Points of Defiance

Warm and welcoming trails in the woods.

Tiny daisies, whiter than white, waiting for an Alice in Wonderland to fashion into a chain.

Thoughtful chomps.

Someone's job, not mine.

Lazy, rust-colored streams.

Inferiority complexes.

Your standard western Washington foxglove onslaught.

Shadowed inspirational phrases not engraved in Papyrus typeface.

The slow collection of a 4th of July feast.

Nothing defiant about any of these things, really. Just nice to find them all in one place.

Ringing out the old.

Fiscal Year 2009. And what a year it was.

I don't seem to talk much about work on here, and probably with good reason, but in case you didn't know, I'm a fundraiser for my alma mater. And the phrase "in these economic times" has been rubbing against my optimistic grain for months. Maybe I've been doing this for so long that I can't see the other side of the token, but for whatever reason, I have a hard time accepting that a flipping recession could affect my beloved annual fund so dramatically.

One of the many reasons I got so excited about the Obama campaign was that I thought I saw attitudes about philanthropy changing. If ever there was a moment in time when people actually believed "every little bit counts," that was it. I gave a few dollars the first time I was asked, and the crazy thing was that when I was asked to give a little bit more, I gave again. I didn't think twice.

Granted, being part of a huge movement in an historical election is a little bit different than giving to an annual fund of one's alma mater. We're going to be asking you guys every damn year, unless you tell us to cut it out. However, I thought, FINALLY I had a real example to back up the aforementioned mantra.

So today marked the day when all our work over the last 365 days was realized. And in these economic times, surprise, we have not made our goal for the annual fund. Dollars are down. Number of alumni donors is down. But I don't feel right about blaming the economy. My hypothesis is that many of us are focusing on giving to a select few organizations where we can make more of a difference than if we give to every cause that knocks on our door (or calls us during the dinner hour). It makes sense, I'll admit. But if I could ask all college graduates to do one thing, it would be to make a gift every year to their alma mater. No matter how much you give, it causes a (albeit very slow) ripple effect: a.) lots of alumni giving = great students can afford to come to your alma mater = recognition of student achievements = improved reputation of your school = your degree is worth more; and b.) lots of alumni giving = better standing in grant applications = more funding for your school = bright students are attracted to your school = reputation = value of your degree = etc. If you follow the news and you know that there's a reason to preface everything money-related with "in these economic times," you've probably heard that higher education, and the overall non-profit sector, have taken a huge hit. If this calls you to any sort of action in giving, I applaud you.

In any case, despite our non-banner year for the annual fund, I did have a pretty decent FY09, professionally speaking. I won a couple awards, I got a promotion and a new boss, and celebrated my fifth year working in fundraising. For someone under the age of 30, I'm feeling pretty good, and I still feel optimistic. And I work at a place that values my creativity and let me produce what could easily be considered my proudest work this past year. That being said, I know what needs to happen in FY10. Wish me luck!

A real treat from Mom

Ever since about 8th grade or so, I've wished I was born in a different decade (hence The Elizabeth Era). Mostly, I idolized the era in which my mom and dad grew up - the days when Christian Dior was making waves with fashion, Sinatra was making his first comeback on Capitol Records, and everything was seemingly hunky-dorey (sp?). I used to study my mom's high school scrapbook - please be aware that these were not the cutesty scrapbooks of today, but the practical "this is what I did in high school, for-reals" kinds of scrapbooks that were like a genuine history book of my mom's high school experience, where I learned that, in the 1950s, there were a lot of restaurants in Chicago that were referred to as "rooms," e.g., The Blue Room, The Empire Room, and that birthday parties were real social events when girls would dress their best and throw very elegant soirees, and that any event invitation was a good excuse to compose a cute limerick or poem.

After my mom graduated from high school, she enrolled in a secretarial college and practiced her shorthand listening to Sinatra's "Come Fly With Me" album. She also used this really awesome typewriter - an Underwood Olivetti. Of course, when I was in Boise last month and she happened to dig this up in The Dirty Clothes Closet (this is the closet downstairs where our laundry chute dumps all the dirty clothes we drop from upstairs), I squealed with glee over this beautifully compact machine, radiating such a 1950s shade of blue.

What a sound these keys make. I'm typing on my laptop right now, which I like the sound of, but it could never compare to the forceful tapping of this typewriter.

So here I was, thinking how cool I was for lifting this machine from my parents' house and toting it along back to Spokane, to sit on my corner desk, adding a nice touch to the other various timepiece furniture items that display my love of the 1950s.
Sitting pretty, I was.

Then, Mom mailed me the manual. Printed in Italy. Pocket-sized. Red plastic cover. Spiral bound. Absolutely amazing.

Who makes instruction manuals like this anymore? The answer is NO ONE. Not even Italy. Man, this is so great. Thanks, Mom, for such a treasure.

A good ol' fashioned stye

Oh, look at me last Friday. All happy, driving around in my car, the right side of my face clearly ecstatic about Grease Monkey's policy of retaining their female customers with carnations (works for me), looking forward to a sunny weekend, etc. Very coincidental that I captured that portion of my face when I did, because little did I know something very sinister was slowly festering under my eyelid.

Fast forward to this morning. This eye does not look happy; it's wan and annoyed and in pain. This little swollen patch has developed over the last couple of days and it is driving me nuts. This photo I just took of myself reminds me of something I would have found in one of my favorite books growing up: Childcraft Guide for Parents. That book is full of pictures all the weird maladies parents will sometimes have to contend with in raising children, from ringworm to measles to styes.

If I could stop blinking, I would. For now, though, it's hot compresses (stye or no stye, I think I might do this on a regular basis...very relaxing). Anyway, enough about me and my eyelid health. It's summertime. And I'm off to champion the end of the fiscal year.

oh-m'goodnuh: sweets and sweets and kids looking for sweets

A few weeks ago I ventured just east of downtown on 3rd to visit the Alpine Deli. It was a Saturday, and I had just spent the morning with Whitworth alumni who were on campus to celebrate their 50-year reunion. I was famished after walking and talking and showing alumni how their campus had changed, and for whatever reason, a greasy sandwich sounded really good. The Alpine Deli has a variety of meats and wursts, cheeses, pickled things and beer, so I knew it would be perfect. I talked to the guy behind the counter, asking him what various meats tasted like, and most of his answers were, "It's a little like bologna." He let me sample some - he was right! Ultimately I decided on a roast beef sandwich with a little bit of sauerkraut. Maybe not the best sandwich I've ever had, but it was called "The Putz," and that alone was worth it, even though the bread was über-greasy.

While I was waiting for my sandwich, I looked around at all the chocolate (Rittersport!) and packaged goods. They also had a variety of cassette tapes on sale for a dollar.

Have you ever thought to make a silhouette cake featuring your favorite composer and mine, Josef Haydn? Lucky for us, Germans have. Because a decadent treat should never be without a bit of music appreciation (and that's why we have Mozart balls). I picked up a package of Kathi's Lucious Silhouette Tart mix and had a little fun that afternoon. Haydn might have been appalled to know that I was listening to Steely Dan while I was dusting the cocoa to create his silhouette. Sorry!

Next sweet: rhubarb crunch. What a pretty color. My friends found a corner of their garden running rampant with this stuff, and who was I to refuse such a tart treat? What's more is that this was one of the rare occasions when I had all the ingredients ready to go - no trips to the store. Just roll out of bed, make rhubarb crunch. Easy.

Finally, a kid I had my eye on at Elkfest. These photos do not do justice to undoubtedly sticky chin and hands, or the way he communicated to his mother that he wanted more treats with the simple tug on her arm and pouty look. He was getting into everything. He paused here for a moment, perhaps to see if this bin was filled with Kool-Aid. I don't know why I found it so funny, but I did. There was just something so Willy Wonka about it all.

Historic landmarks

The site of the Ustick Merc is a childhood icon. I knew it for most of my life as a gas station, about a mile away from my house. Long before then, it had been an actual mercantile for the city of Ustick, which at the time was 5 miles outside of the Boise city limits before Boise eventually swallowed it all up. Over the last 15 years or so, the gas pumps have been removed and a bunch of people have tried to turn this old landmark into a salsa shed, pizza parlor, Russian market, and other things that I lost track of. Every time I came to visit, it had been turned into something different, and always I would look at it skeptically, knowing that it probably was best left a gas station.

Here it is as it is currently, apparently to the shagrin of some, but the delight of others who, like me, stop in disbelief to take pictures. 

It's a burger joint now. Boobie is the name of the owner's dog, but also a clever term to slather all over the menu. My parents told me that before the reader board said the above, it said, "It takes two hands to eat a double boobie." If you go there for breakfast, you can order a Rolled Over Boobie Burrito, or order anything and top it with Boobie Secret Chili. 

When I was taking pictures, the owner came out to get in the shot. I'm sure this is happening on a regular basis. He was excited to see my Washington plates and gave me a couple of bumper stickers ("Honk if you heart Boobies") and a mini-menu to aid me in spreading the Boobie gospel throughout Eastern Washington. Next time, I hope to see Boobie.

Walks through downtown Boise

Many years, it's been, since I spent a May day in Boise. On Thursday, I drove downtown to see what I could see before meeting up with a lovely long-time friend.

Tulips! Blowing sideways.

And that grand old landmark, the Idanha.

The scene of one leg of said lovely long-time friend's 21-run : the Cactus Bar. Long may it reside in that special place in my heart saved for memories of my youth when I had a fondness for candy-sweet drinks.

Saturday morning I returned with parents in tow for the City Market down 8th Street. I never get tired of thoughfully displayed and locally grown fruits and veggies.

This is what Wall-E might look like if he were playing Elizabeth Taylor playing Cleopatra.

Sweet harmonica guy.

And my sweet mom, proving that these are the times to bring out the ol' fanny pack!  You just can't go wrong.