Quimper Village 💕 Newsletter

The First Senior Co-Housing Community in Port Townsend, WA

What Members are Saying about

Transitioning into Community

“The greatness of a community is most accurately measured by the compassionate actions of its members.”
-Coretta Scott King

War Canoes of the Salish Sea

The gym treadmill was about 20 feet from the drift logs lining the beach of Discovery Bay, usually a view to reward virtuous exercisers. One morning I was disappointed: 100 yards off shore the world disappeared in a thick fog. But a black dot a

ppeared in the fog, and swelled, coming toward me. Perhaps floating kelp? Or might I be lucky enough to see a hunting orca pod? Then the shape turned slightly and I realized I was looking at a classic Northwest Indian cedar war canoe! It was perhaps 30 feet long with a high carved bow and extended high stern, carved and painted in the red-white-black of NW Indian art. Several pullers (you don't row a war canoe, you pull it) were plying their paddles. I ran outside as they passed about 50 yards offshore, the steersman sitting high on the stern, singing -- an Indian fog horn? Over the next few minutes several more canoes came out of the fog, sang their way by, and disappeared back into the mist, like something from the Twilight Zone.

200 or more years ago to see a war canoe come out of the fog would have meant "run like hell!" Salish Indian societies were sea-going: fishing, whaling, and warring in these fast, powerful canoes. The Salish Sea comprises the waters between Vancouver Island and the BC mainland, extending down into the Strait of Juan de Fuca and Puget Sound. Fifty or more tribes lived along the coasts of Washington State and Vancouver Island, British Columbia, and the Salish Sea.

About a decade ago, NW tribes began to hold a gathering every other year. The tribes bring out their dancing finery and their old (or new) canoes, choose young men and women and respected elders for the honor of crewing the tribe's official canoe(s), and set off through the islands and along the coast to the designated festival site, which rotates among the tribes. Along the route they request the privilege of coming ashore in

other tribal lands, and are welcomed with official words (brief, not like the white politician's long speech!), a welcome song and perhaps a dance. Much fun, ceremonies, stories of the old days, drums and dancing.

It's not without danger: these are ocean waters, subject to sudden storms, and cold. One canoe capsized not far from here and an elderly chief drowned. But the gathering seems to be growing, not shrinking, and I am delighted to have seen history through the fog. ---Jack

WHY I NEVER BECAME A

Hubris quite often invites a downfall. Of course I never knew that when I was eight or nine, sitting in the morning sun on our front steps reading from my box of about 100 comic books. Life was great; it was Sunday; the sun warmed me, and I had an inexhaustible supply of comic books.
But then … the tinkling titter of female voices cut into my enjoyment of Captain Marvel’s exploits. They came, from Bundy’s backyard. Marcia and Nada. They cut across my driveway and were going to trespass across my lawn without even looking at me.
“Hey! What are you two up to?”
“We’ve made doll clothes,” Marcia said without looking up. I noticed they both had a doll in their arms. They were just too smug.
“I could do that.”
They laughed dismissively and continued toward Marcia’s house.
“Hey, I could do that,” I yelled at their backs. Their laughter made my face tighten.
I tossed Captain Marvel back in the box, and went inside. I crept into my sister’s room and grabbed the doll I wanted. It was small. Maybe ten inches high, beige plaster, with a Dutch Boy hair cut that let it pass for a boy, as its genitalia were smoothly amorphous. Sticking it under my arm, I went to my mother’s rag box next to her Singer treadle sewing machine and found the perfect piece of checkered green and white wool, I think. It was thicker than most cloth.
With these and a pair of scissors, I returned to the sunny front porch and set to work. Luckily it was a good-sized piece of cloth, for the designing of the shirt/jacket was a matter of trial and error. Finally, I had what I thoug

ht would work and went inside to use the sewing machine.
Mom had left the needle threaded. Actually I was afraid of the sewing machine. I had watched my mother run it at high speed, and could imagine that sharp needle punching several times though my finger before it could be stopped. I lined up the seam and turned the wheel by hand, slowly. When I was finished, the ugly seam stood up almost a quarter inch. Not satisfactory. Marcia and Nada would laugh. Then--Shazam!--an amazing idea struck me. I turned the jacket inside out. It was perfect. I was proud. Now, being experienced, the trousers went faster.
Soon I was hurrying up the sidewalk, hoping the two girls were still at Marcia’s. The fully clothed Dutch Boy was sticking from my rear pocket. They’d have to admit its outfit looked perfect.
Marcia’s dad, Charley Drake, was a wiry five-foot-five with a simian face, darkened from years working nightshift in the coal mine just outside of Bellingham. Rumor had it he was an alcoholic, and though his wife was taller and in most ways dominated him, occasionally he would smack her one. I doubt that I knew this at the time, but learned it later.
So I was hurrying up the Drake’s driveway, alongside their house, past a big window. The girls were playing in the sand under the big pine tree. But Charley Drake swung open the back door just as I arrived. He saw the doll.
“Jimmy!” I stopped. “I thought you were a little boy!” His voice was sarcastic, mean, and edged with anger. I could feel a chill go through me. “You must be a little girl. Did you come to play dollies with the other little girls?” His eyes sparkled in his simian face and a smile twisted his lips. The girls’ white, blurred faces were staring, but I don’t know if they were frightened, sorry for me, or amused. I turned and slouched back around the protective corner of the house, down the drive, like a deflated balloon. My energy was gone. I was ashamed. My limbs ached with fatigue. I was unaware of the doll hanging in my hand.
I dropped the Dutch Boy’s jacket and pants back in my mother’s rag box and returned him to my sister’s room. I never saw him again.
Charley must be dead now. But I still see his glowing eyes and twisted smile. The pity was, I had thought he was right. I had thought I was despicable. I had done something horribly wrong. I was ashamed.

If you enjoyed the movie DARKEST HOUR, in which Churchill becomes wartime leader of the UK, here’s a small footnote for Quimper Villagers:

In early June, 1940, as Churchill was trying to rally the UK to “fight them on the beaches,” France was being steadily driven back by German attacks. The French government considered establishing a “national redoubt” in the Breton area, where a besieged French Army could hold out on French territory. Gen. Charles de Gaulle argued strongly for the redoubt, with the Government HQ to be located in the small city of Quimper. On June 10 “Prime Minister Reynaud seemed convinced. He authorized preparations for a move to Quimper but the cabinet continued to support a move to Bordeaux and the Quimper plan was scuttled that afternoon.” For more on this subject, see http://worldatwar.net/article/brittany/

[An early Spanish exploration mission to the Pacific Northwest included an officer named Quimper, whose family is thought to be from the Breton peninsula town of Quimper. Quimper Village is located on Quimper Peninsula]. ---Jack

Wood Chips (Woodchucks)

What a goldmine we have among us! A group of eager beavers who do dam good works in wood, knot as a chore, but as fun. They don’t lumber along pining for the perfect project. They saw a need for projects big and small and jumped right in. So far, they have logged a stack of accomplishments.
Led by Chief Wood Chip (I prefer Woodchuck) Ivar D, the team so far consists of Mack, Jerry, Jack, Mike, Phil, Doug and Howard. But Ivar said the shop is open to any QV member. They can pair up with an experienced WC if their skills need burnishing.

To date, the team has assembled the dining room❤️tables, built storage units for all the❤️members, built the bike racks in the bike barn, built the frame for the QV entrance sign, built two kitchen islands, built and installed shelves and worked on other small projects. Planned projects include a❤️bench and an island for the Common House kitchen. They envision helping with other small projects in the future.❤️
The woodshop is 480 square feet, insulated and paneled by the team. They also installed cupboards and peg boards. It is well equipped with member-donated tools: a table saw, chop saw (whatever that is), skill and saber saws, a drill press, vises, wood clamps, wrenches and a great assortment of other tools and shop items.
Ivar❤️says he has been a farmer and a tinkerer and has been doing woodworking, welding and carpentry since he was twelve. He also offered that he was an Eagle Scout with 23 merit badges.
The thing that attracts him to working with wood is seeing something take shape through his skill and effort. Handling the cool tools is also a factor.
These shavers and lathers and sawyers and nailers among us have contributed and will continue to contribute to our Village as they sharpen their skills and tools for years to come. --- Jim

Quimper Village Garage Sale

Friday, March 23 – Saturday, March 24
8 - Noon

Our downsizing is your gain!

Come find your treasure at our 28-household, first ever Garage Sale.

See a wide variety of items for sale and meet some Quimper Villagers.
Two days only, March 23 – 24, 8–noon, each day.