Author: Mary Koch

Food for Thought: A Menu for Mother’s Day

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The retirement community where I live is offering the traditional lavish brunch on Mother’s Day. Not for me, thanks. I’ll honor the legacy of my mother, grandmother and mother-in-law with a menu reflecting their culinary specialty: left-overs.

All three — Elsie, Emma, and Edna Mae — had weathered the Great Depression. I was raised to believe that wasting food was the eighth Deadly Sin. Left-overs were a valued commodity. They stretched the food budget one meal further, maybe two. 

I recall my brother questioning our mother, Elsie: “How can we be having leftovers every night? Doesn’t there have to be a starter meal somewhere along the line?” Unfazed, Elsie would calculate not calories but monetary savings. She relished boasting, “This meal cost only sixteen cents per serving.” Obviously, that was in the 1950s.

Just as Grandma Emma had trained Elsie, I was taught the art and craft of repurposing victuals. Elsie, for example, would disguise Sunday’s meat-and-potatoes dinner as a Monday night casserole. I took it a step further with end-of-week Refrigerator Soup. That’s when bits and pieces of complementary leftovers find their way from the refrigerator into a simmering pot of stock (made from vegetable ends and peelings). It’s a “once-in-a-lifetime” recipe, because it’s unlikely I’ll ever again have the same mix of ingredients.

When my mother-in-law, Edna Mae, was living with my husband and me, I quickly learned Edna Mae’s frugality surpassed even Elsie’s. One evening I’d served a casserole of left-overs for the second time. After we’d eaten our fill, a tiny bit remained in the serving dish, barely more than a mouthful. When I scraped the leftover morsels into the garbage, Edna Mae loudly protested, “That’s WICKED!”

Food waste is only part of the wickedness that abounds in our nation these days. But it’s a compelling part. Once again, the U.S. is No. 1: Americans discard more food than any other country, nearly forty million tons — or 30 to 40 percent of the entire U.S. food supply. We throw out nearly as much as we consume. The tragic incongruity is that one in five children — that’s fourteen million kids — are malnourished. There are people facing “food insecurity” in every county of this nation. We all, no matter where we live, have hungry neighbors, some forty-eight million people.

I know many of you, dear readers, are already donating to or volunteering at food banks and soup kitchens. Thank God for you. I volunteer too, but it didn’t help clear my conscience as I scraped perfectly edible food into my compost bin one night.

It was to have been a special meal. I’d purchased a spaghetti squash from a farming friend’s vegetable stand and pondered what sauce to go with it. Fresh tomato? Mushroom? In my refrigerator was an exotic cheese from the supposedly gourmet section of the grocery store. A few slices of the cheese on crackers had been disappointing. It proved crumbly, dry, bland. But as I’d been taught to “rescue” food, I decided to make a cheese sauce to top the spaghetti squash. The cheese was even more dreadful in a sauce. It smothered the squash in blandness. No amount of seasoning could perk it up. 

As usual, I had enough left over for a second meal. I couldn’t face it. With “WICKED!” echoing in my head, I chose composting. I no longer have a garden. My compost materials — along with my neighbors’ — go to a commercial composting company. Even that industry is controversial, criticized for releasing greenhouse gases into the atmosphere and potentially polluting groundwater. 

Much of the solution to food and other kinds of waste begins with us, the consumers. If we ask ourselves with every purchase, “What’s going to happen with this product or package in the end?” we may reduce our own wasteful contributions.

There’s reason to hope. I found a company called Ambrosia that turns food waste into a household cleaner.  Elsie would’ve bought that, but only if it were on sale.

One night after the spaghetti squash disaster, I made fritters from left-over mashed potatoes mixed with chopped-up, left-over steamed vegetables and the remains of a stuffed portobello mushroom. Delicious! Even better, there were two fritters left over for breakfast the next day.

MAY DAY!

On By Mary KochIn Uncategorized2 Comments

They’re preaching to the choir, I said to myself.The “preachers,” in this instance, were public  television travel guru Rick Steves plus a real life preacher, Steves’ wife, Lutheran Bishop Shelley Bryan Wee. They were sharing a podium — not the pulpit — at St. Mark’s Episcopal Cathedral in Seattle. Their presentation, “The Traveler and the Bishop” focussed on threats to American democracy and the rise of Christian Nationalism.

Some, perhaps many, church goers view such topics as political and inappropriate in a church. I empathize with their need for sanctuary, an escape from poisoned politics, stress, and disagreement. These are, noted Bishop Shelley (as she prefers to be called), “fraught times.”

If the war we’re waging against Iran upsets you because gas prices are soaring, that’s a political issue. When the commander in chief of the most powerful military in the world threatens to annihilate an entire nation, that’s no longer politics. That’s a threat to the very fiber of humanity. It’s a moral issue demanding nonpartisan, nonviolent discussion in churches, synagogues, temples and mosques.

“Across the United States there’s a crescendo of concern,” said Steves. “People are rising up and they’re asking, ‘What the hell is going on?’”

St. Mark’s, which seats well over a thousand, was packed. When an evening presentation was first announced — free, but reservations required — capacity quickly was reached. Steves and Bishop Shelley agreed to a second, afternoon presentation. When I arrived, a half-hour early, the “choir” was gathering. A line spanned the large stone labyrinth in front of the cathedral and half-way down the block.

I thought about the many times singing in a choir motivated and empowered me. Maybe preaching to the choir should not be discounted. Maybe it’s more impactful than the old cliche suggests.

Steves effectively summarized events of the past year-and-a-half, none of it news to this audience. Partway into his forty-minute speech he acknowledged he didn’t like using the “F” word, but . . . and then he paused, meaningfully. I steeled myself, anticipating the profane F-Bomb. But Steves had another “F” word in mind, even more profane: Fascism. 

He’s an authority. Seven years ago he produced a documentary, “The Story of Fascism in Europe.” It is frighteningly omniscient, showing events of the 1920s and 1930s that mirror what’s happening here and now. Steves also compiled what he calls “The Dictator’s Playbook: 20 Points Followed by Mussolini, Hitler…and Every Wannabe Fascist Authoritarian Since.” (Available on Facebook.)

No. 1 on Steves’ checklist is, “Establish a mythic past … and promise a national rebirth to the good old days.” MAGA, anyone? Another is to promise simple solutions to complex problems. DOGE, anyone? A vital component of special concern to me and fellow career journalists: control the information media. 

This choir member left the cathedral both energized and discomforted. It’s my lack of personal inconvenience that worries me. I’m troubled intellectually, emotionally, spiritually. But my day-to-day life is smooth sailing. I’m aware of higher prices in the grocery store, yet I’m not struggling to feed a family. Thousands of my fellow citizens cannot afford skyrocketing health insurance premiums with the loss of supplements. My Medicare Advantage plan is still affordable — while I’m healthy, at least. 

People are dying, in this country and across the globe. Some 600,000 deaths have been attributed to the end of USAID. 

Reader, please be patient while I offer another metaphor. Am I (along with so many like me) the proverbial frog who is dropped into a pot of cool water? The frog swims around as the water heats up — until it’s too late. Wikipedia offers some comfort, if you care about frogs. Experiments have determined that when the water gets hot, the frog jumps out. Are we as intelligent as frogs?

I’m posting this late on May 1. May Day is both a call for help and a traditional day for demanding workers’ rights. And here we are, inhumanely treating and deporting people who are an essential core of our working population. That’s reality, even if the frog metaphor isn’t. How close are we to the boiling point? Can we turn down the heat? Possibly — if the preachers keep preaching, and if we in the choir sing at the top of our lungs.

*   *   *

To watch the full April 26 event at St. Mark’s Cathedral click here. (Welcome and introductions  start at five minutes in, and Steves’ talk is eight minutes in. Bishop Shelley’s talk is one hour and ten minutes in.)

EARTH DAY: Is That My Bus Pulling Away?

On By Mary KochIn Uncategorized1 Comment

On Earth Day — of all days — public transportation, more specifically busses, had me bamboozled. This after two-and-a-half years of preaching about the wonderfulness of Seattle’s mass transit! How I’ve crowed about reducing my personal carbon footprint by not owning/driving a car.

My plan for the day was simple: pick up a couple sandwiches from a neighborhood deli for lunch with my sister, who lives a mere forty miles away. From the deli, I’d walk downhill seven blocks to catch the Sound Transit 594 Express, hop off in downtown Tacoma and board the Pierce Transit No. 45, which drives right past my sister’s house in Parkland.

You know the old Hebrew saying. “We plan; God laughs.” 

Undeterred by a steady rainfall, my umbrella and I arrived at the deli. The sandwiches I’d ordered online the day before weren’t ready. After a twenty-minute wait, I knew I’d missed the No. 594. I didn’t mind. It runs every thirty minutes, giving me an extra ten minutes to walk more carefully down the steep, rain-slicked sidewalk. By chance a neighbor was also waiting at the bus stop, though headed in a different direction. We agreed that we were fortunate not to be driving through rain and heavy traffic.

The 594 was a minute late, and I was a bit concerned. The wait time between the No. 594 and No. 45 to Parkland is tight. Still, the bus cruised along the express lane as I peered down at drivers — alone in their cars — making tedious if any progress.  We arrived in Tacoma right on time. I hopped off the 594 but somehow got turned around, heading in the wrong direction for the 45. By the time I realized my error, the Parkland bus was long gone. 

No matter. Our sandwiches could wait. This gave me a half-hour to explore  a bit of downtown Tacoma. What impressive changes since the 1960s when I was a student there! Buildings refreshed and repurposed. A tiered fountain takes advantage of downtown’s steep hill, spilling cascades of clear water between Commerce and Pacific streets. Even on a rainy day, it was refreshing. What used to be just plain old 9th and Broadway is now the heart of the “Theater District.” Oh, my.

Next comes the insulting part. I got back to the bus stop in plenty of time and noted that the No. 42 was parked along the curb. I figured the 45 would pull up behind it. As time for the 45 arrived, the “No. 42” started its engine and began to pull away. I turned to watch the departing bus and realized it had morphed. The electric route sign had changed from “42” to “45.”

“Hey!” I yelled pointlessly while waving my umbrella. The bus headed up the hill without me. Exasperated, not to mention hungry, I pulled out my phone and punched the Lyft app. Dominic arrived in two minutes and got me directly to my sister’s house sooner than the No. 45 would’ve.

“How much did that cost?” my sister asked. I’d been pondering the same question. The Lyft fare was a pittance when I considered the monthly cost of maintaining, insuring, parking and fueling my own car.

After our lunch and visit, I left in plenty of time to catch the No. 45 at three o’clock. So early, in fact, I barely missed the bus that departed at 2:45. Oh, well. I hunkered down. The shelter protected me from rain but not wind. Sure enough a bus pulled in at 3 p.m. As I tried to board, the driver told me we wouldn’t be leaving until 3:15. I’d misread the schedule. Upon his return from the restroom, the driver kindly allowed me to wait inside the bus and announced, “Your trip is free ’cuz it’s Earth Day.” 

I smiled, said thanks, and didn’t bother to tell him that ALL my bus rides are free. My retirement community, Horizon House, pays for my senior citizen Orca card, which covers all public transit in the region, including ferries and light rail. Every day is Earth Day.

The No. 45 got me back to catch the No. 594 with two minutes to spare. The return to Seattle was smooth sailing, but I was too exhausted to walk back up First Hill. I decided to take the G Line. It — of course — was pulling away as a red light kept me from crossing the street and boarding. Then, a miracle. Metro No. 2 pulled up. It would get me two blocks closer to home than the G Line. 

Finally home, I pondered the day. I realized each missed bus gave me an opportunity: to walk more slowly, safely downhill; to chat with a neighbor I don’t see often enough; to explore a renovated downtown Tacoma; to admire the stuffed animals in Dominic’s Lyft car and learn he’ll be a first-time father “very soon.” 

The 3:15 bus coincided with the end of the school day. What a scene! Teens tumbled onboard with adolescent bravado masking their self-awareness and uncertainty.  A few blocks further, the driver lowered the ramp for a homeless man whose pull cart was piled high, presumably with all that he owned. His large dog made friends with a chihuahua riding in a kennel on wheels. A cyclist taking a shortcut efficiently loaded his bike on the rack in front of the bus and hopped on.

Public transit is people being with other people — different people — going and getting somewhere together. If I still had a car, I would’ve driven alone to my sister’s and back. Where’s the story in that?

HOME: What’s it worth to you?

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The “starter” home that I bought in 1974 for $10,000 recently sold for $840,000. No, not my financial coup. I’d sold it for $30,000 five years after I bought it. I’d considered that outrageous good fortune.

Originally built as a summer cottage, it clings to a side hill on the very northern tip of Vashon Island, across from Seattle. It has one bedroom, a cramped kitchen and a panoramic view of Puget Sound’s marine life with snow-capped Mount Baker far in the north, the Olympic Peninsula to the west and city skyline to the east. Considering the million dollar view, you could argue the new owners got a bargain.

“You should’ve kept it,” murmured the friend who told me about the sale. I sighed. Many times through the years I thought about that dear first home. Sitting now at my keyboard I drift off … I’m standing at that big front window, mug of coffee in hand, drinking in all the beauty that stretches out before me. Too wonderful to be mine. 

I shake myself back to reality, to practicality. I sold the house because I was marrying my beloved, moving to the other side of the state, and would have neither time nor energy to maintain an island haven. We already had a second home: our newspaper office, where we shared the work we were both devoted to.

If I did have that $840,000 (minus fees, commissions and taxes), what difference would it make in my life now? None. Nearing age 82, I’m content with my lifestyle. Throughout the past decade of downsizing I discovered I have everything I need and too much of it. My financial advisor says I have enough money to last my lifetime, with some left over. Well, we’ll see. 

I could increase my charitable giving, although it always takes more than money to solve our real problems. With inflation, that $10,000 I invested in 1974 has the purchasing power of about $66,000 today. Good luck finding a starter for that amount. A one-bedroom in King County now goes for $350,000 to $550,000, says Zillow. Even for those of us who no longer need a starter, the Seattle Times reports that Washington is the seventh most expensive state for older adults. 

It’s all about numbers, unbelievable numbers. 

“More than 90 percent of all money — more than $50 trillion appearing in our accounts — exists only on computer servers,” writes Yuval Noah Harari in his book, “Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind.” He notes that “most business transactions are executed by moving electronic data from one computer file to another, without any exchange of physical cash.” On the book cover, above the title, above Harari’s name, is a blurb praising the book by someone who knows something about computers and money— Bill Gates.

Harari defines money as an “inter-subjective reality that exists solely in people’s shared imagination.” In simpler terms, he says, money is “a system of mutual trust, and not just any system of mutual trust: money is the most universal and most efficient system of mutual trust ever devised. (Italics his.)

For example, he suggests: “Christians and Muslims who could not agree on religious beliefs could nevertheless agree on a monetary belief, because whereas religion asks us to believe in something, money asks us to believe that other people believe in something.” (He really likes italics.)

Money has never been my motivator. It’s been a concern, a consideration, but never an end goal. Years back, my late husband John was figuring our net worth while applying for a business loan to purchase new equipment for the newspaper. With an astonished voice he declared, “Mary, we’re millionaires!” That was back in the day when a million bucks meant something.

For him, it wasn’t a measure of greed, wealth, or the supposed easy life that a million dollars could bring. It was an objective measure. Starting with nothing but talent and grit, he’d turned a small town newspaper into a million dollar business without, mind you, sacrificing his journalistic integrity. I enjoyed the richness of sharing in that achievement. 

Ultimately, our million dollars and more got sucked up by the medical industry following John’s brainstem stroke and paralysis. Over the remaining years of his life, he went from millionaire to Medicaid. The most common cause of bankruptcy in our nation is medical bills. We escaped that and the ignominy of a Medicaid divorce, thanks to a capable lawyer.

The last time I visited Vashon Island, after John’s death several years ago, I was amazed that my little house was still standing. I suspect now its days are numbered — the numbers being $840,000. The new owners likely will tear it down and spend at least that to build something more appropriate for the view I’d reveled in. 

I gave it up for something worth much more than any amount of money. Nostalgia but no regrets.

Joy, Even in Times Like This

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Ordinarily, the last thing one wants to hear at a chamber music concert is a crying baby. But these are not ordinary times. 

The Seattle Chamber Music Festival pre-concert performance would last only a half-hour. It would take longer than that to walk to Benaroya Hall and back. Still, a crisp, sunny afternoon beckoned and I needed to get away from the news. Especially news from Minneapolis, where I was born.

“It is a daily discipline to choose how much of the world’s darkness we touch and why,” wrote Debra Hall in her poem, “The Wrapping Ceremony.” An excerpt from the poem has been on my refrigerator door ever since it was published by We’Moon in 2023. The print-out has become wrinkled and faded because I refer to it, well, daily.

“We could be incandescent with righteous rage every second of every hour. Our collective grief could raise the sea level overnight,” the poem continues. Then, a few verses later, she advises: “It is joy too we are here to spend.”

Her inclusion of the three-letter word “too” is most important to me. The poet doesn’t suggest we disregard and deny our grief and rage. We can also — we are required — to make room for joy. That is our human condition.

A fellow human was fatally shot on the streets of Minneapolis. I recognize the street names. They were streets I walked along at age ten. My parents considered it safe for me to take a bus downtown, unaccompanied, to Saturday morning piano lessons. 

That was then. This is now. Each day the news gets darker. Headline: “Minneapolis Man Killed by Federal Agents Was Holding a Phone, Not a Gun”

 It is a daily discipline … 

I closed my computer, donned a heavy jacket and headed for the concert hall. There were plenty of empty seats even though the concert that followed was sold out. Perhaps the pre-concert program was too weird for chamber music fans: a half-hour of improvisation by a cellist and percussionist. 

I can’t remember the last time I’ve been so captivated and comforted by music. I’d heard Efe Baltacigil, a native of Turkey and Seattle Symphony principal cellist, play on other occasions. I knew he’d be good. Mari Yoshinaga, a Japanese native with a master’s degree from Yale, surrounded herself with a panoply of exotic instruments. I took a percussion class in college yet couldn’t begin to name all that she played. 

The art of musical improvisation requires a mutuality, a confidence in the other musician that goes beyond words. That unspoken trust was apparent from the opening sounds and only intensified as the music continued. After some twenty minutes, the musicians took a breather. Yoshinaga announced that her child, not quite one year old, was in the audience with her husband. She would sing a song the baby particularly likes — not a lullaby but “My Grandfather’s Clock.” The song, composed in 1876, became popular in Japan in the 1960s as part of a children’s TV show. She sang softly, barely audible, accompanied only by a quiet rhythm instrument. When she completed the first round of the song, the cello joined, hushed and gentle.

That’s when the baby began to cry. Not a wail. Neither a coo. Something in-between. Something, oh, longing. 

Ordinarily, an audience of mostly white-haired classical music lovers, might have stiffened with irritation. But in this moment, a silent sigh rippled through the hall, a soft murmur of joy.  Baltacigil stopped his bow, signaling Yoshinaga to continue singing. The babe gave a few more cries, the kind you hear when an infant is winding down, reassured by a gently rocking embrace. Eventually the music again got lively. The baby was silent, sleeping perhaps, even through boisterous applause when the performance ended.

When I got home, I discovered I’d missed a call from a friend in Wisconsin. Mother of three young children, she wanted my perspective on events, especially in Minneapolis. What is happening there is too close to my heart. I have no perspective. What I want to say to her is, hug your children. Hold them close. Sing to them.

Last-Minute Shopping? Think Extravagance

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A well-worn five dollar bill tucked inside a Christmas card is the most extravagant gift I expect to receive this year. It was given to me during my Friday night piano gig at St. James Cathedral Kitchen.

Five nights a week Kitchen volunteers serve a free, hot meal to whomever shows up — usually around two hundred folks or more. By appearances, I’m guessing the patrons include plenty of homeless folks, some elderly residents of subsidized apartments in the neighborhood, maybe a few university students, occasional families with youngsters. And dogs. Dogs on leash are admitted.

I’m one of the pianists who add background ambience, making the church social room feel less institutional with a layer of music under the chatter and clatter of dishes. The piano is one of the most out-of-condition I’ve ever contended with. There’s no bench, but an office chair on wheels. That does not work for me. I haul a couple of cushions on the four-block trek from my apartment to the cathedral. I set them on a folding chair so I can approach the keyboard from a perch that won’t roll away. The keys almost always sound when activated. Who could ask for anything more? 

It is the highlight of my week. I occasionally substitute for pianists on other nights, but Friday is mine.

Friday happens to be the night when Sue and Susan meet up for their weekly dinner together. I do not know their last names, stories or ages (I’m guessing in their sixties, maybe crowding seventy). Nothing about their appearance suggests monetary wealth. I know Sue rides the bus from her home in the south end of Seattle. And I know that they will always, always exclaim after I finish how wonderful my playing was (whether it was or not). 

Last Friday Sue placed an envelope on the piano as I played. When music and dinner were done, I began to open the envelope, anticipating a Christmas card. 

“Careful,” Sue cautioned. Tucked inside the card was the five-dollar bill. 

“I can’t …” I began. 

“Stop!” Sue interrupted. “It’s a gift! You can’t refuse a gift. I wouldn’t give it if I couldn’t afford it.” 

I’ve occasionally supplemented my income with piano and organ gigs. But no payment could top the handwritten message in the card: “To our piano player who myself and Susan love to hear your beautiful music while we have our dinner. You make us feel so comfortable and Happy. From your friends, Sue and Susan”

We talked a little longer. Sue is celebrating that her son just got out of jail, where he spent seven months. It was his girlfriend who got him in trouble, says Sue.

“I told him! No more girlfriend!”

After they left, I handed the five dollars to Mick, who runs the Kitchen, and told him the story. “This was from OUR folks?” he asked, mildly disbelieving. Then he smiled.

Whenever I’m given a gift of cash, I like to tell the giver how I used the money. I’ll enjoy telling Sue — and she’ll enjoy hearing — that I spent her gift on a new book of music that I’ve been wanting. Music that she and others will soon be hearing.

Wait a minute, you may be saying. You gave the money to the Kitchen. Yeah, well, money is an illusion. Gifts from the heart are the real thing. There’s no limit to how much love they can buy.

Chicken or Egg: Where Are You Comin’ From?

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If you’ve ever puzzled over the chicken/egg primacy issue (which came first?), you might find your answer aboard the Coast Starlight Seattle-Portland train route. 

Or do I mean Portland-Seattle?

As part of “Trails and Rails,” a cooperative venture between Amtrak and the National Park Service, knowledgeable volunteers spend their summers entertaining passengers with stories about Pacific Northwest environment, history and culture.  (At least they did last summer. Who knows whether this admirable program will survive?)

Kristy and Phil, volunteers on my journey, were armed with notebooks full of facts and figures. But it was their story-telling skill that hooked passengers who filled the glass-domed observation car.

Approaching the Billy Frank Jr. Wildlife Refuge, just north of the state capitol, Phil described Frank as the “man who was arrested more times than anyone else in the state of Washington.” 

“What would you say about such a person?!” he continued, feigning dismay. Tourists murmured, disconcerted. Those in the know smiled at this introduction to one of the state’s most honored Native American activists and environmentalists. True, Frank (1931-2014) was arrested more than fifty times. The first time, at the age of fourteen, was the beginning of his decades-long fight to reestablish native fishing rights. His persistence led to the landmark Boldt Decision of 1974, upholding guarantees that had been set in an 1854 treaty but ignored. Frank’s numerous honors include the Presidential Medal of Freedom.

More stories flowed as the train whistled us through cities and towns until we approached Winlock, a small, agricultural community.

“If you remember nothing else from this trip, I hope you remember this,” prompted Kristy. Winlock historically touted itself as the “Egg and Poultry Capital of the World,” producing hundreds of thousands of chicks and eggs. To prove it, the town erected the world’s largest egg, a claim affirmed by “Ripley’s Believe It Or Not!” in 1989. 

Just across the street is another statue: a brilliantly colored but much smaller chicken. As to which came first, the answer depends on what direction you’re going. Heading south, the egg comes first. Going north, it’s the chicken.

That’s US!, I realized.

As in, U.S.

As in polarized. We’re all on the same set of tracks, but our stories depend on where we’ve been and where we think we’re going — or want to go. 

Each of us is the sum and substance of the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves. Information or ideas that don’t fit into our stories bring up uncomfortable emotions — sadness, envy, anger — and we’re inclined to reject them, as if to say the chicken absolutely came first or the egg absolutely came first. In other words, we have bias. It’s inevitable, explains writer Brian McLaren. It’s how our brains work. 

We grow up being told stories that shape our own stories. As we mature and age, our stories become more complex. When we are confronted with stories, ideas and information that conflict with our story, we have a choice. We can simply reject those other stories — take the easy route. Or we can figure out how to rewrite our story, even discarding parts, to make our narrative more inclusive. Rewriting is hard and tiring work for the brain. And it’s ongoing. There’s new stuff coming down the track every day.

It’s like the Billy Frank Jr. story. If we get only a fragment, we easily jump to a skewed conclusion. 

On my return trip, from Portland to Seattle, I was sitting on the “wrong” side of the train. I missed seeing the chicken precede the egg. In fact, I missed chicken and egg altogether, thus missing half the story.

Nevertheless, when we can simply enjoy that there are chickens and there are eggs, and there are eggs and there are chickens, we won’t have to worry about which came first. When we can hear and honor each other’s stories, acknowledge where each other is coming from, we’ll be getting back on track.

It’s a matter of perspective. Winlock’s egg is really
much larger than the chicken. – Tim Bryon photo

Driven To Drive: An Identity Crisis?

On By Mary KochIn Uncategorized1 Comment

An update of Rene Descartes’ declaration, “I think therefore I am,” is long overdue. For my generation the existential truth is, “I drive, therefore I am.”

I still vividly recall the freedom and power I felt on May 12, 1960, my sixteenth birthday, when I passed my driver’s license test. As drivers, we not only have the liberty to go wherever, whenever we want, our vehicles become integrated with our persona. Watch any car commercial.The ads are not about the vehicle but about how you’ll feel driving it. We’ll feel forever youthful driving that sleek sports car. Or forever in charge steering that rugged 4×4 pickup through hostile environments. Those vehicles cruising across our TV screens are an elixir of power and eternal youth. 

Until we’re too old to drive. And just how old IS too old?

Traffic safety experts sidestep a precise answer. So does AI. When I typed in the question, AI offered a laundry list of primarily subjective guidelines: declining physical or cognitive ability, slow reaction times, getting lost easily, frequent close calls, or loved ones expressing concern. Oftentimes, those “loved ones” will be less loved if they start harping about Grandpa’s driving.

Kaiser-Permanente, in a helpful online guide to “Healthy Aging,” offers cold, hard data:

  • People age seventy and older are more likely to crash than any other age group besides drivers age twenty-five and younger. In other words, driving skills improve with age, then regress. We’re no safer now than when we were air-headed teens, oblivious to our mortality.
  • Because older drivers are more fragile, they are more likely to get hurt or die from these crashes.

A joint study by the American Society on Aging and National Highway Traffic Safety Administration offers this chilling observation: “Most people drive seven to ten years longer than they should.”

Giving up your car is life changing. I did so two years ago, BUT I had no intention of giving up driving. When I moved to Seattle from rural eastern Washington, my motivations were to save money and reduce my carbon footprint. I gave my 2009 Dodge to public radio. I planned to use mass transit when possible, and rent a car when necessary. 

Public transit — busses, light rail, ride shares — are great. Rental cars not so much. I’ve rarely needed them, but when I do, they come equipped with recently developed, high tech amenities that I can’t readily figure out — like how to START the darn thing. 

I was delighted when my retirement community, Horizon House, recently introduced a car-sharing plan. For a nominal expense, residents can rent an electric vehicle, fully insured, and be trained to drive it before we hit the road. Because I’m past age eighty, I’d have to take a driving test to participate. I think that’s an excellent idea. I’d like to be assured that I’m as good a driver as I think I am — a veteran, after all, of several solo cross-country road trips.

A no-injury accident last year, just after I turned eighty, sowed a seed of doubt. I was driving a rental car in an unfamiliar town. Looking for a place to pull over to make a phone call, I blew through a stop sign and collided with another car — which had a student driver at the wheel. Both cars required towing.

A more experienced driver might have spotted me and taken defensive action. Several people who gathered round the crunched cars claimed it was a notorious intersection with frequent collisions. Still, I was clearly at fault. I acknowledged as much to the police officer, and readily paid my fine. 

And still, there was that traumatized wanna-be driver. I sent her a gift and a note of encouragement. My insurance readily paid for damages to the rental car. I was further grieved to learn that her family’s insurance company stalled for months before paying up. 

I’m sure her dad had plenty to say about eighty-year-old drivers. While I waited for the tow truck, he showed up with his work rig to tow away the family car. Grim-faced, he grunted as we were introduced and maintained a glum silence while hooking up the vehicles. It was Memorial Day. I imagine he’d been home, tending the barbecue. I’d ruined their holiday. 

That’s the thing about our roadways. Most of us do not work in the realm of public safety. Yet our roads and streets — open to all — are where we are most responsible for the safety and well-being of our fellow citizens. It’s where we have true community, where our very lives depend on the skills and consideration of our fellow travelers.

Why is it, then, that I’m struggling with the question: do I keep driving? I enjoy walking and using public transit. I’ve needed to rent a car only a handful of times over the past  two years, and maybe those trips weren’t all that essential. Could it be — and here, dear reader, I’ll reveal the naked truth — that my ego still clings to that steering wheel? Could it be that my ego — my false self — is deflecting any suggestion that I’m “too old” to drive? 

For now, I’m side-stepping the issue. I have no immediate need to drive anywhere. The car-share program will wait. My driver’s license is still in my wallet, valid until May 12, 2031. It is merely a plastic ID card. I’m working on making it not who I am.

Is that Descartes at the wheel?

One Woman’s Vote

On By Mary KochIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Election Day November 4, 2025, will mark my sixtieth anniversary as a registered USA voter. I have a perfect record, having cast my ballot in every election over those six decades, from presidential to school levies. Nonetheless, it’s not getting any easier. 

I came of legal age (in those days, twenty-one) in 1965. That year President Lyndon Johnson signed the Voting Rights Act, part of the Civil Rights Movement. It was a significant achievement, meant to eliminate restrictions on who can vote. Even so, the act of voting can feel like a feat of survival. First we have to endure weeks, months, of political campaigns that have become increasingly hostile and decreasingly informative.

Election 2025 is all about local positions — mayor, city council, school board, etc. In my mind, these are the most important. Even though I moved to Seattle two years ago, I got a phone call from Cindy Gagne, longtime mayor of Omak, Washington (population around 5,000), the small town where I previously lived for forty years.  Cindy was appointed mayor to fill a vacancy in 2008. After being re-elected unopposed four times, she’s running again, for the first time with opposition. Would I endorse her, she asked. Happy to! Not that it’ll mean much.

Cindy and I first met when I was on the city Parks Commission, and she was a soccer mom, volunteering long hours to raise money for decent fields. From there she moved on to the city council, ultimately the mayor’s office. Her service to the community has been even-handed and selfless.

My endorsement may not be much help because my tiny corner of the blogosphere is followed by only a few of her constituents. But the problems she and I face — as candidate and as voter — are universal. Many citizens fear that our nation’s progress toward full democracy has shifted into reverse. How does Cindy reach a fragmented, polarized citizenry that relies overly much on social media, replete with falsehoods? How do I, just one voter, sort through the propaganda and well-financed smear attacks to make an intelligent choice?

I miss my days as a news reporter, when I interviewed candidates personally. I tried my best to write objectively while inwardly concluding how I’d vote. There’s no more significant way to size up a candidate than to meet them in person. I’ve been attending voter forums for the past couple weeks and will continue until the election. That puts me in the minority. Cindy had called after a voters’ forum drew a disappointingly paltry turnout.

Well, if the voters won’t come to you, the candidate’s next-best choice is door-belling. I door-belled on behalf of a school levy many years ago. It was exhausting, discouraging, and I swore I’d never do it again. I’ve kept that promise. Sometimes it’s easier to follow Jesus’ commandment to love my neighbor when I’ve not MET my neighbor. The New York Times carried a story last week about a Democrat in Texas who walked the 25-mile length of  his Republican-leaning legislative district. He ended up in hospital, exhausted, but won the election.

“Endorsements matter to me,” a neighbor observed as we were riding the elevator after a voters’ forum. I agree, if you know that the person or organization making the endorsement shares your viewpoints and values. 

My late husband, with whom I owned and published a weekly newspaper, scoffed at so-called “endorsements” by small papers like ours. “It’s only one person’s opinion,” he’d say. Instead, he published a pre-election column called “One Man’s Vote,” listing his choices and reasoning. People appreciated it. Some trusted John and followed his recommendations. Others knew that if John was for something, they were automatically agin-it. Helpful in both directions. 

Maybe the good news is that Cindy has an opponent. Too often non-opposition reflects a lack of interest or participation from the electorate. That’s not healthy, not if we really believe in democracy. A survey by the Washington League of Women Voters a couple years ago recorded a distressing lack of candidates for local offices. Incumbents (not Cindy) can get to feeling entitled. 

Here in Seattle, the top-two primary election was a shocker. The seemingly shoo-in incumbent tallied a weak second behind an upstart, a previously unknown challenger. I’m still undecided. I’m attending every forum I can, both in-person and on-line. Big money is being spent and the race is getting heated. I don’t watch TV, so I can ignore the ads. But my mailbox will be filled with glossy, printed B.S. 

You can’t get away from it. Navigating political campaigns is like slogging through the swamp in an effort to reach high ground. This is no time for despair, but determination. These final pre-election weeks are when we put on our hip boots, study our options, and examine the facts — the “true” facts, not “alternative” facts. We’re heading for the high ground of democracy, insisting on a government that is of and for us, the people.

Cast in Concrete: Solid Footing in Treacherous Times

On By Mary KochIn Uncategorized1 Comment

“Cast in concrete” is a metaphor for something permanent, unchangeable. And yet, “nothing is forever,” my late husband John once observed.

Cast aluminum, not concrete, was a favored medium for sculptor Richard Beyer. At least one time, however, he did make his mark in concrete.  It was a fond gesture, a gift beyond value honoring John, me, and the community newspaper we published in Washington state’s spacious Okanogan County.  John’s observation became all too true. Not even art cast in concrete is safe from willful destruction.

The Seattle Times recently published a retrospective of Beyer and his work. Reading it, I nearly drowned in a tsunami of memory and emotion. The piece by veteran journalist Erik Lacitis described Beyer as controversial and largely unrecognized. I have to agree. A recent show at the Seattle Art Museum celebrating contemporary West Coast artists omitted Beyer, even though there are more Richard Beyer public sculptures in Greater Seattle than by any other artist, Lacitis notes. That includes “Waiting for the Interurban” in the Fremont District, which after it was installed took on a life of its own. Many would claim it to be Seattle’s most popular piece of public art. Lacitis tallied more than ninety Beyer art works scattered throughout the Northwest and as far as Uzbekistan in Central Asia.

Beyer expressed his outsized humor in satirical creations that were met with consternation and adoration, fury and fun. He was either amused or indifferent when art snobs or critics spurned his folksy work. Since he died in 2012, his sculptures have not only endured but become even more endeared. 

A Beyer fan long before we met, I was excited when he and his wife Margaret moved to Okanogan County in the late 1980s. I eagerly attended a show featuring some of Beyer’s smaller pieces at Sun Mountain resort in the Methow Valley. As I studied an eighteen-inch high, cast aluminum figure entitled, “Man Throwing Newspapers into Garbage Can,” I became aware of someone standing next to me. I looked up and instantly recognized Rich. My first words blurted to this man whose work I so admired were: “You could at least have him recycle them!”

Rich was momentarily taken aback before releasing his characteristic guffaw. We became friends, and I bought the sculpture for my husband. John proudly displayed it on the front counter of our newspaper office. Rich, who had so often been skewered in print, was no fan of newspapers. He made an exception in our case, frequently complimenting our paper’s brand of community journalism.

In late 1993, my husband suffered a brainstem stroke. Unable to speak, he was diagnosed as “Locked-In,” a syndrome described as a fully functioning brain locked inside a totally paralyzed body. Despite the gloomy medical prognosis, I was convinced John could and would recover. To accommodate John’s wheelchair, I had a ramp built to the front door of our newspaper office.

The contractor was Gary Headlee, also an artist and Rich’s friend. He convinced Rich to etch and paint a mural onto the side of our concrete ramp. Rich dreamed up a whimsical story that, as he worked, changed with every telling. He titled it “The Precious Jewel.” 

By 1996, I had to face reality. Trying to do both John and my jobs, largely from home, while providing twenty-four/seven care for him, was not sustainable. We sold the paper, careful to put on a happy face in public. In private, I wept. I’d sold a chunk of my soul and pretty much all of my identity.

Not long after, Margaret got in touch with me. She wanted to write Rich’s biography and asked for my help. She arrived at our house with a shopping bag full of notes, photos, and a title for her imagined book: “The Art People Love.” I went to work on the opening chapters, but time was not on our side. I had too little of it, and Margaret wanted the book published ASAP. She ultimately retrieved the unfinished manuscript, the rest of her notes, completed the book, and found donors to fund its publication in 1999.

“Mary: you showed me the way!” she graciously wrote in my copy. One beautiful May morning in 2004, Rich called. Margaret was nearing the end of her journey with cancer. Would I come visit? 

I’ve always described spring in the Okanogan as the five minutes when snowmelt colors our brown hills a delicate green. That day, throughout my forty-five minute drive to Margaret’s bedside, the green shone more brilliantly than I’d ever seen, before or since.

I don’t know if Margaret was aware of my presence. I prayed, seeking forgiveness for not having done more for her. She’d been the rock, the firm foundation that allowed Rich freedom to create. She was equally as brilliant and creative, yet self-effacing. I treasure a small watercolor that Rich gave to me. Margaret had painted it. I also treasure “Man Throwing Newspapers into Garbage Can,” which stands at my apartment door. 

But “The Precious Jewel?” The new owners of the newspaper decided to remodel the building. The Beyer mural didn’t fit into their plans. They brought in heavy equipment, turning a work of art into a heap of rubble. I was shocked and horrified. Gary retrieved some of the larger chunks of brightly painted concrete and piled them next to a building he owned on Main Street. Every time I drove by, they reminded me that my dreams and expectations had also been shattered. Even the legacy of art I thought we were leaving to the community was destroyed.

After reading the Lacitis article, I had a sleepless night. Why, I wondered, had such a beautiful tribute left me so troubled? A hundred-or-so tosses and turns later I realized: some wounds never heal. We must tend to them, care for them and avoid infection. Bitterness will only contaminate ourselves and others.

The capacity to destroy is within us all. Some feel empowered by envy, greed or fear to rationalize acts of destruction. Others counter the darkness of destruction through love, creativity and compassion. 

We are experiencing an epic era of destruction. Mouths agape, stunned, we daily witness attempts to demolish essential institutions — art, science, public education, and — this especially hurts — venomous attacks on freedom of speech and ethical journalism. We grieve as people’s lives are ruined. We gasp at the erasure of values we thought were cast in concrete in the U.S. Constitution. People are marching in the streets, yet in our hearts, how do we confront this darkness?

Spiritual writer Rabbi Brian Zachary Mayer recently offered advice in one of his emails: “Forgive and forget. And if you can’t, pick one.” I can forgive. I long ago forgave the destruction of “Precious Jewel.” Empathy for another paves the path toward forgiveness. Maybe I can forget the pile of concrete rubble, but no amount of heavy equipment can smash my memories of the artists’ generosity, joy, and love.

I realize now that those memories nurture a confidence that is cast in something more solid than concrete. It is a confidence in Martin Luther King Jr.’s “long arc” toward justice. It is a confidence to resist, to seek truth, perhaps even to hope. It is vital not to forget.

Richard Beyer with a portion of “The Precious Jewel” mural — Al Camp photo

An old man tells a story:
A man mines the sky
and finds a beautiful blue gem.
Holding it to the light he sees the world anew,
in 4 dimensions
The governor is asleep,
The banks are closed,
Cattle have moons in their horns,
Children ride flying horses,
Angels fill the trees,
Rocks speak,
Coyotes dress in Wal-mart suits,
The snake pipes and the rabbits dance,
Fish and the wapato dance too.
He gives the stone to his wife to look through,
To see what he is seeing.