Yellowriter

It was the writer, Thomas Wolfe, who said “you can never go home again” and I recently had that play out during an excursion to California.  David, our twenty-two year old son in the Navy is in Spain and his car, a Mazda 3, was parked in the garage of my dad’s girlfriend.  Mary, that’s my father’s young chick (she’s seventy-five) has recently put her house up for sale so the car needed to be moved.  David’s solution was for dad to fly down to Burbank and drive the phantom blue blur up the coast.  I can tell you that twelve hundred plus miles driving alone on mostly interstate is dull at best.  The good news is that the car is safe and sound in our garage in Port Angeles, Washington.  The bad news is that I found that Thomas Wolfe was a prophet indeed.

I was born and raised in the small town of Lancaster, California.  It is in Los Angeles County, but barely.  The landscape begins to shift as one travels north out of Valencia and Santa Clarita.  The desert starts to take over.  That would be the Mojave Desert and she can be one mean momma!  Hot as Hades in the summer and sub-zero in the winter, the area known as the Antelope Valley can be a tough place.  Growing up there was great though.  No video games for me and my pals.  We spent our days playing Over-the-Line, which is a scaled down baseball game, for hours on end.  We played in three digit heat and no one carried a water bottle.  Don’t ask - there wasn’t bottled water for sale yet, the stone age.  Actually it was about 1970.  I remember because we were all still pretty sore at the Baltimore Orioles for getting beat by the lowly, yet amazing, Mets.  We named a stenchy mud hole after Baltimore, dubbing it “the Oriole Hole.”  The kangeroo court could dole out a penalty and make a person get on all fours and thus have to smell the hole for five minutes.  Martin Stewart was the only guy with a watch so we all wanted to be on his good side.  He could add a couple of minutes to the sentence and nobody would be the wiser.

Junior High was painful, but High School was fun.  Antelope Valley Highs’ class of 1976 was awesome to say the least.  Jim Wagner was our Senior Class President and all of our reunuions to date have been exceptional.  Collen Hall helped out with the thirty-year and she could still shake and bake at age forty-eight!  Let’s face it - we just got old!  But the alternative isn’t so super.  You either get older or you get deader!  Friends I’ve lost include Donald King, Robert Louis Brown, Judith Pipkin and Dale Snyder (who died in a mountain climbing accident).  I thought about these people as I drove down Avenue I in Lancaster last week.

It is disheartening to me that when Hollywood makes a Mad Max end-of-the -world movie it is almost always filmed in the Antelope Valley.  Resident Evil and the Book of Eli show the desolate land for what it is.  Avenue I is a b-grade apocalypse film set, with about forty percent of the buildings from my youth, not only condemned, but demolished and removed.  If that part of Lan-scatter (affectionate term) were a mouth, most of the teeth would be missing.  So I came to the sad conclusion that the town of my childhood had contracted metaphorical meth-mouth.

My dad stills lives in the same house I grew up in.  I was nine months old in March, 1959 when we moved in.  I slept on the floor of my old bedroom.  It was humbling as I stared at the curtains my mom put up in 1972.  Dad needs a decorator or a new house.  The wind howled as I lay on my blow-up-mattress bed and remembered all of the nonsense I got into.  But they were good times.  I saw two of my sisters and we laughed for hours so it wasn’t all doom and gloom.  Time had simply moved on and I have yet to accept that fact.  I tried to go home again, but all I have is memories.

As I write this in my office, I glance up at the picture of my mom, taken when she was just sixteen years old.  She was so fresh and pretty and now she has been gone lo these seven years, just like Marley in “A Christmas Carol.”  But my mother does not haunt me like Scrooge’s old partner did him.  Instead, she comforts me.  You see, my time, and yours, is coming.  Nothing stays the same, but is in constant flux.  Accept it for your own peace of mind.  Thomas told me I couldn’t go home again and he was right.  I thought that in my old town I would be a fish out of water, but that analogy is not drastic enough for what I feel tearing at my heart and soul.  I’m not a fish out of water, but instead I feel like a fish in outer space. 

If you’re not too old, you can remember when we didn’t have Daylight Saving Time.  I was a freshman in high school when President Nixon ordered us to move the clocks.  The only vivid memory was sitting in my first period English class and looking out the small window in the door watching the sun come up.  I learned later that the original idea to change the clocks was Benjamin Franklin’s.  In terms of what it means to me - it meant living was getting tough.  That’s what my father said.  “Going to work in the dark and getting home when it’s dark makes living tough,” dad used to say.  I’m really not too sure why we do it (change the clocks); I think we just got used to it.

When I was in the Air Force I learned that not all places change their clocks.  Hawaii and Arizona are the main abstainers.  I guess it has to do with geography and the attitude of the populace.  My friend, Bob Schmid, told me this riddle.  A man in Florida calls his brother in Oregon.  The clocks of both read the exact same time.  How is this possible?  Answer - The man making the call lives in western Florida in the panhandle (which is in the Central Time Zone so he’s only two hours different from most of Oregon (most are on Pacific Time).  A small chunk of eastern Oregon is on the Mountain Time Zone so the brothers are only one hour different in time to begin with.  If the Florida brother calls between 2 and 3 AM when the clocks “fall back” the two brothers will be exactly the same time for 59 minutes.  At 2 am in Florida it becomes 1 AM and that is the time Oregon brother has until he turns his clock back at 2 Mountain Time.  

Confusing, isn’t it?  But here’s the good part - we are living in the best part of the year.  Not to say that Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s and football playoffs are bad, but now the living is easy!  That’s what dad says when we “spring forward” and baseball arrives.  To me easy living means sunshine and baseball.  Robert Frost said “All’s right with the world” and I’m buying it hook, line and sinker ball!

The upside and the downside is the extra innings baseball package on Direct TV.  The upside is I watch lots of baseball.  The downside is that I watch lots of baseball.  I only watched parts of four different games today so I managed to get a few things done.  I don’t know when I’ll find time to write!

My next novel is coming along at a snail’s pace.  I hope to finish it by Christmas.  I’ll get a lot more writing done after the World Series ends.  I’m going to try and stay close to home this year.  We took eight trips last year and it was fun, but much too much.  I’m letting people come to me.  Selfish?  Maybe, but the Olympic Peninsula is well worth the trip.  I tell folks that Port Angeles isn’t the end of the world…but you can see it from there! 

David, my son, is leaving for Spain soon (in the Navy) and he’ll ge to Dubai from there.  Jenna and David met at grandpa’s over the weekend and I got a full report.  I won’t get to see David until 2011 but Jenna is planning a trip in August when Lauren is home.  Two other kids have hazy plans to visit.  Part of me is sad because I miss my children and the grandkids in Colorado, but I know that modern life really spreads people out.  Sometimes that depressing feeling of sitting in English class, listening to the teacher talk about Lord of the Flies, while waiting for the sun to rise dampens my outlook.  But then I look outside and know it’s going to be all right after all.  Because now the living is easy!  

I just finished a dad duty.  One of the things that never goes away is the need to be there for your kids.  Natalie, our oldest, needed my wife, Annie and me this week.

The news story of the tradgedy of Annie Le, Yale student and bride to be was a national headline over the past three weeks.  All one has to do is pick up a paper or turn on the news to view the latest in senseless violence.  Most of the time we sigh, pray and turn the page or the channel.  The story of Annie Le didn’t leave the memory as easily because she was my daughter’s friend and roommate.

I was with my friend, Bob F. Schmid, in Washington D.C. when the first call came in.  We were moving toward the Jefferson Memorial as Natalie told me that Annie was missing since the day before, just five days before her wedding.  These are the times you wish you’re close enough for a hug - we had to settle for cell phones.  The FBI had been called and a frantic search was on for the 90 pound Vietnamese woman.

I met Annie Le when I moved my daughter to Connecticut.  They shared the third floor of an old brownstone in New Haven.  The place had three rooms and the third room has had three tenants, but Natalie and Annie were still together as roommates when evil came to call on September 8, 2009.  Annie had an infectous smile and a wit and wisdom seldom seen in young people today.  She looked like a child to me as she stood only four foot eleven inches.  We went for coffee, unpacked and spent one day out to lunch at “The Educated Burger,” a must-do in New Haven.  It makes me ill when I think of her never getting the chance to share that smile or insert that rolling laughter.

I suppose I will always see Annie Le through my daughter because she truly changed Natalie’s life.  My daughter was always a loner and for everything she possesses in Einstein-like mental powers, she lacks in social skills.  I guess I should say lacked because Annie completed Natalie in so many ways.  Through Annie’s proding Natalie went shopping, tried new restaurants and went to parties.  She even went on a date that was Annie’s idea of a set up.  With John, Annie’s husband-to-be, the three made an odd couple plus one.  Natalie never felt like a third wheel around these two fun loving young people.  Annie planned to continue to room with Natalie even after she was wed to John because he will continue his education at Columbia in New York City while Annie was to continue at Yale.

But continue she did not.  The prayer vigil on Friday night is lengthy and goes into the evening a couple of hours.  It is mostly in Vietnamese so I read the faces and gather impressions from body language.  The mother and father are divorced and fail to make eye contact with one another.  The uncle and aunt who raised Annie and her brother, Chris, conduct themselves with quiet dignity and grace.  Many words are said, but I study their faces.  A great uncle speaks, the lines on his tired, tear stained face speaking volumes.  I did not know the words, but I hear the language of a broken heart.

The funeral the next day is long and it is hot at the grave site.  The beautiful flowers on display are torn apart and each person is given a token to leave on the casket as a means of bidding goodbye before the casket is lowered into the earth.  The weeping claws at my spirit like a physical presence.  The aunt, nicknamed “Flower” is escorted away in a state of grief that no actor in Hollywood could ever capture in a role.  I steal a look at the old man in his suffering.  I don’t know how, but I can actually feel his pain.  My body aches as we walk across the steaming grass toward our air conditioned van.

I tell my daughter that life goes on, but part of Natalie was lowered into that symmetrical hole in the ground, never to return.  Annie gave much and took a little with her.  I’m only trying to be a good dad.  I don’t have the right words; no one does.  In the end we must trust God, for all other roads have a miserable dead end.  I’m sorry for all of you who were touched by this fine young woman because you have lost a great deal.  We all have.  Annie lost the most so we won’t begrudge her for taking a splinter of our life joys with her to heaven.

My last thought is for Jonathan Widowsky.  He showed us the photos that were to be part of their wedding collection, now only memories.  I marvel as I look on the wedding band he wears in anticipation of a splendor that will elude him.  He speaks English, but does not need to use such a crude device to show me his state.  I learned a new tongue that day and I suppose I have Annie to thank.  God’s speed, child of the nation - you will be missed.  If there is any doubt just look into the eyes of Natalie Powers.  It is there you will decipher the language of a broken heart.   

I had an epiphany the other evening and it happened while I was playing BINGO.  I don’t play the game often, but found myself having a tad bit of difficulty keeping up with the caller.  I was working six cards and the guy yelling out the letters and numbers had little compassion for novices.  The situation was a fund-raiser for people with cancer.  The good folks at Laurel Park Retirement Home, here in Port Angeles, do a fall gathering of money for charitable causes.  This year they decided to do gas cards for cancer patients who could not afford the fuel to come into the city for their treatment.  All in all it was a great night.  A few more people could have come so next year make it a point to participate if you’re close enough.

The night before we were at a fund-raiser for Care-Net.  This organization helps support mothers-to-be and offers alternatives to abortion.  Lauren, and Annie and I had a superb time.  We had a wonderful steak dinner and dessert and got to find out what Care-Net was all about.  In the end, thirty thousand dollars were raised.  We saw many people we know and had a terrific time (even if I did miss the World Series).

I am still driving Lauren to Peninsula College from time to time and that lends itself to those few minutes of father-daughter conversation.  Lauren is doing what I was told to do as a young man entering the Air Force.  My dad told me, “You’ll get out of it what you put into it.”  That is true for Lauren and her schooling.

It is also true to fund-raising, community involvement or settling into retirement.  The formula is there, but we often-times miss it because we want to complain or we just get lazy.  Annie was frusterated that we just “don’t seem to fit” in this closed off little community in northwest Washington.  True, Californians coming to the great Pacific Northwest have not been the best neighbors.  Californians come with their cash and expect Port Angeles to be Los Angeles.  Maybe that was part of our problem.  The key is involvement.  You want to succeed?  Who doesn’t?  The formula is simple; put into it what you want to get out of it and then get ready for over flow!

We were feeling un-welcome in our new church so we joined a Bible study.  That led to an opportunity to start a new ministry.  Lauren is mentoring Junior High girls in our home on Sunday nights and she is with them as a leader in their Wednesday night Bible study.  We are hosting a supper for eight people in our home in November.  We are also inviting folks for Thanksgiving - that’s deep-fried turkies in peanut oil at our house!  The response has been super.

The events we go to like Care-Net, Laurel Park and the after-hours socials sponsored by the Chamber of Commerce help us make friends and fit in.  It’s a lot of fun too.  There is a wine tasting event coming up too so count us in.  Hopefully, Lauren will get her license before then because a designated driver is a must when you’re tasting the fruit of the vine!

The epiphany, you guessed it, is to make a point to put in what you expect out and then just try and catch the extra benefits.  Maybe the benefits are acceptance, love, an opportunity to serve or maybe even a good old-fashioned financial reward , but come they will.  It is old math.  It is simple math.  But it is real world math that works.  The formula for success?  Start giving, but before you do…buy a bigger catcher’s mitt!

I realize that I’m dating myself, but when I was in Junior High School, Jim Croce recorded a song entitled, Time in a Bottle.  It was a great song, if you like that sappy lovey stuff - hey, I’m a poet (I have to like it; it’s in the Poet’s Handbook!).  The reason the song came back to me is because Annie and I just returned from an 8 day trip to Colorado.  Our grandson, Talon, was turning one and we wanted to be there.  The visit was grand and we even got to take the boy for three whole days.  Was Grandpa ready to give him back after a mere 72 hours?  As Grandma Jan, who hails from Minnesota (pronounced Minney-soooo-taaah) would say, “Sure, Yeah - you betcha.”  Think of her as a blonde Sarah Palin.  We got to take the boy up the I-25 corridor to have lunch with relatives from Nebraska/Wyoming.  It was great to see my Aunts, Cousins, and one guy named Alan, who is more like a brother than anything else.  He married my cousin and was grafted in.  He’s one of those people who marry in and, after time, you forget he’s not a blood relative.  That’s kind of how Grandma Jan is too.  Well, we had a super time dining at the Cracker Barrel and swapping stories.  We plan another visit next year after Brenna has her second child in May, 2009.  We plan on taking Talon, Grandma Jan, and maybe a hitch-hiker or two to Minnesota for some time at Jan’s sister’s place.  She is married to Bill, and you guessed it, he’s one of those graft-in people too!  Back to the song.  It seems like a lot of the folks we visited were on a tight time schedule.  Don’t get me wrong - I’m thankful they worked us in!  But I’m also thankful for time.  God gives each one of us 24 hours a day and we have to decide what we will do with it.  Sure, it gets away from us, but sometimes the right amount of time is spent in just the right way, like having lunch with people I love deeply, but don’t get to see a lot of, and the rewards are incredible.  It’s like having time in a bottle.  Are you inspired yet?  I hope so.  Spend some time to send a card you’ve been meaning to send.  Write that e-mail.  Make a phone call.  Call your Mom and tell her how much you love her before the day comes when that connection is no longer available.  Don’t put it off.  Don’t eat a meal until you accomplish that little goal in your mind.  Afterall, you’ve got Time in a Bottle - spend it wisely! 

Not enough is said about the upside of conflict.  A couple of times this week some conflict arose over some happenings around our house and things got a bit heated.  We talked, I yelled, Lauren cried, and Annie acted as mediator.  In the end we prayed and compromised.  It got me thinking about all that conflict brings.  If we handle it right, and talk it out, conflict can be a good thing.  It leads to resolution and compromise, and ultimately, peace.  Who has too much peace?

The week started with the contractors informing me that the city inspector stopped by and asked for the building permits, which they neglected to get, and the job site got shut down.  At first I was mad, but it was kind of nice not having these guys around all of the time.  The problem is the Barbeque we want to host on the 20th because at this rate it will be September, 2009, before we have the neighbors over for a hamburger or a brat or two.  The week ended by us finding out that the house we purchased two years ago is out of code.  The house is too big for the lot.  Yes, I’m mad again, but I thought and prayed my way through it.  The joys of conflict.  What saved the day is the 19,000 square foot lot in back of our house that we also happen to own.  The contractors gave me paperwork to convert both lots into one for a small fee.  I’m happy until we go to the County Assessor’s Office and find out that we can never sell the other land unless we jump through a bunch of other hoops in the future.  Our construction can resume but we lose the option of selling the land to pay for weddings (3 unmarried daughters) and Lauren’s college education (she is a freshman).  I go to the city planner and he gives us a solution - move the boundary line 3000 feet and make the lot we live on big enough to support the new construction.  The caveat is that I have to pay $2000 to a surveyor and the city fee.

Back up two weeks - we decided to ask for an 82×4 sidewalk on the east side of the house in addition to the other work and offered it as a side job to the work crew to be done on a weekend.  The guy said he would charge me $2200 for the sidewalk and I agreed.  The owner of the construction company got wind of the side job and then he got angry.  In the end I agreed that he add the job on to the current one and he cooled off.

We still haven’t talked to the builder, but I made a deal with the construction guy to throw in the sidewalk for free as a trade off for him not getting the permits in advance as the law required.  I told him that I would pay the money to the city and the surveyer to move the line.  So I’m out $200 less than I was.   I’ll talk to the builder tomorrow and see what he’ll offer for his faux pau.  Maybe nothing but grace and favor for the future, but the point to realize is that all of that is a result of conflict.  No law suits, no screaming, no threats.  Just a bunch of concerned parties striking a deal and compromising.  In the end the city will get its fee, the surveyor his wages, the contractor will finish the job without being repremanded by the city, and I’ll get my deck and sidewalk.  The builder is the only one whose end is not sure, but that will be another conflict!  Look a little deeper the next time conflict threatens to ruin your day, your week, or your month…there is an upside! 

 I called my daughter, Brenna, yesterday to wish her a happy 23rd birthday.  It wasn’t.  She had to rush off the phone for a family emergency and then neglected to call back.  Annie finally called Brenna and the crying on that end of the line gave us the idea that it was indeed a family emergency.  James Arcebuche, my daughter’s brother-in-law, had taken his own life.  He was depressed and living in Las Vegas at the time of the tragedy.  I believe that he was only 32 years old.  Brenna’s birthday will forever be the day her husband, Vince, got the sad news that his older brother was dead.

I spent the rest of the day in a haze, you know the type.  It’s the kind of busy work functions that keep you from deep thought, from pondering the complex and eternal issues.  The contractors are still at it around our back yard so the hammering and skill saws were welcome diversions, you know the type.  The diversions that help ease the pain.  But my pain was on the fringe.  I kept thinking about my son-in-law’s mother and father (Linda and Jimmy) and all of the grief that must be raining down upon them.  I prayed with Lauren and Annie several times asking for comfort for his close friends and family.  I only spent time with him on four or five occasions, but James Arcebuche was about as full of life as anyone I’ve ever known.  So you’re asking, because I did too, Why?  I don’t have an answer and I’m not sure anyone does except for God, and we’ll have to wait for that.

Last night as we lay in the dark before falling asleep, I asked Annie if she ever knew anyone who took their own life.  I was surprised that she only knew one teen-aged girl personally that committed suicide.  We used to lead a Christian Divorce Support Group for over eight years and in one of those groups a member’s step-daughter had killed herself with drugs.  I was always unclear whether the girl just ODed or it was intentional, but the result was the same, devastation.  Four of my ex-co-workers had children that took their own lives.  I’m hoping the air traffic controller as a job didn’t play into it.  I guess I’ve only know a copule of adults who killed themselves.  One was an older guy I used to work with who had cancer and one was a confused guy that I went to high school with.  All of them still have me scratching my head.  I don’t know what could push a person to do that.  I know about depression, but how low must one be to take away the gift of life?

I decided to look at things a bit differently as an homage to James.  Don’t sweat the small stuff will be my motto.  Things happen for a reason.   Go with the flow.  Don’t try to put square pegs in round holes.  Trust God in the small, as well as, the big things.  Not all of life is a fastball straight down the middle.  Sometimes you get curves and change-ups.  Have the faith to believe that the Lord will bring a positive out of every negative.  It’s what He does.  Get your mind around that one and you’ll learn, even the curve balls are precious. 

Ask a seventh grader where the nation, Chad, or Sierra Leone is and that kid probably can’t tell you.  The problem is that geography is no longer considered important enough to be taken seriously.  I learned the lesson the hard way by trying to get my last two high schoolers to find Connecticut.  We made some adjustments and worked on it a bit so now they can tell you that Ohio is east of Nevada.  But geography is so much more than we give it credit for.

When we were kids our parents told us that it “takes a big person to walk away from a fight,” and it turns out that they were right.  What Mom and Dad so cleverly relayed to us is that you can avoid problems simply by putting a little geography between you and potential problems.

My wife has super-human hearing.  It is more like a bat’s sonar than actually people hearing.  The down side is that I don’t get away with much and she is irritated by sounds that almost no one, but a pack of wild dogs, can hear.  We just came from a meeting where she complained of music in the background - I heard not a sound.  When we went to see “The Dark Knight” a couple of weeks ago, and movies cost a small fortune these days, the couple behind us started whispering and laughing.  After the film started, I got up and moved 10 rows.  My wife could still hear them laughing at how outraged “those people” were that moved, but I simply enjoyed the flick.  Chalk one up to geography!  No yelling, screaming or getting the manager - just walk away.

I had to move places at church.  I am a creature of habit so I sit in the same pew every week.  About five weeks ago “The Ghost Lady” started sitting behind me.  I call her “The Ghost Lady” because she is one of those puffed-up folks with an opera type voice that reverburates between stanzas.  She takes off singing her own rendition of fine old Christian hymns and songs by creating her own production, making sure to belt out loud notes while the song is at rest between choruses.  In short, it is very distracting.  So I moved to the other side of the church and “The Ghost Lady” is a mere blurb.  Score point number two for geography!  No hurt feelings - just move.

I goofed in the geography department last week.  I gave my opinion to my neighbor when I should have shut my mouth.  I did leave, but the damage was done.  Remember to move first and then talk when you are out of range.  I ended up hurting someone’s feelings and now I must apologize.  I am waiting for the right time to approach this person and I fear that I will have to thwart geography and make a trip to the door while towing my humble pie.  It’s better to be silent and move than to cause a ruckus. 

Geography can solve alot of problems.  So when your seventh graders ask you where Zaire is just smile…and head for the door!

In about two hours I will not be an employee of the Federal Aviation Administration.  After twenty-three years I’m headed out the door.  I had almost four years in the Air Force as an air traffic controller and that time counts toward my years of service as well.  In short, twenty-seven years of telling airplanes (and a few people along the way) where to go was more than enough.  My co-workers threw me a bash and I want to give a shout out to Delilah for putting it all together.  It was a tad surreal going into work for the last time, like being in a dream.  As I left I felt a mixed bag of emotions and was awed by the sensation that it all went by so fast.  So here I am just minutes from being wiped out of the data base.  The OPM will take over for the FAA.  It occurs that the thing I’ll miss most about the government are the acronyms.  The FAA will turn me over to the Office of Personnel Management (OPM) when I’m taken off the logs.  I was a CPC (Certified Professional Controller) at the LA ARTCC (Los Angeles Air Route Traffic Control Center) where we used to be called FPL’s (Full Performance Level’s).  I had to retire today eventhough I was on an RDO’s (Regular Days Off) because I am part of the FERS (Federal Employment Retirement System) and retiring on the last day of the month makes for an earlier receipt of that first retrement check.  Some of the folks I work with are under the CSRS (Civil Service Retirement System), but everyone hired after July, 1984 have to be under FERS - I already told you what that means!  Try and keep up!  I guess I’ll miss all of those acronyms.  It’s time for a new chapter in my life.  Hey, maybe I’ll make my own acronym.  RIDWIL - Retirement, I’ll Do What I like!  Right now I feel like some pocorn!

The day began with an e-mail.  It wasn’t an ordinary piece of electronic communication - it was work related.  I have about 51 days left until I officially retire from the Federal Aviation Administration and the e-mail was from the woman who processes retirement packages.  She wanted to know if I was getting cold feet.  The jist of the matter is that the FAA is offering a bonus to those eligible to retire if the potential retiree decides to work an extra year.  The woman was concerned that all of her hard work reference my retirement was about to go down the tubes.  I laughed at the idea of going back to that chamber of horrors, otherwise known as my workplace.  After I sent her an e-mail to reassure her that her labor would not be wasted, I headed out with my wife to the local Chamber of Commerce Meeting.  We had a fine lunch, listened to a guest speaker, and met various local business people.  Port Angeles is a nice little secret, as towns go, and I marveled at this charming little place while I nibbled on salmon, gazed out at the beautiful blue ocean and listened to the fog horn on the ferry bound for Vancouver Island.  This Chamber suits me just fine.  As for the Chamber of Horrors known as Air Traffic Control, you can have it.  A bonus?  Not for all the tea in China.