Ballard Bullshit

It is extremely rare when you meet an individual who is so unique you cannot compare him or her to anyone else. Had you been at the new Ballard Library the evening of January 26th, you'd have met one. She was gracefully introduced by the spritish Librarian, Ellen Fitzgerald.

A few facts: Ms. Krentz has had forty-one books on the New York Times bestseller list, and her latest, All Night Long, debuted at number six, just last week. Astonishingly, she has published 141 novels! If you don't recognize the pseudonym Janye Ann Krentz by-line, she's also published using her natal name Jayne Castle, and yet another nom de plume, Amanda Quick. With that kind of provenance, she turns water not into wine, but Chevis.

And there she was, this tiny lady with shiny burgundy hair, smart orange vest, lavender blouse, and tailored black stovepipe slacks. She reminded me of an elegant hummingbird, or even a rare, colorful harlequin Dendrobates Lehmanni from Central America. At fifty seven years old, she cut an impressive swath in the circular public room.

Every now and then on the Antiques Roadshow, one of the professional appraisers gets launched into the stratosphere because of an important item someone innocently brings in. These rare pieces are usually termed national treasures, and their value is immense because they just don't appear on the market, and their significant uniqueness is of historic importance.

Jayne Ann Krentz is an American treasure.

To call her smart would be to debase her. Enlightened consciousness like this comes around to bless humanity randomly. I have never read one of her "romantic suspense" novels, or her "nineteenth century setting" works, or her "futuristic paranormal" themed fiction, but millions have. To be in the presence of genius is a very humbling experience.

"I grew up on Nancy Drew," she offered. "This genre seems to be American, in writing and film. Every relationship twist affects the suspense twist. Both are interlinked, one resolves the other. Survivors re-invent themselves."

To the delight of her captive and overflowing audience, she promoted her latest book for about three minutes, and devoted the rest of the hour fielding some very interesting questions.

"Is there one superlative term that defines the style of all of your literary personalities?" one sophisticated woman asked.

"I am a pop fiction writer, period," she said. "I like it, and have stayed with it for years. Why is pop fiction vitally important? Early on, it got lumped into a cage known as inexpensive entertainment. But it has survived. I take the Darwinian view. . .why does something survive against serious odds unless it has survival value? It's not just entertainment. Pop fiction affirms our core values. Honor matters, courage matters. Doing the right thing matters. We as a culture value that. Pop fiction affirms those core values, and affirms the healing power of love."

When Ms. Krentz speaks, her answers craft correct syntax and grammar. She does not say "um", nor does she giggle nervously mid-sentence. In a split second, her amazing cortex assembles thoughts into a comfortable and natural flow. She answers questions directly, and never loses focus.

"I will be meeting with a small group of young writers next week," I said. "We now live with POD publishing, publishing on demand, as well as with traditional publishing concerns. What do I tell these young authors, from your lips, about the most effective way to get published, in 2006?"

"Sharp New York editors monitor the internet publishing sites," she explained. "So I would do both approaches--POD and traditional. A word about the "query" letter: don't send one. DO send fifty pages of your work, and include a short note. Tell them which market your style and content fits into. You have to identify your market, because it's what you like to read. Act innocent with these publishers, don't bog them down with long cover letters." And almost under her breath, Ms. Krentz wryly said, "If you're in the literary world, live in New York.

"To finish this question though, look up the organization, Romance Writers of America. It is the best source for all ends of publishing." Ten hands were raised before she ended her sentence.

"Could you explain how you write, I mean the actual creative process?"

"My creative process is somewhat murky," Ms. Krentz said. "I start vague: I know the themes and the settings. I have a clear idea of the first mystery twist (murder, et al), and I have some idea of the conflict between hero and heroine." The audience was rapt and silent.

"If I outline it, I grow bored with it. My energy goes flat. I generally have the first thirty or forty pages down pat, but simply put, my best ideas come when I start writing.

"Writers are usually going to be inspired by description and dialogue. I focus on dialogue, it moves the story for me. Rewriting is the bane of the writer's existence. I move on, go back and forth, almost to the point of chaos. When I'm at the end, then I know what to do, and I can return for the rewrite."

No one noticed the even rain sliding down the windows. No one was irritated by the obvious lack of heat in the room.

"Yes sir," she pointed.

"I have quite a few of your audio books, and I must admit, I prefer them to the written word," an elderly gentleman offered.

"Narrators can make or break an audio book," Ms. Krentz inserted. "Audios are a huge end of this business. Did you know the narrators usually read those books in a single setting?"

A slight breath of disbelief undulated through the crowd.

"Yes really. The pros fly to New York, into a highly technical studio, and roll right through all of the text. There is very little editing. They are trained readers, and do not get hoarse after five or six hours of constant expression."

Ms. Krentz, the insider, was performing her spell. . .Mr. Mesmer would have been proud. I think even Rasputin would have been silent.

"As a seasoned writer, after all these years, what satisfaction do you get from writing yet another novel?" I thought this question was a little mundane, but the answer was forthcoming.

"Writing is an addiction for me. A pleasant one at that."

"About the process, what is your day like, when you write?"

"I try to pace a new book over four months, but, as I near the end, it becomes a compulsion, and all timing is lost," Ms. Krentz continued. "Seven a.m. to noon is my general writing time. Afternoons are usually about organization. But I live in a state of generalized anxiety. Some nights are definitely sleepless, because if I'm writing a trilogy, I need one story arc. Each book has to have a complete story though. Time becomes exponential when writing a trilogy.

"Look, it took me six years to get published, I was a librarian. But no matter how hard I tried, I could not bring myself to quit. All I can tell you about writing is that if you want to do it badly enough, you do it."

And with that, the hour was over. The audience had been covertly inspired by this elegant lady who calls Seattle her home. In fact, she told me she lives three blocks from Pike Market.

A legendary evening was concluded, but we all took a little part of Ms. Krentz's inner aura with us, and none of it was fiction.

"Sun is coming back!" Young crow flew into the top of a tall cedar tree where old crow was resting.

"It always does," old crow replied. "That is why we crows stay put and don't go chasing Sun like so many other silly ducks or geese and other birds who worry that Sun is going somewhere without them. We crows know better. Great Raven gave us good sense and keen sight into the was of the world. Yes, I have learned that Sun goes only so far that way, and then returns and goes only so far the other way. And leaves are coming back also. All good things return to us crows. We are skilled in waiting. Wait and watch. Sun comes back to us, leaves and flowers sprout soon after. Rain comes anytime, especially where dark clouds cover the sky. Rain brings out worms. Worms are very tasty."

"I have noticed that squirrels do not eat worms," young crow said.

"You have been watching. A very good trait for a crow. Look first, act later. Watchful, waitful. That is the way of crows. I have also noticed that squirrels can jump from branch to branch, but not fly from tree to tree. Squirrels have no feathers. I think it's because they spend too much time on the ground. That makes them strange. They haven't decided yet about flying so they don't grow feathers."

"There are new crows in our crowKeep neighborhood," young crow stated.

"Yes. They come from over high hill by the lake. Young crows, younger than you. Just kids, really. Just abandoned last summer. Now thy are looking for a good crowKeep to settle into. We should welcome them. New crows in our crowKeep are good."

"Many of our own younger crows have flown away."

"True. Some of them join the beachcrows. Some of them fly over hills to the lake and settle there. Jas as lakecrow youngsters come here. This is good for crows. By exchanging youngsters all crow tribes grow stronger."

Young crow flew off on the next breeze and let the rising currents of air take him high above the tree tops. All was quiet. Sun was returning to warm the sky, leaves and flowers were returning to decorate the bare hills. After long, dark days of heavy rains and fierce winds, all the lands below looked clean and renewed.

When young crow flew down to the cedar treetop he was surprised to see two plump healthy crows there in the branches where old crow was resting. It was Brother crow and a female!

"Yo! Young crow! Yo, brother!"

"Brother! You have come back!"

"And I have Lady crow along with me. We have flown here to be with you for the springtime. Sun is returning."

"I am pleased to be in this crowKeep," Lady crow said. "I have spent much time among the humans."

"Lady crow has a sister you will very much enjoy flying with," Brother said.
"She is very pretty and a good thief. She will enjoy flying with you. Some crows from Far Mountain are flying this way to join this keep for a time. She is flying with them."

"You look well Brother," Young crow said. "Far Mountain territory has been good to you."

"Life is very different there. There are many hawks and owls in the night," Brother replied.

"Going out and coming in," said old crow. "Sun travels high and then travels low. Leaves spring from buds, crows hatch from eggs, rain and wind, leaves fall and blow away. It is the way of the world."

* * * * *


Meet
Linda Enge-Pemberton

How would you like to meet a one-of-a-kind babe who will talk like a sailor or entrepreneur, knows Ballard from the old days, and only wants the truth from you, or if you stray, she just might kick your ass in?

Ms. Enge-Pemberton is one of those raw, gutsy gals who would be totally at home if she was running a whiskey bordello in El Paso, circa 1889, or a three-floor cathouse servicing the Nordic fisherman on Ballard Ave, circa 1902.

But instead she opened up quite a tame establishment last December 17th, and it's simply called "The 99¢ Gift Shop."

Market Street, just west of 24th, is once again changing. There's an elegant Italian eatery that has not been noticed yet, and a little further, at 2421 NW Market, sits Linda's little diadem of a store.

But as her flyers state, the real owner is Bandit, her dog. And Bandit has personality oozing out of every canine pore. His flat is in the back of the store, and it really is his domain, right down to a second floor outdoor dog run. Bandit is in on everything from ordering to greeting customers that Linda deems are worthy.

But Linda is the star. She has some bawdy, raucous stories about her early years in Ballard that would distort the bra of every Christian spinster in town. Just ask her about some of the pranks she pulled when she grew up at her Grandparents house, whose spread graced the South side of the Locks, long before the cement retaining walls were installed. (E.g., her brother would blow a horn, whose sound waves would amplify over the water of the Locks, and sure enough, the old railroad trestle would lift, anticipating a boat coming through! "I used to hide jewelry, and take my friends to go find treasure," she wryly offered.) Grandpa had a place called the 'Salmon Boat Fishing Resort,' where you could walk right up to the house and buy salmon from old Gramps himself, right through the first floor window."

Oh my dear readers, you gotta meet this saucy lady. And support her immaculate shop too. Linda has a solid business plan. She knows current and future trends.

"People don't want to wrap presents anymore, they want to put gifts in fancy bags, and I gotta ton of 'em, all for just 99 cents." She makes wonderful baskets too, and the public loves them. She'll even frame a picture for you.

Since Linda is an old salt (odd for a female to attain that lofty position), I asked her what she thought was good about Ballard in 2006.

"Well, Ballard seems to be cleaner and more update. I'm still not sure about all those condos though."

Ms. Enge-Pemberton worked for Holland America for ten years. She was one of the few "elite" travel agents who would sell packages to other agents. She feigns a kind of silly innocence about her present business though. "I'm just new to this whole 'store' thing," she said.

"But Linda," I replied. "You've got decades of savvy living which translates to this new shop, so you're really not that new to this stuff." Her business eye flashed a knowing look to me, and she said nothing.

So go check this piquant lady out. It's well worth fighting the intersection of 24th and Market. Be nice to her as I have a feeling that she could bear-hug you into the next universe.

"You can find anything here," she beamed.

Oh yes you can, and that certainly includes this woman who is a living classic.

You're working the graveyard shift, and you step outside to have a smoke. A couple of guys rush out of the store, obviously stealing some items.

It's 4:00 a.m.

Your co-worker wants to tackle them, but you just shout to him to cool it, you'll call the police. They'll take care of it.

But the 911 operator is adamant that you give her the actual physical address of the only QFC in Ballard. Things are happening fast, and you turn around in the parking lot to find some sort of number on the building, to no avail.

It's then that the getaway car slams into you, kind of like shooting someone in the back with no forewarning. You are dragged underneath the car for 90 feet before your mashed body is clear. To your horror, the car backs up and runs over you again. Two homicide attempts on the same body. Both your hips are broken, your chest is crushed, your back severely damaged, and your head has been bobbled on the asphalt, putting you in a coma for ten days.

That's what happened to Mr. Pigg on April 20th, 2005.

When I interviewed Tim for this issue, I found a very gentle, charismatic father who just wants to put in an honest days work for an honest days pay. Physically, he looks like he could have been the child of Al Pacino and Gina Lollobrigida. Dapper, clean cut, standing erect despite his injuries, Mr. Pigg could've walked right out of the pages of GQ. And just guess where the interview took place? Right back at the Ballard QFC, and right in the middle of the night shift.

"Are you nuts?" I asked, incredulous.

"No, no. I needed to get back to work. I spent a week at the Northgate QFC, but I requested the Ballard location. The support from the Ballard community was the reason I returned. The people are just great here. The outreach of the community was overwhelming."

"Well why the night shift again?"

"Simple. There weren't any 40 hour day shifts open."

We talked about his life, his ambitions, his hobbies. After fifteen years at Boeing (in a way, he was another kind of victim of the massive layoffs, but there's a little twist to that story), he ended up in the bowels of QFC, now a subsidiary of the Kroger corporation. At the time, he had two teenagers to keep up with, and it was quite a financial demotion to work at a grocery store. But that's Tim, he's a provider. He is a throwback to an America that once valued moral standards, civility, and the work ethic.

The two pins that are holding his hips together are permanent, and non-adjustable. The doctors assure him they will stand up well to life's rigors.

"I do have dead spots, and I guess they're permanent." he said.

"Dead spots?" I asked.

"Yes, numb areas all over my body. Some of the nerves don't work."

But it's the flashbacks and the nightmares that just won't go away. Another doctor diagnosed him with Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. And in this case, it's damn real.

Mr. Pigg has re-married, and they have a one year old daughter named Isabella. One wonders when this little girl is in her late teens, if her dad will be alright. Will injuries keep cropping up, under different guises? Tim doesn't really think about that. He'd rather think about the next computer system he is assembling. His subconscious will take care of all of the dark areas, he'd rather have his conscious life deal with hope, rebirth, and future plans.

You have to die for a cause to be a martyr. Ok then, what is a hero? Does a hero have to be a crusader who suffers the slings and arrows of misfortune? Webster's Seventh says a hero can be "a man admired and emulated for his achievements and qualities." Oh yes dear readers, heros live amongst us, they are not some amorphous entity you read about in the New York Times. They are our neighbors. Surely you know that Saints live just down the block from us don't you? Like the 90 year old lady who has a faded tatoo on her inner arm, which just happened to be her ID at Auschwitz?

Mr. Pigg took a very heavy hit for every resident of Ballard. Let's be specific here. No, he didn't become a Sherman tank and block that auto, no he didn't attempt to wrestle the burglars out of their car, and no he didn't grab a box cutter and try to slash their tires to impede them. But he did feel Death via execution; that visage roared at him while his face was turned. He spent two and a half months in the hospital recuperating for you and me, so we could pick items from a well stocked shelf, and pay our monies to a convivial clerk. Like a screaming raptor from the sky, this violence was brought to Tim, not because of Tim, or any courageous deed. Mr. Pigg is a benign hero, and the Ballard community did indeed respond with charity and kindness. He didn't return to right any wrong, he returned because the very berg we live in is a righteous community that stands up and supports heroic deeds.

Mr. Pigg's life hung in the balance while he lay there, broken up in the hospital. So now that this episode is behind us, let's all just do one more little thing for Mr. Pigg. The next time you're in QFC, drop a card or note to any of the managers, addressed to Tim, and tell him once more, how fortunate we are to be graced with his strong presence, and kind personality. Let him know that he is the living embodiment of a man we "emulate for his achievements and qualities."

Or if you can't remember that phrase, just use the word hero.

If you're an insider, you know exactly where to find Ballard's own skateboard shop. Just turn South at 24th and Market, down Shilshole, walk twenty-five feet, and enter this little jewel of what young entrepreneurship is all about.

The Bombshelter opened in November of 2005, with Leo and his partners Ryan E., and "Jammer." You don't ask for last names here, no need to, it's a first name kind of shop. The building owner decided to have a little more retail real estate and did a bunch of improvements, including a new door facing Shilshole. Leo and his buds saw the "for lease" sign, and dove in headfirst, into ownership.

Leo is a very affable fellow. Covered in tatts, and looking all the world like he could waste you in some back alley, this young businessman is more polite than any politician you meet, amazingly knowledgeable, and trés business savvy. He lapses into street talk now and then, but when asked questions about his business, he's right there with syntax and grammar worthy of a UW alumni.

"Why should our kids skateboard?" I asked, trying to trick him.

"Because it's an independent sport," he replied, confidently. "It's only you, you're on your own." Now that's a succinct description. And with that honest and righteous response, I relaxed into a half hour of getting to know a real pro.

When you walk into the small store, you are struck with how orderly the sales floor is, and uncluttered. It has been painted in modest gray, and the display cases are neat and easy to view. Yet everything you might want is in stock. From shoes to hoodies, from decals to helmets; if you're serious, you can walk out of there ready to conquer the Ballard bowl.

"Why do some of these guys wear body protection, and others don't?"

"Pads are for tricks," Leo explained. "If you're going to attempt an unknown, or if you're into faster, then you'll wear a helmet."

Made sense to me. In other words, if your going to do some vanilla carving, hey, just wear pants and a shirt. There is no condescension if you're all giffed up with protective gear. Obviously, in this kind of sport, a certain vernacular comes with the turf. I was surprised to hear Leo (and Little Ryan, who joined us) use the term "gnarly." This word's been around for decades. But if you talk clean to these guys, you might want to know what the term "schralping" is. This is when you are shredding and coping, and the truck slides the rim, which is a synonym for grinding. Now it's up to you to go to the shop and ask for clarification. But "shredding" is a little more inclusive term.

"We didn't take out any loans," Leo further explained. "A lot of our stuff is on consignment from some great local skateboard concerns. Local as in Seattle. "Monster Skateboards, Free Skateboards, Dirty Bearings, and Addictive Skateboards all display their goods here. . .we just can't support them enough."

Yea, hell yea, that's how ya do it. "We carry the small companies--old school and original. Maybe not popular to the masses y'know. We do buy the clothing though."

Three guys. One business plan. Co-operation. Respect. Their own money. What a recipe!

"We are holding a benefit March 4th, at the Sunset, where all proceeds will go to the construction of a new bowl known as the 'Marginal Skatepark.' All legal hurdles have been passed. If we raise $5,000., the City will match that amount. Grindline, the nation's best bowl designers, based right here, is designing it. In fact, construction has already started. It's at Hanford and Marginal Way."

When I walked outside, the sun was shining a warm February tenor. This really is the new Ballard, I sighed with warm confirmation. These young organizers are jumping into this decade with confidence, vision, and a little bit of money. As I bicycled past the new Ballard Bowl, I reflected on my last question to the boys of the future:

". . .and what really, does 'shredding' mean?"

Leo and little Ryan looked knowingly at each other, then at me.

"Shredding is doin' it man, y'know, you're sick!"

So let's celebrate this generation of self-starters, and let's all smile and pass a little of that good ole fashioned sickness around. I like it.