Looking back, and ahead, to years and tears

In reading the Jan. 2 Weekly News, I couldn’t help but be filled with emotion. Every article kind of cut to the quick, from Tim Johnson’s state of the Salish Sea, to the stories of the sailing adventure of friend Linda Rumbolt, to Ken’s concern about our loss of community, to John’s discussion about our ever-changing personal landscape, to the town attempting to create affordable housing, to the great work of community activists, the pieces instilled a touch of both sadness and ecstasy to my soul.

As a lifelong resident of the region, I know lots of history, not just of this place, but where many of us have come from also. I recently read the newly published book “The Barn Shows”, by longtime neighbors and friends LaVonne Newell-Riem and Kathy Pederson. I feel blessed to have known personally many of the artists showcased.

Since I lived just a couple of miles from the famous barn, I spent much time there visiting John Simon, who I met at the first show that was held in La Conner. His apartment in the barn was a hangout for the eclectics in our community. John was from Illinois, Bill Slater from Florida, Clayton James from the Northeast, Arnie Garborg from Fir Island, Kevin Paul from just across the Channel. Far too many of them have passed into the pages of a most wonderful part of our art history.

This place has shaped who I have become. As an infant my family moved from Whidbey Island, to the grand island of Fir, where I fell in love with the notion of becoming a farmer. Who could have guessed that I would actually become one? Not being born into one, makes it extremely difficult, but after spending the first half of my career as a professional farm worker, my wife Charlotte and I found a few acres that we named Mother Flight Farm. We had to become extremely adaptive and innovative to turn our farm into what Abraham Lincoln thought was the basis for “one of the greatest art forms, making a decent living from a small piece of land”.

Unfortunately, some of us die before our time, leaving turd sized tears in our wake. It’s been six years since my wife died of lung cancer, five years since I sold my farm. I used to grow fifty crops, now I mostly write fine lines across the page. As the fine lines across my face begin to show my age, I wonder if any of them are sage. So far my wise words have not led to any sort of wage.

Of course I’ve read far more than I’ve written, which is approaching my 2000th page. Some of them are about sickness, and sad slow death, while most are about what we might do to live healthier; with a zest for the quest to live a life fully lived. I cringe when I see the seas’ sickness, the shortage of salmon, the disappearance of the smelt, a society that doesn’t feel like life is meant to be felt, but to be escaped from. I sometimes feel like I’ve been hit below the belt.

In the long slow nights of winter, a farmer can find time to read, and write and contemplate the creation of innovative things. Affordable housing, affordable healthcare, socially responsible social media. There’s no wonder I sometimes feel alone, these subjects are not found in most fiction novels.

In my mind they are all exceptionally intertwined, ready to be sipped and savored like a fine wine. Being frightened of these subjects puts us all in a very tough bind, so please, as we plunge into a new year and decade, let’s learn to be knowledgeable and kind, let’s not look at life as nothing but a grind, there are still many pearls for us to find. - By Glen Johnson