There is something quite humbling about jury duty, especially if you’ve never done it before.
My husband R. rolled his eyes over my jury-duty anxiety—he’s an attorney—but then he had to admit that he’s never been called before either. I didn’t know where I was supposed to park, didn’t know where to go on the third floor, and was convinced I was going to look like a complete and utter noob.
I’d already probably cemented my reputation by forgetting to call in on Sunday night like I was supposed to, which prompted a scolding phone call from the courthouse on Monday. I didn’t tell them that I’d just gotten married and had spent the weekend hosting a giant open house for relatives I hadn’t seen in years (and yes, we are still enduring tight-lipped glances from our neighbors—let’s just say there was a lot of beer and singing involved). “There are a couple of trials starting up on Wednesday that we could plug you into,” the lady from the courthouse said, sighing.
So I showed up on Wednesday along with dozens of other people. The only thing I did know for sure was that I should leave my keys behind; I knew from tagging along to court with R. one time that the sweet little floral-print Swiss army knife that hangs on my keychain would have to be thrown in jail while I was in the building.
I managed to find someone in the security line who knew where she was going, and clipped the number 29 to my shirt collar after I filed in. We all received a six-question survey, which included a question about our hobbies. That immediately sent me into a bit of a tailspin. My hobbies? Uh…taking cats to the vet? Playing word games on my iPhone? Pretending to watch Thursday night football with R.? Everyone else was saying things about camping and fishing. I settled on the safe-sounding “I like to garden.”
It was a bit unnerving to watch the attorneys staring at people in the group while they were making decisions about the panel. It reminded me of being back in elementary school when our gym teachers let the two best athletes in the class pick teams for kickball. (That feeling of being in elementary school would be reinforced several times—we were required to line up in number order every time we filed in to court. This is surprisingly difficult for grown people, and I suspect it’s a regular source of entertainment for bailiffs.) I really didn’t want to be picked, but realized it would be kind of cool to be chosen, like I’d passed some sort of test.
I figured my overwhelming lack of experience with jury duty would sort of automatically disqualify me, but to my surprise I was indeed picked to serve on a superior court case and I became No. 10 instead of No. 29. We learned we would be serving on a felony theft trial involving a stolen trailer.
Awkward lapses of conversation were common back in the jury room during our long wait periods. We obviously had more introverts than extroverts in our group, but the extroverts did what they could. Thanks to them, we learned a lot about each other during the long hours we sat around waiting: we talked about everything from neighborhood cats to apple varieties to dinner prices at different casinos. We watched an energetic young teacher from Ike grade a giant stack of biology tests, and teased another panel member about the thick English-majoresque book she was reading. I made several impertinent suggestions about room décor, noting that the addition of a television and board games would be a good idea. “We could all be playing Monopoly or something,” I said.
We checked our phones frequently for the time while we were waiting in the jury room (we all noticed there wasn’t a clock) and I was surprised at how claustrophobic I started to feel, particularly after I fried my phone battery after playing Ruzzle for three hours. No, our bailiff said, we couldn’t leave…even to go for a short walk. We were not to linger about in the hallways where we might run into one of the attorneys or witnesses. One of our panel members admitted he was having trouble sitting still. “I don’t know, I must have ADHD or something,” he said, and the rest of us nodded, sympathetic. I fought an almost uncontrollable urge to get up and doodle on the blank white board hanging on the wall, thinking that perhaps that would be a good thing to mention the next time I went through a jury selection process. Hobbies? Yes, your Honor. I doodle on white boards.
Although we all tried to be serious, there were quite a few laughs during the two days we were together. During the trial, I happened to look up when I saw some people out in the hallway peering in the courtroom door window. Naturally it was R. and his partner, both with big grins on their faces.
“You know those guys?” whispered a fellow juror, surprised.
“Well, one of them is my husband,” I said.
“The one in the orange hoodie.”
“I thought you said your husband was an attorney.”
“He is,” I said, sighing.
But then, finally, the closing arguments were heard and we were able to reach a verdict fairly quickly. Judge Gibson came back to talk to us afterward, and the panel bubbled over with questions. Why hadn’t the attorneys asked certain questions? Why didn’t we have a clearer story of what happened? Did he think we’d returned the right verdict? “I love juries,” he said, diplomatically. “You guys do all the heavy lifting because you make all the decisions. I’m just a referee.”
It was interesting to me that we all obviously felt bonded after the whole thing was over, kind of like we’d all been on a long camping trip together. So to my fellow panel members—I’ll probably see you all on Monday when we get called back in. Someone remember to bring Yahtzee.
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There aren’t too many things in life that are capable of bringing on waves of instant nostalgia, but Halloween candy has to be one of them.
One of my childhood faves was Dubble Bubble Bubble Gum. Seems like my mom always bought a huge bag of that stuff to give out. We’d spend all evening on Halloween pilfering from the big mixing bowl by the front door. We loved the odd but short-lived tutti-frutti flavor, blowing obscene bubbles, and reading the weird little comics inside the wrappers.
Of course (like all kids), our real trick-or-treating scores were candy bars, not cheap pieces of gum or hard candy. And of course we all knew which houses gave out the ultimate score—a FULL SIZE candy bar.
But I had other favorites as well—palate-cleansing SweetTarts, honey-laced candy corn, those little orange “mellowcreme” pumpkins that kind of make the back of your throat sting. I also liked those big Jolly Rancher candies—you know, the big flat ones. A big green apple Jolly Rancher was cause for major celebration, no matter how sticky and difficult they were to eat.
I also have violent dislikes. I’ve never met a Tootsie Roll that I liked. (I used to throw Tootsie Pops out after I’d eaten the “good part” (meaning the outside). And forget black licorice, tooth-cracking popcorn balls, and those gross orange and black jellybeans. Ew.
My dad, who always took us trick-or-treating, liked to peruse our spoils with us. He liked candy with nuts better than we did, so our little brown Snickers bars were one of his top takes. Our plastic pumpkins filled with candy were then stored up on top of the refrigerator, and my sister and I both had photographic memories as far as our leftover candy was concerned when we were allowed to pick out an after-school snack. Woe to the rest of our family members should one of us discover a missing “Snack Size” Milky Way.
There were a few years where we found Mom’s hand-out candy stash early. Since I was a bad kid, I would rip a tiny rabbit-hole in the corner of the bag, and then my sister and I could squeeze individual pieces out without Mom catching on. Now that I’m a grown-up, I can’t say that my self-discipline has improved—my usual strategy is to buy Halloween candy just hours before it’s time to give it out, because I’ll still gobble it up.
It appears that other people are opinionated about candy as well. Check out the Seattle Time’s Sweet Sixteen bracket—they’re having a “vote off” for favorite Halloween candy this month. I took a look at the matchups this year, and I think I’m definitely on Team Butterfinger. See where you stand, and let us know.
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Someone once asked me what my favorite room was in my house. I didn’t have to think twice before I answered.
“The garage,” I said.
My friend laughed. “What? The garage? You can’t be serious.”
“Totally serious,” I said.
After I was first married, many years ago, we didn’t have a garage. We lived in the back of an old house on the South Hill in Spokane—just a block west of St. John’s Cathedral, in fact. Parking required an elaborate dance with our neighbors (who lived in the front part of the house) because we all shared the same driveway.
Our cars were out in the weather no matter what, and I remember once we had to stand up my best friend during a cold snap. She’d been depending on us to pick her up at the airport when she got back from a trip to Russia, but it was nearly 20 below and neither of us could get our cars to start. Of course this was back before cell phones, so the best I could do was call the airport and have her paged to let her know she’d have to take a cab home. I still feel bad about that one.
Then Phil and I moved to Mattawa, and our cars sat out in a dirt driveway on a sheep farm. In the summer in the Central Washington desert, it’s not so bad to have your car outside (other than the fact you can get second-degree burns from touching the steering wheel). But in the winter—in the snow, and mud—now that’s a different story.
We bought a little house in Royal City after our twins were born, and that house didn’t have a garage either. I remember how much fun it was during the winter of 1996-1997 when we had something like 30 inches of snow on the ground—and on our cars. The tiny house we were living in actually had a garage at one time, but it had been walled in and turned into part of the house by the former owners. I remember silently cursing them whenever I loaded crabby, snowy preschoolers into their car seats during that long, miserable muddy winter.
You have to love the color.
When we moved to our second home in Royal, I finally got my garage. I’d often take my cordless phone out there and sit on the back of my car whenever I was talking to someone, and I’d feel like the Queen of England. We didn’t have to stash our lawnmower on the side of the house any more—we had a garage to put it in. I didn’t have to scrape ice off my windshield or kick the snow off my boots whenever I got in my car. My kids had a place to stash their bikes and sleeping bags.
Even though I was a grown woman, and even though I was married with three kids, it took having a garage to make me feel like I was truly, finally and absolutely grown-up.
And then I got divorced, and I found myself living in the corner of a pole building on a ranch in Ellensburg a few winters ago–sans garage. My Honda sat out on a gravel driveway, and my (also recently-divorced) landlady spent the winter apologizing about how her ex-husband had never taught her how to plow their driveway with the tractor. I spent many dark months starting my car up 20 minutes early in the hopes I could melt enough of a hole in the windshield-ice to see through, and we both developed a kind of tricky timing move to get our cars out of her driveway and onto the highway–we’d gun our cars before we got to the steep part and hope nobody was coming so we could slide out onto the highway.
All houses need halfway places: places where you can put things out of the weather (like yourself) for a little while without being completely indoors. It’s a place you can enjoy the thrill of being outside while still being inside—you can watch the snow fall and thunderstorms rage from the safety of your own private three-sided room. (I feel the same way about grand front porches.)
Everyone needs a little buffer zone between the inside and outside world; a place where you can take care of business without worrying about a little dirt or dripping on the floor. It’s just a civilized way to live. No matter how many oily, dirty tools and half-used paint cans you have lying around, just having a garage lends any home an air of sophistication and elegance.
Now that I’m here in Yakima, I have a garage once again. We’ve just spent hours painting it and getting some handy storage things installed to corral our gardening tools and spare 2x4s. We’re planning on hosting a party out there soon for our family and friends, so I have lots of plans for decorating my favorite room, including the installation of some temporary curtains and giant tissue-paper flowers on the garage bay doors.
It’s going to be absolutely lovely—a little weird, yeah, but having a garage again deserves celebration. My little beat-up Civic and I are finally home.
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Not everyone has heard of the Yakima Valley Zonta Club, but that doesn’t bother local Zonta club members. They just keep doing what they’ve been doing here in Yakima for the last 60 years.
The international organization’s mission is to improve the lives of women, and local club members have been involved in everything from providing hot meals for emergency shelter residents to consulting with the Yakima Police Department about the “Asian Massage” parlors that have been in the news recently.
The current president of the local Zonta chapter, Candi Broadfoot, says that the group was also heavily involved in preventing a strip club from opening downtown two years ago. “Strip clubs are often a venue for (sex) trafficking,” Broadfoot explained.
Zonta members researched city ordinances from around the state and eventually wound up making an ordinance recommendation to Yakima’s City Council to prevent the adult club from opening, she said. “If we hadn’t done the research…we’d probably have a strip club here in Yakima, and probably more than one,” Broadfoot said.
Yakima Valley Zonta Club president Candi Broadfoot and former president Pat Reynolds are all smiles as they look at the list of nonprofits the club will be donating to for the 2014-2015 funding cycle.
The group also raises funds through a variety of activities to donate to local (as well as international) charities, and awards annual scholarships to local senior girls. At the last business meeting, members approved eight applications for over $20,000 in funds. For the 2014-2015 funding cycle, the local Zonta club will donate $3,000 to the Dispute Resolution Center (which offers mediation for female offenders); $1,500 to the Girl Scouts for self-confidence-building courses, $3,000 to the YWCA in Yakima for safe passage relocation assistance; $2,000 to the Sunrise Outreach Center; $2,500 to the Noah’s Ark Homeless Shelter; $2,239 to Safe Yakima Valley to fund part-time youth summer jobs; $1,020 to Rod’s House; and$905 to the Wellness House for wigs and other items for cancer patients.
Zonta, which means “honest and trustworthy” in the Sioux language, was started in 1919 in New York. Since then, the group has grown internationally—in fact, there are more clubs outside the United States than inside, Broadfoot said. The organization is nonsectarian and nonpartisan, and both women and men can be members.
Broadfoot, who has been a member of the club since 1995, said that she loves the camaraderie of the group. “I like coming together with all these bright people to make a difference,” she said.
President-elect Danielle Surkatty echoes that sentiment. “I enjoy the great people in the group, the fellowship, and the things we do,” she said.
Juilette Humphreys (the granddaughter of Zonta member Julia Humphreys) visits with Alicia Ullom at the last business meeting.
Whistlin’ Jack Lodge owner Doug Williams hosted the local club recently for a dinner fundraiser that featured local author Susan LaRiviere. “The Zonta Club has allowed me to meet, and in some cases become mighty good friends with the Yakima Valley’s gracious and success-driven families,” Williams wrote in an email.
The biggest challenge of the group in the past few years—like many other service clubs in the Valley—has been declining membership, Broadfoot said. The club currently has 27 members, including one charter member, Kay Pfaff, who turned 90 years old this year…but in the past, they’ve had dozens more members. (You can read more about the history of Zonta in the Yakima Valley and their past projects here.)
“We’d love to have some more young people in the club,” Broadfoot said, noting that about half the membership is made up of retired women. “They have the energy and desire to make changes.” This year, the group will likely be focusing on increasing membership.
If you’d like to learn more about Zonta, you can check out their website here, and you can like them on Facebook here.
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This past week at my house has been interesting, since my beau R. has been unable to contain himself about the NFL’s shenanigans as the teams and the league scramble to mete out punishments to players.
Let me first state for the record that I grew up watching football. I was raised in a suburb of Denver, so by default I’m a football fan (go Broncos!). I own a Seahawks t-shirt and was just as caught up in the hoopla around the Superbowl last year as anyone else…I was the one who taped the “12” flag to our front door.
But there are certain things about sports that make me queasy.
I used to publish a small community weekly in central Washington, which means that I’ve spent an unholy number of hours at high school sporting events, laying out teensy-tiny track and field stats in 5-point font, and keeping heaps of AA batteries on hand for our Nikon’s big speedlight.
One year, in May, our small high school happened to be sending quite a few kids to state to compete in track, softball and golf. But three of our star athletes who were expected to compete at state sports had been observed drinking during prom.
Even though I was the owner of the local paper, I was probably the last person in town to find out that the kids had been drinking. According to my source—a high-school employee of ours who had personally observed the goings-on–her three classmates had also been observed by at least a dozen other students and adults, including a school board member chaperoning the dance. Two of the drunk kids had been acting so obnoxiously that they’d been asked to leave a pre-prom party hosted at the home of a county commissioner.
So by the time all the scuttlebutt got to me two weeks later, I assumed our high school had already disciplined the kids. After all, it sounded like at least several high profile adults had observed what happened. And last, but not least, I knew that everyone knew the same three kids had been caught with booze before (most memorably the boy involved, who had escaped unscathed from an alcohol-related auto accident that had paralyzed a classmate a few months earlier).
I was working on an unrelated story at the time, and when I emailed our school district’s athletic director a question about test scores, I took the opportunity to ask about the three students and whether they were going to be able to play at state.
The AD immediately shot back an email saying he was starting an investigation. I was more than a little taken aback. An investigation? Didn’t the school already know what had happened?
As a result of my question, the three kids involved were suspended from state play. The AD made absolutely sure that everyone knew that “the newspaper” had been the one to bring the issue up with school administration. The softball coach (who wound up losing at state, probably in part to the benching of two of his star players), announced in front of all the players and parents at the final game that he was never going to provide the newspaper with sports stats again thanks to my “vindictive” actions.
Although I had a few parents quietly thank me for “speaking out” (including the football coach’s wife—who had known, along with her husband, about the kids drinking) nobody stood up for me in public. It was very difficult for me to graciously accept compliments from people who had known about the kids but had chosen to stay silent, since I had been made into the scapegoat. I even heard that one of the students involved blamed me personally for the loss of her college scholarship.
So, to recap: even though all three kids had been caught red-handed, even though all three kids were at-risk students who’d been in trouble before, none of the adults spoke up. I can’t even call what I did “speaking up” because I had assumed that it was old news and the situation had already been resolved.
Remind you of the situation with the NFL and the waffling about how to punish the Ray Rices and Adrian Petersons?
So I just can’t muster much surprise about the NFL’s hand-wringing over their crime-committing superstars. I’ve seen the exact same attitude in a small town, where the stakes were much, much lower. Of course no public school district would ever be able to throw millions of dollars around on advisory panels and attorneys to protect their athletes like the NFL does. But in the case of the three high school students I’m talking about, that wasn’t even necessary. After all, the entire town was willing to look the other way.
So yes, the NFL has a problem. But is it a problem limited to football? Baseball players are willing to poison themselves with steroids. Racehorse owners inject injured equines with painkillers before races. Cyclists like Lance Armstrong are so anxious to keep their doping a secret that they’ll throw everyone they know to the wolves before they admit it.
Those of us who’ve played and watched sports know how thrilling it can be to win. But that thrill must be tempered, no matter what the sport.
So before we vilify the NFL for slapping the wrists of the athletes who abuse women and children, we’d do well to take a closer look at the engine that drives this troubled bus.
We can wear the names of star players on our backs, hang their photos in our cubicles at work, and get swept up in team spirit all we want to. But athletes are just people, people who are just as flawed as the rest of us. They’re not special creatures who reside on another plane of existence, no matter how much money they make, how talented they are, or how many games they win.
There’s an old saying that it takes a village to raise a child. Well, it takes a village to do just about anything, whether we’re talking about lowering the boom on some misbehaving kids, taking care of our parks, or building a school.
So maybe this is a good time for the village to examine our own attitude about sports, and about winning. Pro sports don’t exist in a vacuum; the games happen in front of an audience.
And that audience is us.
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