William O.
Douglas was a Supreme Court Justice and conservationist
with a reputation for being soft on the commies and fast
with the women. Conflicts were inevitable.
Things came to a head one day in the summer of 1958. I was
out in the driveway playing in a dirt pile. Supreme Court
Justice William O. Douglas dropped by and mentioned he
was going on a hike to protest a new road the Park Service
wanted to build out on the Pacific Coast.
At the time I was a road builder. I had a dump truck, a road
grader and an army tank. Heck, I had my own army with
flamethrowers, mortars and machine guns all jammed in a
plastic Davy Crocket fort. Every once in a while I’d bomb my
own fort with dirt clods just for fun but what did you
expect? I was four years old at the time.
I had my dreams, of a dump truck army building roads
across my dirt pile and beyond. And here this big shot, city
slicker Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas was
trying to shut down my job before I even got one. I may
have said things he regrets.
I wanted to go on that beach hike to protest the protest. I
had my blanket and my pet stuffed monkey all ready. All I
needed was a sack of jam sandwiches and I could have hit
the trail. Instead I got some static from the war department.
Mom said I couldn’t go off on a beach hike with that “pinko”
judge and his floosies.”
I wondered if there wasn’t something funny going on, with
Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas dropping by, to
invite us on a hike when Pa was gone logging and all.
All I know for sure is that last Friday there was a panel
discussion held at Peninsula College celebrating Justice
William O. Douglas’s local conservation efforts. This year
marks the 50th anniversary of the hike that Justice William
O. Douglas took to protest the construction of a road on a
46 mile stretch of pristine wilderness beach along our
Pacific Coast.
Mom and I were not invited. I felt bad for the little people
who made it all happen. They were cheated of the spectacle
of my tear-stained apology to Supreme Court Justice
William O. Douglas. With the hindsight of history, Supreme
Court Justice William O. Douglas was right.
The deterioration of our National Parks infrastructure is a
national disgrace. The National Park Service can’t maintain
the roads they have. They had no business building
anymore.
There’s a disturbing trend among some columnists to
pander fleeting celebrity references as an excuse for
responsible journalism. It was never that way with the late U.
S. Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas and me. From
the day he moved next door to our family home on the Sol
Duc River until the day he recessed to that big Appeals
Court in the sky, Justice William O. Douglas and I shared a
relationship that was beyond words.
Appointed to the Supreme Court by President Roosevelt,
Justice William O. Douglas served our nation’s highest
court through one of the most tumultuous periods of
American history.
As a conservationist, Justice William O. Douglas had a
burning passion to preserve and protect the wilderness. It
was this love of wild places that attracted Justice William O.
Douglas to the North Olympic Peninsula.
I think Justice William O. Douglas came here to get away
from it all. Instead Justice William O. Douglas moved next
door to the Neal Family. We were loggers. William O.
Douglas was a Supreme Court Justice and conservationist
with a reputation for being soft on the commies and fast
with the women. Conflicts were inevitable.
Things came to a head one day in the summer of 1958. I was
out in the driveway playing in a dirt pile. Supreme Court
Justice William O. Douglas dropped by and mentioned he
was going on a hike to protest a new road the Park Service
wanted to build out on the Pacific Coast.
At the time I was a road builder. I had a dump truck, a road
grader and an army tank. Heck, I had my own army with
flamethrowers, mortars and machine guns all jammed in a
plastic Davy Crocket fort. Every once in a while I’d bomb my
own fort with dirt clods just for fun but what did you
expect? I was four years old at the time.
I had my dreams, of a dump truck army building roads
across my dirt pile and beyond. And here this big shot, city
slicker Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas was
trying to shut down my job before I even got one. I may
have said things he regrets.
I wanted to go on that beach hike to protest the protest. I
had my blanket and my pet stuffed monkey all ready. All I
needed was a sack of jam sandwiches and I could have hit
the trail. Instead I got some static from the war department.
Mom said I couldn’t go off on a beach hike with that “pinko”
judge and his floosies.”
I wondered if there wasn’t something funny going on, with
Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas dropping by, to
invite us on a hike when Pa was gone logging and all.
All I know for sure is that last Friday there was a panel
discussion held at Peninsula College celebrating Justice
William O. Douglas’s local conservation efforts. This year
marks the 50th anniversary of the hike that Justice William
O. Douglas took to protest the construction of a road on a
46 mile stretch of pristine wilderness beach along our
Pacific Coast.
Mom and I were not invited. I felt bad for the little people
who made it all happen. They were cheated of the spectacle
of my tear-stained apology to Supreme Court Justice
William O. Douglas. With the hindsight of history, Supreme
Court Justice William O. Douglas was right.
The deterioration of our National Parks infrastructure is a
national disgrace. The National Park Service can’t maintain
the roads they have. They had no business building
anymore.
6-18-08 rural-fication pat neal,
Lately people have wondered if there is any way to preserve
the rural character of Sequim. With all the rampant
development, the big box stores are blocking my view of
WalMart.
I and many other right thinking conservationists believe that
sustainable development of the rural esthetic can best be
attained through the proper management of endangered
species. That is why I have previously used this column to
propose the reintroduction of the Olympic Timber Wolf to
Sequim.
This might best be accomplished through the restoration of
wolf habitat on the Sequim Prairie. It was hoped that a
program of regular burning would recreate this savannah
grassland that was described by the first Europeans when
they discovered Sequim.
The restored prairie eco-system could serve as a home for the
Sequim elk and other rare and endangered species of birds
and mammals that are vital prey to the wolves.
Unfortunately with a rapidly increasing population, conflicts
between people and elk have become more frequent. Despite
the many economical and safe methods of birth control
available on the market today, the human population
continues to grow beyond the carrying capacity of the habitat.
Efforts to anesthetize the elk and relocate them to another
town have been unsatisfactory. No one else wants them.
Instead of removing the elk, which would be a net loss to the
eco-system, I had proposed that we relocate the excess
population of humans from Sequim. Many of them are already
anesthetized. They could be lured on to a bus with more
anesthetics and released in the big city say after a ball game
where they’ll blend in with the locals.
With a decrease in the human population, the elk herd would
increase to the point where it could support a large
population of wolves if they should happen to show up.
Since announcing these conservation efforts, many
concerned citizens have come forward to pledge their whole
hearted support for this rural-fication program. The
authorities have been notified.
Meanwhile some reactionary, not-in-my-backyard extremist
elements have put their own confused bourgeois sensibilities
ahead of the restoration and stewardship of the environment.
My plans for the sustainable development of the rural esthetic
hit a stumbling block of clean-air-law red tape, petty bickering
and monetary woe.
Until now.
The Dungeness River Management Team is an organization of
government employees and citizen volunteers dedicated to
the care and preservation of endangered species. Starting in
1988 with just one endangered species the Bull Trout, the
DMRT now has 5 endangered species of fish in the
Dungeness with more on the way!
The DRMT Bull Trout habitat restoration plan calls for the
removal of flood control dikes along the lower Dungeness
River. I am all for it.
The Sequim Dungeness Valley is not a valley. It is delta of
alluvial deposits eroded from the Olympic Mountains eons
before there were any loggers to blame. With each flood, the
Dungeness becomes a river of stone. You can hear them
pounding in the river bed as they spill out of the mountains
and settle in the slower current, piling the sediments higher.
Once the sediments reach a certain height the river moves
from one channel to another. In this way the mouth of the
Dungeness has traveled from the Oyster House on Dungeness
Bay to Washington Harbor on Sequim Bay since the last ice
age.
With the removal of the dikes, the Dungeness River would be
free to reclaim its former delta which includes Sequim. It
might be a real improvement for Sequim, if a river ran through
it.
Who knows maybe we could see the Wall Mart again.
Lately people have wondered if there is any way to preserve
the rural character of Sequim. With all the rampant
development, the big box stores are blocking my view of
WalMart.
I and many other right thinking conservationists believe that
sustainable development of the rural esthetic can best be
attained through the proper management of endangered
species. That is why I have previously used this column to
propose the reintroduction of the Olympic Timber Wolf to
Sequim.
This might best be accomplished through the restoration of
wolf habitat on the Sequim Prairie. It was hoped that a
program of regular burning would recreate this savannah
grassland that was described by the first Europeans when
they discovered Sequim.
The restored prairie eco-system could serve as a home for the
Sequim elk and other rare and endangered species of birds
and mammals that are vital prey to the wolves.
Unfortunately with a rapidly increasing population, conflicts
between people and elk have become more frequent. Despite
the many economical and safe methods of birth control
available on the market today, the human population
continues to grow beyond the carrying capacity of the habitat.
Efforts to anesthetize the elk and relocate them to another
town have been unsatisfactory. No one else wants them.
Instead of removing the elk, which would be a net loss to the
eco-system, I had proposed that we relocate the excess
population of humans from Sequim. Many of them are already
anesthetized. They could be lured on to a bus with more
anesthetics and released in the big city say after a ball game
where they’ll blend in with the locals.
With a decrease in the human population, the elk herd would
increase to the point where it could support a large
population of wolves if they should happen to show up.
Since announcing these conservation efforts, many
concerned citizens have come forward to pledge their whole
hearted support for this rural-fication program. The
authorities have been notified.
Meanwhile some reactionary, not-in-my-backyard extremist
elements have put their own confused bourgeois sensibilities
ahead of the restoration and stewardship of the environment.
My plans for the sustainable development of the rural esthetic
hit a stumbling block of clean-air-law red tape, petty bickering
and monetary woe.
Until now.
The Dungeness River Management Team is an organization of
government employees and citizen volunteers dedicated to
the care and preservation of endangered species. Starting in
1988 with just one endangered species the Bull Trout, the
DMRT now has 5 endangered species of fish in the
Dungeness with more on the way!
The DRMT Bull Trout habitat restoration plan calls for the
removal of flood control dikes along the lower Dungeness
River. I am all for it.
The Sequim Dungeness Valley is not a valley. It is delta of
alluvial deposits eroded from the Olympic Mountains eons
before there were any loggers to blame. With each flood, the
Dungeness becomes a river of stone. You can hear them
pounding in the river bed as they spill out of the mountains
and settle in the slower current, piling the sediments higher.
Once the sediments reach a certain height the river moves
from one channel to another. In this way the mouth of the
Dungeness has traveled from the Oyster House on Dungeness
Bay to Washington Harbor on Sequim Bay since the last ice
age.
With the removal of the dikes, the Dungeness River would be
free to reclaim its former delta which includes Sequim. It
might be a real improvement for Sequim, if a river ran through
it.
Who knows maybe we could see the Wall Mart again.
6-11-08 tourist season pat neal
This must be the coldest Junuary we’ve had in years.
Everyone complains about the weather but nobody has done
anything about it, until now. I think it’s time we all developed
a more positive appreciation for Global Cooling.
While scientists and health care experts have warned us for
years about the harmful effects of the sun’s rays. No one ever
developed a malignant skin tumor while lying out in the fog
catching some rain.
With the sunshine comes the added danger of a flood event
as the near record snow pack melts, possibly destroying
everything in its path.
Prolonged exposure to sunlight makes the woods tinder dry.
One little spark could turn the North Olympic Peninsula into a
fiery holocaust. Sunshine can bring another threat to our
health, safety and emotional well-being that’s worse than all
the floods and forest fires put together, tourists.
All we need is one day of sunshine for the tourist migration
to hatch. As with any natural disaster, it’s best to have a plan
to cope with the event. Leave.
What if you’re too broke and ignorant to go anywhere?
Maybe you can learn from my wealth of experience in dealing
with the problem. I’ll never forget the last time tourists
showed up at my house.
There was a whole van of them. The doors opened. The
tourists burst out like a SWAT team all asking the same
question,
“Where’s the bathroom?”
I knew from hard experience this rush on the bathroom
would lead to another flood, the flooding of the septic
system.
After I pumped out the bathroom, the tourist demands
became more insistent. They wanted to go clamming and
fishing.
I asked the tourists how they would like it if I came over to
their big city to rob the liquor store.
“That’s illegal.” The tourists said.
“So is clamming and fishing.” I explained. The clams are
polluted and the fish are endangered. Clamming and fishing
are Federal crimes here. You’d probably get off with a lighter
sentence robbing the liquor store back home.
Here on the North Olympic Peninsula, we’ve had to come up
with strange new ways of dealing with tourists beyond
clamming and fishing.
I gave the tourists tennis rackets and led them to the
vegetable garden. It was being eaten by a plague of slugs.
“Go for distance,” I said, explaining the finer points of slug
tennis. We had a volley in no time, until the rackets clogged
up and I really should have insisted on eye protection.
Then it was off to the woods for a real old fashioned firewood
ride. That’s like a hay-ride only instead of sitting on some
moldy hay in a clunky old wagon, you’re styling on a pile of
firewood in the back of a speeding truck.
First we had to get the truck started. Ask any mechanic, you
need four things, ignition, timing, fuel and compression to
get an infernal combustion engine going. If the truck still
won’t start, you may need one more thing, a push.
Pushing the truck requires teamwork, agility and brute
strength which makes it an ideal tourist activity.
Once we got the truck stated we had a firewood ride dreams
are made of.
That’s what tourist season means to me, making memories
that will last a lifetime. We unloaded the firewood. The
tourists got the bleeding stopped. They kept yammering
about the bathroom. I explained how we’d have to snake the
septic tank first. Unfortunately there’s just never enough
time on a vacation. The tourists had to go.
I knew I would miss them but they had to leave first.
This must be the coldest Junuary we’ve had in years.
Everyone complains about the weather but nobody has done
anything about it, until now. I think it’s time we all developed
a more positive appreciation for Global Cooling.
While scientists and health care experts have warned us for
years about the harmful effects of the sun’s rays. No one ever
developed a malignant skin tumor while lying out in the fog
catching some rain.
With the sunshine comes the added danger of a flood event
as the near record snow pack melts, possibly destroying
everything in its path.
Prolonged exposure to sunlight makes the woods tinder dry.
One little spark could turn the North Olympic Peninsula into a
fiery holocaust. Sunshine can bring another threat to our
health, safety and emotional well-being that’s worse than all
the floods and forest fires put together, tourists.
All we need is one day of sunshine for the tourist migration
to hatch. As with any natural disaster, it’s best to have a plan
to cope with the event. Leave.
What if you’re too broke and ignorant to go anywhere?
Maybe you can learn from my wealth of experience in dealing
with the problem. I’ll never forget the last time tourists
showed up at my house.
There was a whole van of them. The doors opened. The
tourists burst out like a SWAT team all asking the same
question,
“Where’s the bathroom?”
I knew from hard experience this rush on the bathroom
would lead to another flood, the flooding of the septic
system.
After I pumped out the bathroom, the tourist demands
became more insistent. They wanted to go clamming and
fishing.
I asked the tourists how they would like it if I came over to
their big city to rob the liquor store.
“That’s illegal.” The tourists said.
“So is clamming and fishing.” I explained. The clams are
polluted and the fish are endangered. Clamming and fishing
are Federal crimes here. You’d probably get off with a lighter
sentence robbing the liquor store back home.
Here on the North Olympic Peninsula, we’ve had to come up
with strange new ways of dealing with tourists beyond
clamming and fishing.
I gave the tourists tennis rackets and led them to the
vegetable garden. It was being eaten by a plague of slugs.
“Go for distance,” I said, explaining the finer points of slug
tennis. We had a volley in no time, until the rackets clogged
up and I really should have insisted on eye protection.
Then it was off to the woods for a real old fashioned firewood
ride. That’s like a hay-ride only instead of sitting on some
moldy hay in a clunky old wagon, you’re styling on a pile of
firewood in the back of a speeding truck.
First we had to get the truck started. Ask any mechanic, you
need four things, ignition, timing, fuel and compression to
get an infernal combustion engine going. If the truck still
won’t start, you may need one more thing, a push.
Pushing the truck requires teamwork, agility and brute
strength which makes it an ideal tourist activity.
Once we got the truck stated we had a firewood ride dreams
are made of.
That’s what tourist season means to me, making memories
that will last a lifetime. We unloaded the firewood. The
tourists got the bleeding stopped. They kept yammering
about the bathroom. I explained how we’d have to snake the
septic tank first. Unfortunately there’s just never enough
time on a vacation. The tourists had to go.
I knew I would miss them but they had to leave first.
The Brown Hat Society
By Pat Neal
By now even I’m familiar with the Red Hat Society. It’s a
disorganization of women unfounded years ago by a
woman who upon turning 50 decided to fulfill her wildest
dreams of self-fulfillment by walking around town with a red
hat on.
At first the goal was to get together to express individuality,
celebrate sisterhood and do lunch. It didn’t take long for
things spin wildly out of control.
Now they get together for Caribbean cruises and national
conventions. They get in touch with their inner little girl and
honor the change that comes with age through a process of
intense retail therapy. There is a Red Hat Catalogue with
everything from feather boas to underwear.
All of which made me wonder. Why isn’t there a similar
organization for men? There must be a reason, something
beyond the fact that men over 50 are too ornery and broke
to get together for lunch.
Maybe it’s an identity crisis brought on by the changing
role of men throughout history that has many men
wondering just where we went wrong. History is a process
of decay. I suspect the trouble all started when man
abandoned the hunter-gatherer lifestyle, to grow grain and
make beer some 6000 years before present. Cities sprang up
out of nowhere.
Even back then every city had a dump. They are called
middens.
Archaeological excavations of middens offer a glimpse into
the food, clothing and spiritual beliefs of lost civilizations.
The evidence suggests that in pre-historic times, it was the
pre-historic men who took out the garbage.
I and many other right thinking, award winning journalists
believe it was this division of labor that lead to great leaps
in human evolution.
When early man was at that garbage dump he probably
found something he couldn’t believe someone else had
thrown away. So he snuck it back to his stone-age
workshop and invented stuff…the wheel, the pyramid, the
back-scratcher.
Anthropological studies have revealed primitive tribes
throughout history and around the world that have
sometimes allowed men an important decision making role
in the household. These key studies may yield clues to our
own pre-history, back through the mists of time, before the
invention of television.
It’s a historical fact that many important figures in history
were men. You can argue with me but you can’t argue with
the Bible. When Mary had to get baby Jesus out of town in
a hurry, it was Joseph who saddled up the pack string to
Egypt.
When Queen Isabelle of Spain wanted to discover the New
World she got a guy named Christopher(Columbus) to go
find it.
Sacajewea relied on two men, Meriweather(Lewis) and
William(Clark) to brush out the trail on her Voyage of
Discovery across what would become the western United
States. Throughout history, behind every good woman
there was a crew of men doing the heavy lifting. I think
every American owes a great debt of gratitude to men. It
was their hard work and dedication that made our country
so cool.
In modern times, society has evolved to the point where the
television has become the head of the household. TV
determines our food, clothing and spiritual beliefs by
marketing to the demographic with the most disposable
income, children.
Old men don’t spend enough money to carve out a market
share. Coincidentally, they have become the one segment
of our population that it’s politically correct to ridicule.
Watch how men are portrayed on TV. They’re the mildly
retarded insignificant others who can’t figure out how to
change a roll of toilet paper.
Maybe men need a something like the Red Hat Society. We’
ll call it the Brown Hat Society. We’ll celebrate our
maleness the best way we know how with obscure
collections and unfinished projects we always meant to get
back to. We’ll get together to discuss our medical problems.
If a man wears a brown hat in the woods, does that mean he’
s wrong? Of course, many men are completely colorblind.
The Brown hat could be green or red. The Brown Hat
Society celebrates this diversity with a catalogue jammed
full of everything from backscratchers to underwear.
As Brown Hatters, we’ll celebrate the change in life that
comes with advancing years.
It’s a testimonial to when I had a dream, to turn fifty and
walk the streets with a Brown Hat, knowing it may be the
only thing I have left. Until then Happy father’s day.
By Pat Neal
By now even I’m familiar with the Red Hat Society. It’s a
disorganization of women unfounded years ago by a
woman who upon turning 50 decided to fulfill her wildest
dreams of self-fulfillment by walking around town with a red
hat on.
At first the goal was to get together to express individuality,
celebrate sisterhood and do lunch. It didn’t take long for
things spin wildly out of control.
Now they get together for Caribbean cruises and national
conventions. They get in touch with their inner little girl and
honor the change that comes with age through a process of
intense retail therapy. There is a Red Hat Catalogue with
everything from feather boas to underwear.
All of which made me wonder. Why isn’t there a similar
organization for men? There must be a reason, something
beyond the fact that men over 50 are too ornery and broke
to get together for lunch.
Maybe it’s an identity crisis brought on by the changing
role of men throughout history that has many men
wondering just where we went wrong. History is a process
of decay. I suspect the trouble all started when man
abandoned the hunter-gatherer lifestyle, to grow grain and
make beer some 6000 years before present. Cities sprang up
out of nowhere.
Even back then every city had a dump. They are called
middens.
Archaeological excavations of middens offer a glimpse into
the food, clothing and spiritual beliefs of lost civilizations.
The evidence suggests that in pre-historic times, it was the
pre-historic men who took out the garbage.
I and many other right thinking, award winning journalists
believe it was this division of labor that lead to great leaps
in human evolution.
When early man was at that garbage dump he probably
found something he couldn’t believe someone else had
thrown away. So he snuck it back to his stone-age
workshop and invented stuff…the wheel, the pyramid, the
back-scratcher.
Anthropological studies have revealed primitive tribes
throughout history and around the world that have
sometimes allowed men an important decision making role
in the household. These key studies may yield clues to our
own pre-history, back through the mists of time, before the
invention of television.
It’s a historical fact that many important figures in history
were men. You can argue with me but you can’t argue with
the Bible. When Mary had to get baby Jesus out of town in
a hurry, it was Joseph who saddled up the pack string to
Egypt.
When Queen Isabelle of Spain wanted to discover the New
World she got a guy named Christopher(Columbus) to go
find it.
Sacajewea relied on two men, Meriweather(Lewis) and
William(Clark) to brush out the trail on her Voyage of
Discovery across what would become the western United
States. Throughout history, behind every good woman
there was a crew of men doing the heavy lifting. I think
every American owes a great debt of gratitude to men. It
was their hard work and dedication that made our country
so cool.
In modern times, society has evolved to the point where the
television has become the head of the household. TV
determines our food, clothing and spiritual beliefs by
marketing to the demographic with the most disposable
income, children.
Old men don’t spend enough money to carve out a market
share. Coincidentally, they have become the one segment
of our population that it’s politically correct to ridicule.
Watch how men are portrayed on TV. They’re the mildly
retarded insignificant others who can’t figure out how to
change a roll of toilet paper.
Maybe men need a something like the Red Hat Society. We’
ll call it the Brown Hat Society. We’ll celebrate our
maleness the best way we know how with obscure
collections and unfinished projects we always meant to get
back to. We’ll get together to discuss our medical problems.
If a man wears a brown hat in the woods, does that mean he’
s wrong? Of course, many men are completely colorblind.
The Brown hat could be green or red. The Brown Hat
Society celebrates this diversity with a catalogue jammed
full of everything from backscratchers to underwear.
As Brown Hatters, we’ll celebrate the change in life that
comes with advancing years.
It’s a testimonial to when I had a dream, to turn fifty and
walk the streets with a Brown Hat, knowing it may be the
only thing I have left. Until then Happy father’s day.
Spring Chores
By Pat Neal.
Springtime must be my favorite time of year. On a clear
blue morning the Olympic Mountains seem to stand so tall
they might fall over but they don’t. Although I was never
one to stand around and enjoy the view when there were
chores to do.
Springtime on the homestead meant the days were getting
longer. There still were not enough hours in the day to get
all the chores done. I had to prioritize, delegate and move
on. I didn’t set myself up for a lot of unrealistic
expectations. When it came to life on the homestead, the
sooner you realized your expectations are unrealistic, the
better.
It’s always best to start out with the right tool for the job.
Archaeologists have told us that man has been a tool user
for over a million years. Recent advances in radiocarbon
dating have determined that many of these tools were
borrowed. In the course of human evolution, whoever
borrowed the most tools, ruled. Inevitably, man too many
borrowed tools to move around anymore. He gathered into
walled cities to make beer. Over the centuries, Man’s tools
became more advanced. Anthropologists have theorized
that the more advanced the tool, the greater the likelihood it
was borrowed.
Take my shovel, please. It could be the most highly evolved
tool I own. People have been hand spading their gardens
for thousands years. Unfortunately, just when I got ready to
spade the garden, some worthless clam digger borrowed
my shovel and never brought it back. That’s OK, I could
never find a shovel that fit my hand anyway.
I had to prioritize, delegate and move on to the next chore.
Springtime was way past time to split and stack up the
firewood rounds I’d cut the winter before. You want to get
the wood properly seasoned so you can burn it without
causing a chimney fire. That means you’’ have to split the
wood and you’ll need an ax for that.
That’s life on the homestead where a man’s best friend is a
good sharp ax. Unless you have a loose ax handle. Go
splitting wood like that and you are asking for trouble. The
ax head could fly off at any time. It’s safety first on the
homestead. You’ve got to soak that ax handle so it will
swell up and fit tight in the ax head and that is not a job
you could rush.
I had to prioritize, delegate and move on.
By then it was way past time to get mow the hay, except for
one thing. The dandelions were in bloom. That meant the
honey bees are working them. Honey bees had been nearly
extirpated from their range by parasites and disease.
I wasn’t one to jerk the welcome mat out from under the
bees by mowing the hay.
Later on, you should forget about mowing the dandelions
after they’ve gone to seed if you want to call yourself a bird
watcher. Our Washington State Bird, the Gold Finch,
gathers the dandelions downy seeds to line their nests.
Maybe you’d sacrifice unborn generations of state birds on
the alter of bourgeois sensibilities. If so go ahead and mow
the dandelions.
That’s life on the homestead. We work with the rhythm of
the seasons to sit back on the porch at the end of the day
to watch the ax handle soak.
By Pat Neal.
Springtime must be my favorite time of year. On a clear
blue morning the Olympic Mountains seem to stand so tall
they might fall over but they don’t. Although I was never
one to stand around and enjoy the view when there were
chores to do.
Springtime on the homestead meant the days were getting
longer. There still were not enough hours in the day to get
all the chores done. I had to prioritize, delegate and move
on. I didn’t set myself up for a lot of unrealistic
expectations. When it came to life on the homestead, the
sooner you realized your expectations are unrealistic, the
better.
It’s always best to start out with the right tool for the job.
Archaeologists have told us that man has been a tool user
for over a million years. Recent advances in radiocarbon
dating have determined that many of these tools were
borrowed. In the course of human evolution, whoever
borrowed the most tools, ruled. Inevitably, man too many
borrowed tools to move around anymore. He gathered into
walled cities to make beer. Over the centuries, Man’s tools
became more advanced. Anthropologists have theorized
that the more advanced the tool, the greater the likelihood it
was borrowed.
Take my shovel, please. It could be the most highly evolved
tool I own. People have been hand spading their gardens
for thousands years. Unfortunately, just when I got ready to
spade the garden, some worthless clam digger borrowed
my shovel and never brought it back. That’s OK, I could
never find a shovel that fit my hand anyway.
I had to prioritize, delegate and move on to the next chore.
Springtime was way past time to split and stack up the
firewood rounds I’d cut the winter before. You want to get
the wood properly seasoned so you can burn it without
causing a chimney fire. That means you’’ have to split the
wood and you’ll need an ax for that.
That’s life on the homestead where a man’s best friend is a
good sharp ax. Unless you have a loose ax handle. Go
splitting wood like that and you are asking for trouble. The
ax head could fly off at any time. It’s safety first on the
homestead. You’ve got to soak that ax handle so it will
swell up and fit tight in the ax head and that is not a job
you could rush.
I had to prioritize, delegate and move on.
By then it was way past time to get mow the hay, except for
one thing. The dandelions were in bloom. That meant the
honey bees are working them. Honey bees had been nearly
extirpated from their range by parasites and disease.
I wasn’t one to jerk the welcome mat out from under the
bees by mowing the hay.
Later on, you should forget about mowing the dandelions
after they’ve gone to seed if you want to call yourself a bird
watcher. Our Washington State Bird, the Gold Finch,
gathers the dandelions downy seeds to line their nests.
Maybe you’d sacrifice unborn generations of state birds on
the alter of bourgeois sensibilities. If so go ahead and mow
the dandelions.
That’s life on the homestead. We work with the rhythm of
the seasons to sit back on the porch at the end of the day
to watch the ax handle soak.
5-21-08-great white fleet pat neal
There are those who consider history a recurring process of
decay. Evidence of this theory occurred on the Port Angeles
City Pier last Saturday morning. A single Coast Guard
Cutter was the only vessel in attendance to celebrate the
one hundredth anniversary of the 1908 visit of the Great
White Fleet to Port Angeles. The Coast Guard has been
saving lives since the Cutter Snohomish was stationed here
in 1910 but Port Angeles was a Navy town first.
Beginning in 1895 the U. S. Navy Pacific Fleet spent nearly
40 summers on maneuvers in Port Angeles harbor.
The yearly arrival of the Battleships of the Pacific Fleet
heralded the start of the biggest party in Washington State.
The Navy fired its big guns, launched torpedoes, night
attacks and mock landings. The Fleet’s 10,000 sailors
doubled the population of Port Angeles. What was a boring,
isolated frontier town welcomed the Navy with open arms.
The first Clallam County Fair was held in honor of The
Pacific Fleet’s Admiral Beardslee.
The Admiral spent so much time fishing at Lake Crescent
they named a species of trout after him. The Naval Elks
Lodge was built with 10 senior Navy officers as charter
members. There were parades, concerts, ship’s tours,
baseball games, picnics and more.
The local moon-shiners had to work overtime.
An old timer told me the local girls would wear “wool socks
in the spring, silk stockings in the fall.”
Then in May of 1908, part of President Theodore Roosevelt’
s Great White Fleet anchored inside of Ediz Hook. The Fleet
had been sent on a world cruise looking for what the
President called, “a feast, a frolic or a fight.” It was part of
Roosevelt’s “Talk softly, carry a big stick” policy.
The Kaiser noticed this maneuver left our Atlantic seaboard
undefended. He offered Roosevelt the use of the German
Navy in case we had a problem with Britain, while our Navy
was on the other side of the globe. The Germans called
Roosevelt’s “Big Stick” a “palm twig.”
The New York Times revealed some of the “armor” on the
older Battleships was made of wood and canvas.
The Great White Fleet was a diplomatic phenomenon. It was
met at every port with lavish entertainments and specially
inflated prices.
The world cruise of the GWF was supposed to open the
doors of trade with China. It was imagined that 400 million
starving Chinese peasants would buy excess American
agricultural and industrial production.
Britain had used two Opium Wars to open trade doors with
China. We hoped to wean the Chinese off British opium
with American tobacco. It was all part of what Rudyard
Kipling called, “The White Man’s Burden” President
Roosevelt said it was, “…bad poetry but great, good
sense.” The British called it “Philanthropy plus 5%”,
Imperialism with a moral purpose, to Christianize.
In 1900, Mark Twain called it “bedraggled, besmirched and
dishonored.”
The GWF visited Japan after a reluctant invitation. No
wonder. The Japanese had their trade door forced open in
1853, when Commodore Perry fired a thirteen gun salute in
Tokyo Bay.
The Japanese learned the strategic importance of a modern
navy. The British helped them build one. The Japanese
form of Imperialism, the so-called Co-Prosperity Sphere
would start a war in the Pacific that consumed millions of
human lives.
All of which had me wondering how should Port Angeles
have celebrated the GWF last Saturday night. With a foreign
policy that remains essentially unchanged since the GWF.
There were no Navy ships. Lake Crescent was closed to
fishing. The cross-dressers had taken over the Naval Elks
lodge. Somewhere, Admiral Beardslee rolled over in his
grave.
There are those who consider history a recurring process of
decay. Evidence of this theory occurred on the Port Angeles
City Pier last Saturday morning. A single Coast Guard
Cutter was the only vessel in attendance to celebrate the
one hundredth anniversary of the 1908 visit of the Great
White Fleet to Port Angeles. The Coast Guard has been
saving lives since the Cutter Snohomish was stationed here
in 1910 but Port Angeles was a Navy town first.
Beginning in 1895 the U. S. Navy Pacific Fleet spent nearly
40 summers on maneuvers in Port Angeles harbor.
The yearly arrival of the Battleships of the Pacific Fleet
heralded the start of the biggest party in Washington State.
The Navy fired its big guns, launched torpedoes, night
attacks and mock landings. The Fleet’s 10,000 sailors
doubled the population of Port Angeles. What was a boring,
isolated frontier town welcomed the Navy with open arms.
The first Clallam County Fair was held in honor of The
Pacific Fleet’s Admiral Beardslee.
The Admiral spent so much time fishing at Lake Crescent
they named a species of trout after him. The Naval Elks
Lodge was built with 10 senior Navy officers as charter
members. There were parades, concerts, ship’s tours,
baseball games, picnics and more.
The local moon-shiners had to work overtime.
An old timer told me the local girls would wear “wool socks
in the spring, silk stockings in the fall.”
Then in May of 1908, part of President Theodore Roosevelt’
s Great White Fleet anchored inside of Ediz Hook. The Fleet
had been sent on a world cruise looking for what the
President called, “a feast, a frolic or a fight.” It was part of
Roosevelt’s “Talk softly, carry a big stick” policy.
The Kaiser noticed this maneuver left our Atlantic seaboard
undefended. He offered Roosevelt the use of the German
Navy in case we had a problem with Britain, while our Navy
was on the other side of the globe. The Germans called
Roosevelt’s “Big Stick” a “palm twig.”
The New York Times revealed some of the “armor” on the
older Battleships was made of wood and canvas.
The Great White Fleet was a diplomatic phenomenon. It was
met at every port with lavish entertainments and specially
inflated prices.
The world cruise of the GWF was supposed to open the
doors of trade with China. It was imagined that 400 million
starving Chinese peasants would buy excess American
agricultural and industrial production.
Britain had used two Opium Wars to open trade doors with
China. We hoped to wean the Chinese off British opium
with American tobacco. It was all part of what Rudyard
Kipling called, “The White Man’s Burden” President
Roosevelt said it was, “…bad poetry but great, good
sense.” The British called it “Philanthropy plus 5%”,
Imperialism with a moral purpose, to Christianize.
In 1900, Mark Twain called it “bedraggled, besmirched and
dishonored.”
The GWF visited Japan after a reluctant invitation. No
wonder. The Japanese had their trade door forced open in
1853, when Commodore Perry fired a thirteen gun salute in
Tokyo Bay.
The Japanese learned the strategic importance of a modern
navy. The British helped them build one. The Japanese
form of Imperialism, the so-called Co-Prosperity Sphere
would start a war in the Pacific that consumed millions of
human lives.
All of which had me wondering how should Port Angeles
have celebrated the GWF last Saturday night. With a foreign
policy that remains essentially unchanged since the GWF.
There were no Navy ships. Lake Crescent was closed to
fishing. The cross-dressers had taken over the Naval Elks
lodge. Somewhere, Admiral Beardslee rolled over in his
grave.
6-11-08 tourist season pat neal
This must be the coldest Junuary we’ve had in years.
Everyone complains about the weather but nobody has
done anything about it, until now. I think it’s time we all
developed a more positive appreciation for Global Cooling.
While scientists and health care experts have warned us for
years about the harmful effects of the sun’s rays. No one
ever developed a malignant skin tumor while lying out in
the fog catching some rain.
With the sunshine comes the added danger of a flood event
as the near record snow pack melts, possibly destroying
everything in its path.
Prolonged exposure to sunlight makes the woods tinder
dry. One little spark could turn the North Olympic Peninsula
into a fiery holocaust. Sunshine can bring another threat to
our health, safety and emotional well-being that’s worse
than all the floods and forest fires put together, tourists.
All we need is one day of sunshine for the tourist migration
to hatch. As with any natural disaster, it’s best to have a
plan to cope with the event. Leave.
What if you’re too broke and ignorant to go anywhere?
Maybe you can learn from my wealth of experience in
dealing with the problem. I’ll never forget the last time
tourists showed up at my house.
There was a whole van of them. The doors opened. The
tourists burst out like a SWAT team all asking the same
question,
“Where’s the bathroom?”
I knew from hard experience this rush on the bathroom
would lead to another flood, the flooding of the septic
system.
After I pumped out the bathroom, the tourist demands
became more insistent. They wanted to go clamming and
fishing.
I asked the tourists how they would like it if I came over to
their big city to rob the liquor store.
“That’s illegal.” The tourists said.
“So is clamming and fishing.” I explained. The clams are
polluted and the fish are endangered. Clamming and fishing
are Federal crimes here. You’d probably get off with a
lighter sentence robbing the liquor store back home.
Here on the North Olympic Peninsula, we’ve had to come up
with strange new ways of dealing with tourists beyond
clamming and fishing.
I gave the tourists tennis rackets and led them to the
vegetable garden. It was being eaten by a plague of slugs.
“Go for distance,” I said, explaining the finer points of slug
tennis. We had a volley in no time, until the rackets clogged
up and I really should have insisted on eye protection.
Then it was off to the woods for a real old fashioned
firewood ride. That’s like a hay-ride only instead of sitting
on some moldy hay in a clunky old wagon, you’re styling on
a pile of firewood in the back of a speeding truck.
First we had to get the truck started. Ask any mechanic, you
need four things, ignition, timing, fuel and compression to
get an infernal combustion engine going. If the truck still
won’t start, you may need one more thing, a push.
Pushing the truck requires teamwork, agility and brute
strength which makes it an ideal tourist activity.
Once we got the truck stated we had a firewood ride dreams
are made of.
That’s what tourist season means to me, making memories
that will last a lifetime. We unloaded the firewood. The
tourists got the bleeding stopped. They kept yammering
about the bathroom. I explained how we’d have to snake the
septic tank first. Unfortunately there’s just never enough
time on a vacation. The tourists had to go.
I knew I would miss them but they had to leave first.
This must be the coldest Junuary we’ve had in years.
Everyone complains about the weather but nobody has
done anything about it, until now. I think it’s time we all
developed a more positive appreciation for Global Cooling.
While scientists and health care experts have warned us for
years about the harmful effects of the sun’s rays. No one
ever developed a malignant skin tumor while lying out in
the fog catching some rain.
With the sunshine comes the added danger of a flood event
as the near record snow pack melts, possibly destroying
everything in its path.
Prolonged exposure to sunlight makes the woods tinder
dry. One little spark could turn the North Olympic Peninsula
into a fiery holocaust. Sunshine can bring another threat to
our health, safety and emotional well-being that’s worse
than all the floods and forest fires put together, tourists.
All we need is one day of sunshine for the tourist migration
to hatch. As with any natural disaster, it’s best to have a
plan to cope with the event. Leave.
What if you’re too broke and ignorant to go anywhere?
Maybe you can learn from my wealth of experience in
dealing with the problem. I’ll never forget the last time
tourists showed up at my house.
There was a whole van of them. The doors opened. The
tourists burst out like a SWAT team all asking the same
question,
“Where’s the bathroom?”
I knew from hard experience this rush on the bathroom
would lead to another flood, the flooding of the septic
system.
After I pumped out the bathroom, the tourist demands
became more insistent. They wanted to go clamming and
fishing.
I asked the tourists how they would like it if I came over to
their big city to rob the liquor store.
“That’s illegal.” The tourists said.
“So is clamming and fishing.” I explained. The clams are
polluted and the fish are endangered. Clamming and fishing
are Federal crimes here. You’d probably get off with a
lighter sentence robbing the liquor store back home.
Here on the North Olympic Peninsula, we’ve had to come up
with strange new ways of dealing with tourists beyond
clamming and fishing.
I gave the tourists tennis rackets and led them to the
vegetable garden. It was being eaten by a plague of slugs.
“Go for distance,” I said, explaining the finer points of slug
tennis. We had a volley in no time, until the rackets clogged
up and I really should have insisted on eye protection.
Then it was off to the woods for a real old fashioned
firewood ride. That’s like a hay-ride only instead of sitting
on some moldy hay in a clunky old wagon, you’re styling on
a pile of firewood in the back of a speeding truck.
First we had to get the truck started. Ask any mechanic, you
need four things, ignition, timing, fuel and compression to
get an infernal combustion engine going. If the truck still
won’t start, you may need one more thing, a push.
Pushing the truck requires teamwork, agility and brute
strength which makes it an ideal tourist activity.
Once we got the truck stated we had a firewood ride dreams
are made of.
That’s what tourist season means to me, making memories
that will last a lifetime. We unloaded the firewood. The
tourists got the bleeding stopped. They kept yammering
about the bathroom. I explained how we’d have to snake the
septic tank first. Unfortunately there’s just never enough
time on a vacation. The tourists had to go.
I knew I would miss them but they had to leave first.
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