This May Take A Minute

Example of the local pre-dawn light

And you may find yourself
Living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself
In another part of the world

And you may ask yourself
Well, how did I get here?

And you may ask yourself

"My god—what have I done?"

Same as it ever was

Same as it ever was

Once in a Lifetime—David Byrne/Brian Eno

***

Sitting here in the quiet and the pre-dawn light, I have no idea how we got here.

And the more I try to pry open that oyster, the more it resists scrutiny.

I stare at the array of photos and the list of steps we took lurching toward this goal—but collectively they don't seem to add up to "moving halfway across an ocean."

And they don't reflect the overlapping roiling that took place (gestures at the entire world) while we anxiously plowed ahead.

***

In January we moved our daughter into her own apartment at the University of Washington. Classes there were still entirely remote (hi, pandemic), but there comes a time when a girl just needs her space.

The next day we moved our other child to Hawaii for many of the same reasons—and really, there are few better places to ride out our current viral storm because this state has done things right from the get-go.

A couple days later, the outgoing president of the United States incited a mob to subvert the transfer of power to the president-elect. The attempt failed, but if you keep up with current events you know the people behind it haven't given up. The Former Guy may still get the Ceaușescu moment he's thirsting for.

***

Throughout the winter we figured we were a year (maybe two) from picking up and moving. But as the PNW dark grudgingly turned to light, there was a seasonally affected shift in our thinking.

The pandemic had a lot to do with it ("anything can happen to anyone at any time—what are we waiting for?"), as did an underlying sense that after 17 years in Seattle it was time for a change.

The decision happened in increments, with stretches of ambiguity in between:

(March, contemplatively)

"We could live part of the year here and part of the year there."

(April, more than once)

"We could rent out this house as long as home prices keep going up."

"Ahhhhhhhhhh!!!"

(May, shouting over a frenzied seller's market)

"We should sell this house ASAP!"

(ASAP turned out to be September, and the house sold in three and a half days)

***

Like an invisible predator, covid-19 quietly and constantly sat with us during every conversation about our future.

At the beginning of January, 2021, covid had killed more than 375,000 Americans. At the end of the last day of 2021 it will have taken another 445,000 of our neighbors, colleagues, and loved ones. More than 820,000 people gone, with no end in sight.

The point being, while covid didn't always get an overt mention in our discussions, its implicit presence impacted every one of them.

***

Let's talk about something else like, IDK, the weather. 

The dry (west) side of the Big Island is *very* dry, averaging as little as 10 inches of rainfall a year. Meanwhile, the wet (east) side of Maui is *very* wet, averaging up to 115 inches of annual precip.

The distance between the two coasts is equivalent to a Jesus marathon (26 miles across the water).

Microclimates, man.

***

Yes, it's a metaphor.

Significant changes will continue to roll over and through our family in the near future.

Here at Singing Whale Farm we'll be tearing our kitchen down to the studs and building it back up again.

Almost simultaneously a solar energy system will be installed on our roof, freeing us from the hobgoblin of Big Oil.

Most importantly—the house my parents bought 50 years ago will be going on the market soon. They'll be moving to an assisted living mise en scène a long way from Colorado (but very near my brother and his family).

These are the things we know about at the moment. As always, there will be far more things we don't know about that we'll deal with as they arrive on our shore.

Today's example: at 6:30 a.m. we received a text from our friendly PO Box people. They wanted to let us know that they're closing their doors and that their last day of business will be...

...tomorrow.

Don't send us any mail for a while, I guess.

***

In closing...

BUCKLE UP, 2022, WE'RE GOING FOR A RIDE.

***

“Things falling apart is a kind of testing and also a kind of healing. We think that the point is to pass the test or to overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don’t really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together again and fall apart again. It’s just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy.”

―Pema Chödrön

(h/t Erin Earle, LMHC)

News From The Farm

This X every room in the house

It's the sweetest thing I know of

Just spending time with you

It's the little things that make a house a home
Like a fire softly burning and supper on the stove
The light in your eyes that makes me warm

Hey, it's good to be back home again
Sometimes this old farm feels like a long lost friend
Yes, and hey, it's good to be back home again

—Back Home Again, John Denver

***

The news isn't all bad.

I mean, sure, we're completely inundated with things we have no room for, but that's just logistics.

What's required is that we start making hard choices about what we need here vs. what we want. And if the gap between those thing is currently vast, well whose fault is that, anyway?

There's a Habitat For Humanity nearby, and a Salvation Army Outlet store. Farther away, in Kona, is the Re-Use Hawai'i architectural salvage store. Our loss will be their gain.

The paring process began yesterday, with a much-needed trip to the transfer station. We loaded up the truck* with as much non-salvageable stuff as possible and dumped it into an enormous bin. My soul felt slightly lighter, but to be clear there are many such trips in our future. It's either that or we bring in a 20-foot container, park it next to the house, and fill it up with things that won't fit in the house. I'm not saying that's the aesthetic we're going for here, but it is an available option.

***

Juxtaposed with our visit to the transfer station was our trip to the Hāmākua Harvest Farmers Market. We love a weekend farmers market (or two) and this one features fresh produce, arts and crafts, food trucks, fresh-made ice cream, live music, and a commercial nursery—all with an amazing ocean view.

We're hoping/planning for a Singing Whale Farm booth at this market one day. What we'll be selling is very TBD, but it'll start with the things we have experience with—eggs and honey. 

I joke about selling recreational weed as well, but since that's not currently legal in Hawai'i (and we have zero experience growing weed), that'll remain a joke for the foreseeable future.

***

Not a joke: this very busy weekend ended with me sleeping in the car with our resident polar bear.

After a long day running around barking at cows and turkeys and the neighbor's tractor, our 10.5 year-old Great Pyrenees jumped into the back of the car for a well-deserved bark-break. As the evening wore on, though, her nap turned into a full-on lethargy that we couldn't diagnose. 

Rather than drag her out of the car, I climbed in with a pillow and a sleeping pad. I'm no veterinarian, but I felt like the least I could do was monitor her for obvious distress during the night—or be there with her if she decided to leave us.

I fell asleep to the sound of her breathing—and woke up many times in the darkness listening for that sound. Eventually, gradually, finally dawn arrived, and she was still with us. She still seemed a bit groggy (or maybe that was me), but the lethargy was gone, and she ate a good breakfast. Afterward, in the morning light, I noticed a large welt on her nose. It looked like a reaction to a bee- or yellow jacket sting—which may explain her other symptoms.

Consulting this morning with the vet about anaphylaxis in dogs and a supply of canine epi-pens. Just in case.

***

In closing, the news from the farm can be summed up as somewhat vexing, occasionally worrisome, with a side of uncertainty—but not really bad. 

Sitting here this morning, we'll take that and be grateful.

***

(*Rhoda—for future reference, the truck's name is Rhoda, after Valerie Harper's character in The Mary Tyler Moore Show. "Tough, with a good heart.")

Shaken, Soaked, Left Out In The Sun

Physically undamaged, mentally unmoored

Nobody told me there'd be days like these. Strange days, indeed. Most peculiar, mama.

—John Lennon
***

The thing about earthquakes is, they're loud.

If it goes on long enough, the sound blots out everything, even the shaking. And you just hold on, wishing for it to stop.

Or, maybe that's just me.

Last Monday there was just such a quake here on the Big Island, and as tropical island experiences go, I give it a 2/10—too loud, too scary, do not recommend.

Having ridden out a 7.1 earthquake in San Francisco in 1989, I *may* have convinced myself at some point that anything less would be completely manageable. And yes, I *do* get tired of being wrong all the time, thanks for asking.

Anyhoo, that was Monday morning.

(Def not on Twitter at 3:30 a.m.,
but appreciate the thought.)

By Tuesday evening we had regained our equilibrium, just in time for things to get damp.

To be clear, only the outside things got damp—but they got really, really damp. I'm not sure exactly how much rain we got here at Singing Whale Farm, but reports along the Hāmākua Coast said from 3-6 inches. I have no trouble believing that. The water bucket out front was overflowing by Wednesday morning, and the catchment barrels were much heavier than the day before. I know this because I moved one of them, and—damn. Water isn't just wet, it's heavy.

Related: The thing about relentless rain on a metal roof is, it's loud. 

"Nice place you got here."

If it goes on long enough, the noise wakes you up countless times throughout the night, and you just lay there hoping the water doesn't invite itself in to have a look around. 

Pretty sure that's not just me.

***

Since our arrival on Hawaii Island:

• Kīlauea has sprung to life like a magma jack-in-the-box
• The earth has quaked multiple times (including m3.8 just this morning)
• The rain has been an exuberant, repeat visitor

A pessimist might think their new home was trying to kill them—but not us!

We prefer to think of it as a huge, wet puppy, giddy with excitement to see us! Sure, it'll probably knock us down and get muddy pawprints everywhere and pee all over the place...but c'mon—it's a puppy!

(Are we really *this* weird? Maybe {nods slowly} may be.)

I'm in a rainbow state of mind

As a counterpoint to a week of ruckus, I'd be remiss not to mention the regular appearance of jaw-dropping rainbows practically in our back yard. They pop up like peaceful fireworks—all the color but none of the commotion—and each one has caused us to stop and stare in wonder.

They're a reminder that beauty and bedlam don't exist side by side—rather, they overlap with casual precision.

Recent events helpfully reaffirmed what we already knew—that there are downsides even in paradise and...there's no such thing as paradise.

There's only the place we are—and what we make of it while we're there.

Off The Menu

King grass, aka "a royal pain"

halibut with sour cream dill sauce and roasted rustica veggies
*
weathervane scallops piccata with organic home grown broccolini
*
cheese tortellini with home made organic pesto, vegan sausage, arugula salad
***

I stumbled across this partial-week menu recently and just started laughing.

This is decidedly not what we're dining on here at Singing Whale Farm.

Near-instant access to fresh seafood (and an array of other fresh ingredients) is easy when you're living in Seattle. Here? Not quite so easy.

Not complaining, mind you. Just observing the differences that always come with living someplace new. Apparently it's the things we took for granted that surprise us most when they're no longer there.

We will adapt.

***

In the meantime, we're still very much in pre-farm mode. We've planted some things (pineapples and palm trees and finger limes, oh my!) and done some much needed hacking of king grass (which can grow up to 15 feet high if you let it). 

But the fact is we're not even moved in yet. Half our stuff is still in Seattle and there's another shipping container in our future. Where all *that* stuff is gonna go is anybody's guess. 

The dogs are getting used to the idea that this is where they live now, so that's a win. The cats are another story. 

See, the Seattle cats and the Hawaii cats aren't getting along—at all. Please envision four cats loudly hissing and growling and shrieking and swatting and shredding a perfectly good sliding-screen door—that's how things are going with them.

The good news: we live in Hawaii!! 

The additional good news: we now own a 42" riding lawnmower! And a power washer! And a couple of portable bluetooth speakers!

We can now mow the king grass and power wash the cats and listen to music whilst whistling a happy tune!

Yay, Home Depot delivery!

Also, yes I really am celebrating a lawnmower and a power washer! And using lots of exclamation points! Who even am I any more??

***

Back to the menu.

There may not be any halibut, but there's plenty of ahi and mahi mahi and opah and ono at the markets in Hilo and Kona. They're all delicious and (near as we can determine) sustainably and locally fished.

I've found no scallops, but even if I had, I wouldn't buy them. They'd be frozen and shipped in from thousands of miles away, and there's no way to prepare food with that kind of carbon footprint that doesn't end up tasting like petrochemicals.

Tortellini and fresh pesto and vegan sausage and ridiculously fresh, local greens? We can have that! All of it! And we have! Booya!

To sum up, there's no point living someplace new if you're gonna insist on living and eating and consuming the same ways you did before. Serious colonization vibe, thanks, no thanks.

***

The young man who delivered the mower, et al, kindly gave me some safety guidance on mowing the rolling terrain around our house. That was *very* welcome, but better still was that he described the hills and swales as "hoop-de-doos".

I love it here.

The Total Body Freakout

Moving to another state?

Good for you!

It's a great way to exercise your body and exorcise your mind at the same time!

If I had been thinking, I'd have filmed this entire delightful process. The before and after segments would have been, uh, unintentionally funny? 

The farther down this road we go, though, the more that lucid thinking eludes me. I've gotten good at "overthinking" and extremely efficient at "reacting without thinking," but...

Important note: those aren't nearly as helpful as actual thinking. 

Especially when action is required! And decisions must be made. Hastily! 

Moving-Related Tasks That Are Fun AND Good Exercise:

{checks list}

Okay, changing that to

There were unexpected things
hidden in this mulch pile

Moving-Related Tasks That Are Good Exercise:

• Clearing the deck of plants and furnishings ahead of power washing deck
• Actual power washing of deck
• Moving plants and furnishings back onto clean deck

And as long as we're power-washing things...

• Climbing ladder to power wash moss off the roof
• Moving ladder multiple times in hot pursuit of more moss
• Actual power washing of moss off the roof

Let's re-clean all the things!

• Re-cleaning power-washed deck, plants and furnishings, driveway, et al, because power washing the roof is hideously messy and moss flies everywhere
• Re-wash formerly clean windows because
• I'm not very smart 

Let's break some things!

• Dismantle blue chicken coop and haul the pieces up from the back
• Demo grey chicken coop and haul the pieces to the transfer station
• Deconstruct predator fencing and netting while cursing predators nonstop

Let's talk about mulch

Mulch, as a general matter, is useful stuff. It quickly refurbishes places chickens have roamed for the past three years, and will eventually help restore the habitat to its lush PNW origins.

Yay, mulch!

Important note: mulch doesn't move itself. It requires shoveling, carrying, dumping, and spreading. These activities are all good exercise! Especially on the steep slope between the mulch pile and the back of our house!

Related: I've never seen so much mulch, let alone hauled it from one place to another. One day our driveway was clear, the next day it was buried in shredded tree-stuff. It was many, many days before the driveway was clear again.

{sighs, re-checks list}

We have so much more to do—and just three and a half days to do it.

Maybe this would be a good time to stop writing and start doing.

#notfreakingout #atall

Completely Normal

We were out walking the dogs when the cops rolled up.

Three SUVs, lights on, came to a halt perpendicular to the sidewalk, not more than 15 feet from where we were standing.

We stopped and waited, expecting some sort of explanation. Instead, in a conversational tone, one of the cops just said, "Keep walking."

"That was our plan," I said, and we kept walking.

Half a block later we were home, still looking over our shoulders, still wondering what was going on. In the interim, several more SUVs had arrived, and the cops were out of their cars, searching for someone. Overhead, a sheriff's helicopter appeared and was circling—low and at times right over our heads.

Meanwhile, pedestrians ambled by, cyclists cruised past, almost as if the increasingly abnormal scene was completely normal.

We sat in the sun on our front deck, occasionally venturing to the sidewalk in front of our house to see if anything different was happening. The little bridge over the ravine had been blocked off, and car traffic was being diverted. A couple more police vehicles came and went, yellow tape was deployed, cops patrolled the stretch of sidewalk in front of the still-parked SUVs.

Two women walked by, checking Twitter on their phones. "Any update?" my wife asked. "Just something vague about the fire department responding to a 'scene of violence,'" one of them replied.

A second helicopter was now circling the area, but aside from that little had changed in the half-hour since we returned home. We sat on our deck, reading the paper, searching Twitter for any kind of update. There was nothing.

By 7 p.m. the helicopters were gone, along with most of the police cars. I went inside and began the completely normal routine of making dinner—music in the background, a baseball game on mute on TV.

By 8:30 p.m. dinner was over and Anthony Bourdain was getting sloppy drunk on "No Reservations."

That's when we heard the shots.

Outside, there was nothing to see, but someone on a bullhorn was calling for "Junior" to come out of the house.

"Drop your weapon and come to the front door with your hands up."

Again. And again.

***

This happened four days ago, and this morning the neighborhood seems completely normal. Almost insanely so.

I've given some thought to the people who live closest to the scene. Some are empty-nesters, some have very young children. I wonder what they're thinking, how they're processing that beautiful summer evening. What they saw out their windows, how they're explaining it to their children.

Because as it turns out, "Junior" is dead. He reportedly shot himself right around 8:30 p.m. 

Earlier, not long after we walked by their front door, Junior shot his mom several times. Somehow she made it out of the house and was rushed to our local Level 1 trauma center. There's been no word how she's doing.

Junior was 20 years old, his mom is 44. We didn't know them.

***

We still haven't walked back past the house. 

Holding On Loosely

"What's wrong?"

[sobbing] "I'm just having a moment."

When the moment came, it arrived quickly and landed like a ton of wood shavings from the bottom of the coop.

[still sobbing] "I've just been holding on too tight for too long."

***

It started in February, during a snowstorm. 

Melissa was in Hawaii, which meant I was home solo. This has never been a big deal, mostly because year in and year out managing our little urban farm has always been manageable.

In February, though, the coyotes showed up.

And I got belligerent.

The most immediate expression of my hostility was simply standing watch over our chickens. Every morning, just as the automatic coop doors opened, I was out back, coffee in hand. Rain or shine, cold or not-quite-so-cold, a pile of throwing rocks here, a big stick there.

Outwardly I didn't make a big deal of it. It just became something I did, part of my daily routine, part of our responsibility to our creatures.

Inwardly, though, there was fear and frustration and dissonance.

Dissonance, because I respect the role of predators in a healthy ecosystem—and yet I literally wanted to kill these intruders. 

Frustration that despite our counter-measures—from hazing to fencing to visual screens—the coyotes kept coming back.

Fear that the coyotes would succeed and I would fail.

***

I learned the sounds of warning from the crows and alarm from the chickens. Their cues were invaluable, but not infallible. 

Which meant not a day went by that I didn't react to some unseen threat, real or otherwise. I would fly down the stairs and out the back door, triangulating off the crows' position in the trees and the defensive posture (or lack thereof) of the hens. 

"Where is it??" I would literally ask the crows as I scanned the fence line and the neighbors' back yards.

Often the alarms were false...but sometimes they weren't. Sometimes a coyote, or a hawk, or a raccoon was actually within rock-throwing distance. Three times an attack was in progress. Twice, one of our girls died.

Yes, I took it personally.

***

This cycle of watch-alarm-reaction continued, sometimes multiple times a day, until the day we re-homed the girls ahead of our move.

My moment of ablation came the next morning, when I would've normally been out with them.

Some days I still hear them back there. I don't *think* that means I'm crazy. 

I just think it means I was part of their flock, rather than the other way 'round, all along. 

Oh, Sh*t It's July

Seems like only yesterday it was June.

We're officially two months from Hawaii.

That's when the dogs, cats, and I board a plane bound for Kona and don't look back. 

Unless, you know, the flight plan calls for a banked turn or two before heading out to sea. In which case I might literally look back. 

Figuratively, though, not looking.

Hang on a sec...{frantically checks "Hawaii Move Timeline" check list}.

"I thought YOU checked the list."

It's fine. Nothing due today.

Missing something on that list has become one of my biggest fears. Because it feels like every line item is completely dependent on every other item, and missing even one of them will cause us to end up floating somewhere in the middle of the ocean. Like Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan in "Joe Versus the Volcano" but with a shipping container instead of immaculately matched steamer trunks.

The most complicated of the tasks (and the one with the least margin for error) is the paperwork required to bring the dogs and cats with us. It's almost as if Hawaii doesn't want people importing animals from out of state—so they demand a portfolio of paper and a stack of cash to test their resolve.

Never did a welcoming sign
feel quite so ominous.

Do everything right, and we get to take our creatures home with us from the airport. Do something wrong, and (here's what keeps me up at night) "...the law requires dogs and cats that do not meet all of the specific requirements to be quarantined for up to 120 days upon arrival in Hawaii."

{frantically checks list for the 57th time}

Breathing...we're breathing...it's fine.

To be fair, the state has some very good reasons for its stringent policies. The most important of which is that Hawaii is rabies-free—and they want to keep it that way. Shoot, we want them to keep it that way. I'd just prefer not to be made to feel quite so jittery about it for the next two months.

Fortunately, we have a very kind and competent veterinarian helping us through this process—line by line, form by form, test by test. I really don't know what we'd do without her. Besides lose more sleep, obviously.

Two months. Sixty days. In some ways, it still feels a long way off.

In others, it feels like the plane is at the gate, waiting. 

{frantically checks list again}

Five Little Dominoes

Our flock is smaller today.

Clem, Edie, and Viv

Because yesterday we re-homed Clementine, Edie, Mathilda, Scarlett, and Vivian. 

For a variety of reasons (risks to their health and safety chief among them) we decided against taking them with us to the Big Island. 

Instead, we sent them off with friends who we know will care for them with the same devotion we have.

That doesn't make it any less of a gut punch.

This morning's coyote patrol was quiet. Not just because the coyote was a no-show (thankfully), but also because the energy out back was...subdued. I'm probably projecting, but it felt like our seven remaining girls noticed how different things suddenly are.

Scarlett says 'Hi'
(among many other things)

There was a time when Mathilda and Scarlett were the only survivors of a dog attack that took three of our girls.

From that low point, our flock eventually grew to 14—before a hawk killed Gracie and a coyote took Alice. We grieved every loss, and were aggrieved by our inability to protect them. 

Which is why sending them away is so fraught with regret.

A couple years ago I would have been mystified by my attachment to these gals. If today-me could time-travel to explain it to past-me, the conversation would no doubt be schmaltzy—and unconvincing.

Mathilda, the world's
smallest Jersey Giant

I'd probably say I was surprised to learn that chickens have such unique personalities. That they're funny and social and like to hang out with their people. That from the start, you find yourself talking to them like they're a dog or cat. And that you end up loving them the same way.

Then I'd probably trail off like, "You know what I'm saying?" And past-me wouldn't know. At all. In fact, he'd probably look at me like I was nuts. At which point, I'd give him a little smile and say, "You're gonna have to trust me on this one, dude."

By mid-July, most likely, the rest of the girls will be off to their new home. We will miss the daily chick chats, the comforting routine of tending to them, even the steady undercurrent of worry about predators.

It's the price we pay for caring about living creatures—especially the ones we're responsible for.

We know, logically, we're doing the right thing for them. But logic will be cold comfort when the yard goes quiet. 

Toppling Dominoes

I finally see the dawn arriving
I see beyond the road I'm driving
Far away and left behind, left behind

Oh, the sun is shining
And I'm on that road

Don't look back

A new day is breaking
It's been so long since I felt this way
I don't mind where I get taken
The road is calling, today is the day

—Don't Look Back, Tom Scholz

***
The dominoes are falling.

The first was yesterday, when a nice lady driving a large truck dropped a 20-foot shipping container on our driveway.

Dropped is the wrong word, considering how gently and quietly she set it down. "You're awesome!" I said with sincere admiration. She seemed taken aback by the compliment. "Thanks, hon!"

Then, off she rolled, leaving me to circle the container in all its actual and figurative enormity. It took me a minute to figure out how to open the doors. Turns out it wasn't because I was doing it wrong—it was because the latches were like the hinges on an ancient crypt. Squealing, corroded, and barely functional. Life at sea takes a toll, I guess.

After some effort the doors swung open, and I was surprised by the cavernous interior. "This thing will hold a lot," I thought (probably incorrectly). This assumes we can overcome the fact that the floor of the container is nearly five feet off the ground. It may seem like there are several obvious solutions for lifting heavy objects to that height, but so far we're stuck on an electric "stair-climbing dolly" and a 14-foot ramp.
***

Day 2

The electric dolly—specifically recommended by an equipment rental company for loading a shipping container—was useless. It weighed a metric ton and didn't extend high enough to reach the floor of the container.

"The old-fashioned way"

We used it the old-fashioned way to load three heavy pieces and then set it aside for the day.

The non-electric ramp, on the other hand, was simple and humble and effective. At 14 feet it created a steep climb into the container, but that just meant we got a better workout.

***

Day 3

So many trips up and down stairs. Carrying so many heavy things. The ramp, while indispensable, mocked us with its indifferent steepness. 

Sidebar: what kind of people allow their home to be overrun with so many things they don't need? Clothes, shoes, furniture, electronics, outdoor gear, cookware...

Us—we're those kind of people. So embarrassing.

Also, dust. Dear god, the dust.

***

Day 4

Woke up with a very stiff neck. Decided to take a couple naproxen and go back to bed for a couple hours.

Hahaha! "Go back to bed for a couple hours." Good one. All kinds of time for THAT today. 

Rolled out at 5:30 a.m., walked and fed the dogs, put some peanuts out for the crows, brewed up a quadruple espresso, drank it while on coyote patrol with the hens. Came back in, cleaned the cat box, took out trash and recyclables. Cleaned up last night's dishes, heated up some leftovers for breakfast, cleaned up breakfast dishes.

It actually does hold a lot.

Wrested open container doors, noted there was room for more stuff. Too much room. The thing about a seagoing container, we feared, is that waves would toss our belongings from one end of the space to the other. We eyeballed every unfilled cranny and obsessively stuffed it with stuff (some of which hadn't seen the light of day for years).

Late in the day, we suffered our first furniture fatality. An ornately carved wooden bar stool that had survived multiple moves fell from the container to the driveway below. 

Okay, it didn't just fall, it was bumped by someone. Okay, it was me. I bumped it. The sound it made on impact will stay with me forever. You can't un-hear something like that. I am grateful, though, that it was the bar stool making that sound and not one of us.

***

Day 5

The container is full. 

It now holds much of the chaos that casually overtook our home for the past several months.

The house is still a disaster...but it's a much less cluttered disaster. That stands to be a key selling point when the time comes to put it on the market. "Lots of space for your own clutter once the current owners clear out all their junk!"

In a couple hours the nice lady will be back to retrieve our container and deliver it to Tacoma. On Saturday it'll be loaded on a big boat and set sail for Hilo. Ten days after that I'll fly over to meet it and repeat the process in reverse. Because learning from mistakes is not something we do.

Checks and Balances

It's finally warm enough, the past couple days, to throw open our doors and windows.

The dogs wander out to sun themselves on the deck, and occasionally I'm drawn out as well by the sound of happy chickens, chattering about whatever chickens chat about.

Looking out over newly leafed and flowering trees, I'm suddenly reminded that this is likely the last time we will watch a Pacific Northwest winter slowly give way to spring. It makes me—not sad, exactly, but...wistful?—in much the same way I feel near the end of a really good book. 

I want to finish it, but I don't want it to end.
***
The planning for our Hawaii move has kicked up several notches. We have an actual timeline now, and are several steps closer to putting our belongings on a ship headed for Hilo.

The to-do list is daunting, but green check marks have appeared by the first few tasks.

• Get estimates for two 20-foot containers? Check.
• Schedule dogs and cats for vaccinations and boosters? Check.
• Assemble reams of veterinary paperwork as required by the state of Hawaii? Uh, half-a-check.
• Find homes for our much-loved hens? Half-a-check and a full broken-heart emoji.

The list goes on.

• First Pfizer vaccination. Check.
• Google "used pickup trucks". Dozens of checks.
• Research portable generators. Check.
• Learn about installing solar panels. Half-a-check.

The further down the list we go, the more complex the tasks become. Each has its own sub-tasks, dependencies, and critical timing. Even so...

• Learn project management software? Hahaha! No check, ever.

***

Our little family has up and moved so many times—Phoenix to Seattle to San Francisco to St. Paul to Raleigh—and back to Seattle. Often chasing jobs in lieu of peace of mind. In retrospect, that may have been misguided.

There were multiple sub-moves associated with each of those stops, a dizzying array of apartments and townhomes and houses. We're up to 14 of those, by my count, but there's a real possibility I'm forgetting one or two.

So, either we really enjoy putting our things on moving trucks...or, like our ancestors, we felt the ancient drive to migrate with the change of the seasons.

It's fitting, then, that we're heading to a place that has one season, more or less, year round. And that we're no longer chasing jobs, but meaningful, gratifying work and...quietude.

***

Wherever we've gone, there's always been an undercurrent of anticipation and adventure. To see new places, and meet people whose lives and experiences were different than ours. To learn from them and adapt ourselves accordingly.

That's true this time, and then some.

Singing Whale Farm is far enough from tourist hubs to be considered "country." Friending the neighbors will be less about social media and more about being kind to their cows.

Where once we took every convenience for granted, we'll now be a lot more mindful about where those conveniences come from, how far they traveled to get to us, and whether we can still feel good about choosing them.

Our little adventure in agriculture will embrace agritourism and hands-on education for local teachers and students. We'll talk about things like sustainable farming; biodiversity; and creating inclusive spaces for people and animals alike.

We're not silly enough to think we'll be changing the world. But we are silly enough to dream we might inspire someone who will.

***

"To achieve great things, two things are needed: a plan and not quite enough time."

—Leonard Bernstein

Conflict of Interest

Object is closer than it appears.

I hate carnivores.

(3...2...1) 

[SFX: audible sigh] 

Okay, that's not true. I don't hate carnivores.

IN FACT: during the wildlife documentaries where the relentless wolf chases the cute, innocent widdle bunny wabbit...I'm the guy cheering for the wolf.

Lions and tigers and bears gotta make a living, ya know.

[SFX: angry, conflicted muttering]

BUT NOT IN OUR BACK YARD

No, our LITERAL back yard, where our chickens live and recently have been stalked by coyotes and hawks.

The hawks have vexed us for a while now, TBH, but the coyotes are new. And frankly it's wracking my nerves. Every time a crow caws out back (crows are amazing first-alert alarms) I rush to the window at defcon 1.

"Let's see if this gate opens!"

If it's a hawk in the tree above the yard, I hustle out to the deck to fling pine cones and epithets until it gets bored and flies off.

If it's a coyote outside the fenceline, I fly madly down the stairs, grabbing a big stick on the way out the door. I've actually had to charge the fence, shouting and banging the fence posts before the critter will retreat. 

Would I take a home run swing at a coyote's backside if I got the chance? Why yes, yes I would. We sincerely love the urban wildlife—but we love our hens more. Sorry, not sorry.

[SFX: audible sigh]

Thankfully, urban coyotes are way too smart to stand around waiting to be whacked by soft-walkers carrying big sticks.
***

It turns out urban carnivores are *everywhere* in metro Seattle. There's an online tracker that aggregates reported sightings of black bears, bobcats, mountain lions, opossums, raccoons, red foxes, and [checks notes] river otters? 

See the swarms of yellow dots? Coyotes. See the red circle? Our neighborhood. And these are just the sightings that have been reported. Frankly, I don't know how any of us have survived as long as we have.

"Look, I'm telling you, there's something moving 

and it ain't us! Tracker's off the scale, man.

They're all around us, man. Jesus!"

***

It's been a few days now since the last coyote incursion. We don't know if our "coyote hazing" measures worked, if they found easier prey elsewhere, or if they'll be back when the mood strikes them. Living creatures are unpredictable.

What we DO know is that there are no villains in the wildlife food chain. They're all just doing their best to survive, and some of them are better at it than others. We can't hold that against them.

Our inclination will always be to live and let live—us on our side of the fence, them on theirs.

[contemplative pause]

I'm not getting rid of the big stick, tho.

Urban Direwolf

"Round he throws his baleful eyes

That witnessed huge affliction and dismay"

—Milton, Paradise Lost

"Normal life in an abnormal time tends to become abnormal."

—Newton's First Law of WTF

***

CASE IN POINT: coyotes in our neighborhood.

We'd heard the rumors, but we hadn't seen the real articles.

Until oh-dark-thirty this morning.

The dogs and I always get out early. It's just easier that way, since the three of them are disorderly in the best of circumstances, and the one of me is barely able to contain their nonsense.

TODAY three runners ran by us, and were flagged down by a passing car. I couldn't hear the conversation, but I imagined it had something to do with their running in the road in the dark.

Nope. The same car pulled up next to us and the driver hollered, "I just passed two coyotes. Not sure if they'll attack dogs or people."

Me: "How far up?"

Him: "Just by the entrance to the park."

Me: "Okay, thanks for the tip!"

As a result of that conversation, did I expect to see coyotes? I did not. Because though we'd heard multiple, credible reports of their presence in the past few weeks, I HAD NOT PERSONALLY SEEN ONE...therefore they couldn't possible exist.

Besides, THE park in our neighborhood is Discovery Park, the closest entrance to which was nearly two miles away. Dude MAY have seen coyotes up there, but we were down here, and never the twain shall meet.

HAHA. I'm an idiot.

Not just because coyotes travel, but because there was another small park (more of a scenic overlook, really) about 150 yards up the hill from where we were.

Toward which we kept walking, ignorant, blissful, oblivious.

The time between the friendly warning and the coyote encounter was brief. Three or four minutes, tops. I saw it first, which is inexplicable since there are no streetlights on that stretch of road, and it's still quite dark here at 5:45 a.m. PLUS I was traveling with three dogs, one of which is supposed to be an LGD (which stands for "livestock guardian dog"). But I'm the one who spots the direwolf in the dark??

Not cool, dogs. Not cool at all.

Representative coyote.
Actual coyote may vary.

I turned on my headlamp and pointed it {gestures over there in the underbrush}. The coyote froze, its eyes shining back at us...and THAT'S when the LGD barked.

Fortunately, when a Great Pyrenees barks, people (and other creatures) listen. The coyote turned and bolted up the hill, whilst I wrangled the dogs back down the hill. No need for an early morning confrontation with the local wildlife after all, wot?

Was I remembering the guy distinctly said, "two coyotes"? I WAS.

Did I continue looking back over my shoulder whilst we hustled away? I DID.

The rest of the walk was boring. Standard dog hijinx. We get that here every day. {sighs}

Back home, we had barely gotten in the door and I could already hear our chickens fussing out back.

"Two urban coyotes walk into an urban chicken farm, and the first one says {nothing because coyotes don't talk with their mouths full}."

UPDATE: The chickens are fine.

So far.

But I'm confident that will not remain the case if the coyotes get a craving for poultry cacciatore.