Kit Bakke's Blog

No Kings June 14

 

Since the mid 1960s I’ve participated in demos, protests, riots and marches in Chicago, New York, Washington DC, San Francisco, Berkeley, Seattle and probably a few I’ve forgotten about. Some peaceful, some definitely not. Some very large, some just in the 100s. Some with permits to march on the street, some without. Most with flags and signs and chants, serious, clever, funny and pointed. Many of the protests included people trained to provide first aid support and sometimes distribution centers handed out free water bottles along a march route, as if we were running a marathon.

Through it all, two things that haven’t changed:  the weaponry and militarization of local police have become increasingly lethal, and the people’s demands for freedom of speech and the basic rights of American democracy have become more insistent.

June 14, 2025 in Seattle: The “No Kings” protest appeared more “adult” in the sense that the crowd seemed to recognize the need for digging in. Speakers, in my opinion, were unusually articulate in their recognition of the struggle being a long haul as well as an emergency. Besides presenting strong opposition to Trump’s shredding of our democracy, speakers and signs emphasized that our job was to remain peaceful but firm and smart. We all seemed to understand that violence would only undercut our demand for democracy. I was interested to look around and see not one uniformed policeman, National Guard troop or Marine in sight. I’m sure they were there, hidden in nearby buildings as they usually are, but it is remarkable that they never appeared. Kudos to all. It would be a miracle of rational humanity if democracy could be restored without more bloodshed, but the evidence is not in.

Rest in Peace, Rest in Power, Melissa Hortman, 1970-2025, Minnesota state legislator.

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Summer is Visiting!

Summer appears to have snuck into our neighborhood. We Seattleites are never relaxed about good weather. After all, it’s not unusual to have rain on July 4 and when the Blue Angels come in August with our Seafair festival, they often have to do their Low Show because it’s cloudy. It’s always tricky to plan an outdoor picnic or dinner. You don’t see a lot of outdoor kitchens on Seattle patios.

But it sure is nice here, now. Neighbors are popping out of their houses, hanging out on the sidewalk, chatting and catching up. There are get-togethers on the porch and even a street-wide potluck last weekend. People are dragging their fans up from the basement and thinking that next year they’ll consider finally installing AC. Hammers and saws are banging and buzzing up and down the street as renovation projects go into high gear.

And the gardens! The flowers!

Bags of

Yellow Poppies everywhere. My favorite color.

compost pile up on front porches, waiting to be spread on every garden bald spot. Grocery stores and nurseries are selling plants galore. Birds and bees are literally everywhere.

What’s going on in your backyard?

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Learning Italian, Redux

 

It’s been just over a year since I was so excited (see“Prego” post) about learning Italian. But the enthusiasm didn’t quite last and the tools didn’t quite do it for us. So we tried another approach: an immersive intensive in-person language class.

An immersive language course means that teachers are teaching the classes using only the language that the student doesn’t know yet. Foreign Service and Peace Corps people may do that, but me? Get real: I’m a 78 ½ year old who never did well learning languages in school, which was decades ago when her mind was still in tiptop shape.

Even so, I gave it a go. After all, the language was la bella italiana and the classes were taught in Florence. We had a view of the Duomo from our apartment window. Too bad that we hardly had time to look at it because our four weeks there were crammed with six-hour classes five days a week. After the last class ended at 3 pm, we went on long walking tours around the city, all narrated, of course, in Italian.

It quickly became evident that not only did I catch only 30% of what the teachers were saying (and this was a beginner course!), but I also apparently knew nothing about grammar in general, in any language. Toddlers don’t need a grammar background to learn their native language because it comes along with the vocabulary they are swimming in. But the rules of grammatical structure are pretty much necessary for adults who are learning a second language. It was a tool I turned out not to have, and it was a shock to me, who likes to imagine she knows things.

Grammar did me in—I knew nothing about things like indirect object pronouns, past participles, future imperfects or the various and many ways of conveying the tense of a verb. I wasn’t even entirely sure what the tense of a verb referred to. English grammar apparently wasn’t included in my elementary school curriculum. I checked with my brother, who was a couple years behind me in the same schools, and he said it wasn’t taught to him either. Cursive writing, yes; basic grammar, no.

Still, we four-week residents of Florence had to eat. And there we were in Italy, surrounded by wonderful food, terrific street markets, outdoor wine bars, tiny family-run restaurants. No complaints there. We quickly found our favorite places near our apartment. It didn’t take long to become friendly regulars with several servers and bartenders. We alternated our evenings out with cooking and eating the fabulous veggies and cheeses and meats we bought in the markets.

The jury may be out on whether or not learning a foreign language is one way to stave off dementia, but will I continue to dabble in Italian but at a more reasonable pace with more realistic expectations? assolutamente sì, lo farò.

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Prego!

 

 

I’m stumbling and tripping my way through an attempt to learn Italian. It’s HARD! And I’m sure that Italian is one of the easier languages to learn—a romance language, lots of words are basically the same in English, plus I was reasonably good in French in high school and college. But I think age is catching up with me—brain cells shriveling up right and left, destra e sinistra.

I’ve attacked the problem several ways, hoping that there’s strength in variety. First, we (my husband is also on this journey) have found a native Italian speaker at the University of Washington who’s willing to walk us through a baby Italian college-level text book. She’s enormously encouraging and vigorously applauds every little thing we get right as if we’d just won a Nobel Prize. We meet on Zoom and try for a weekly schedule, but it’s more like twice a month because of our various conflicting schedules.

Secondly, I signed up with Babbel. I like it a lot, mostly, I fear, because it makes me feel as if I’m doing better than I actually am.

Thirdly, I have a friend who also is learning Italian and whose skills are way beyond mine (for example, she knows verb tenses beyond the present tense, which we are not yet privy to) who is willing to exchange Italian emails with me on a sporadic basis. She doesn’t correct my efforts, but just sends another email describing her projects and travels, and I try to do the same. We talk about food and travel and hobbies.

Fourthly, I thought it would be fun to try to read a relatively simple book in Italian that I also have a copy of in English. We have found a copy of Agatha Christie’s C’è un cadaver in biblioteca in both English and Italian. I’ve struggled through the first paragraph and it’s harder than I expected.

Fifthly, we are watching Italian TV on the streaming channel MhZ. Italian audio, English subtitles. Also hard, as the actors seem to frequently drop the final syllable of most of their words. A friend has told us we should watch it with Italian audio AND with Italian subtitles. Maybe we should give that a try.

Ciao for now.

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Great Days Out

Bluebells in Kent. We got lost on this path and were rescued by friendly locals.

The British have a cheery phrase “great day out” to describe a day away from the work, errands and chores of the big city, a chance to delight one’s eyes, ears and muscles, where the ratio of greenery and nature exceeds that of concrete and glass.  Peter and I have just done so, on two separate trips, one to the borders of Devon and Cornwall along the English Channel and one to the gardens and downs of Kent. The trains here, by the way, are efficient and speedy.

The path is not always well marked–just follow the coast line.

The weather was accommodating to our plans: mid to high 60s, blue skies, intermittent puffy clouds, We took a day hike along the South West Coast Path. At 600+ miles, England’s longest footpath includes cliffs and rolling hills as it wends its way entirely around the coasts of Cornwall and Devon, with Somerset and Dorset at either end. We ambled through 7 or 8 miles of it in eastern Cornwall. It was wonderful—part open fields, part forest, all green with spots of blue, white, purple and yellow wildflowers. Also sheep and cows. With babies. And an ancient stone pub for lunch (flying the now-familiar blue and yellow Ukrainian flag).

Part of Vita’s fabulous white garden. My favorite Madame Alfred Carriere climbing rose. I saw it first over 30 years ago, immediately bought one, and it’s still happy in our backyard (although not as well-cared for as Vita’s).

Second bucolic venture was to National Trust gardens in and around Kent. We stayed in a friendly B&B on the Sissinghurst Castle property—amazing.

Then we hired a car and driver to take us to various hinterland corners of Sussex and Kent. First up was Bateman’s, Rudyard Kipling’s family home. The garden was large and clearly designed for the pleasure of the Kipling children, although the volunteer gardeners weren’t happy because the veggie patch had been ravaged the night before by marauding badgers.

Kipling’s desk: note the wadded up pages–typical writer’s desk.

Next we went to Sheffield Park and then Nymans—both large properties with ponds (Sheffield Park), atmospheric gothic houses and a roofless chapel covered in wisteria (Nymans),  and lots of trees. Rhodies in wild bloom everywhere (much larger than any in our Arboretum) along with wisteria, early roses, wallflowers, lilacs, and blue bells carpeting the land under the trees. Final stop was Wakehurst, a garden managed by the Kew Garden folks, and also home to the Millennium Seed Bank. The Seed Bank collects, cleans, identifies, tests and stores over 2 billion frozen seeds. It focuses on seeds of endangered varieties that we might need someday (like when the ubiquitous Cavendish banana is wiped out). The display they took to COP26 was set up there and was very good. Plus their labs were all in rooms behind glass so we could see the white-coated scientists at work.

Millennium Seed Bank at Wakehurst.

Forested part of South West Coast path. So wonderful!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Back in London, we’re watching the nest of a pair of seagulls, nestled in amongst the chimney pots of a building next door. They trade off sitting duties. I need to look up how long egg gestation takes. It’s been several weeks now.

A visit to our adopted neighborhood pub enabled us to contemplate a group of entitled Londoner millennials. All white, all in their late 20s, men in suits and ties, women in designer watches and expensive clothes, all drinking and talking loudly, standing at the bar. We asked Archie, our young, hardworking and friendly bartender who they were and why they were there. Turns out they work for the property developer who manages the space the pub and surrounding foodie outlets sit on. They all get 50% off their drinks on certain days and that’s when they show up, Archie said. Once before, he told us, one of them said to him “We’re the reason you have a job.”

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One Busy City

School kids marching and chanting “Save Our Planet!” on Earth Day in Sloane Square

London is full of people wanting to voice their opinions, preferably on the street, ideally with flags and banners. Since I enjoy such outings myself, my ears are always perked to hear loud voices chanting in unison. This past week was a basket-full. First was on Baker Street walking south from Hampstead Heath toward Hyde Park. We heard them long before we saw them. Several hundred men (maybe one or two women) in various incarnations of Chelsea blue soccer gear were shouting and drinking in an intersection. A few police stood on the perimeter, keeping them from entirely blocking the street, but the Chelsea fans seemed perfectly happy shouting and drinking in place. I wondered if maybe they were showing support for Chelsea’s ex-owner, a heavily sanctioned Russian oligarch, but I don’t think these guys were interested in anything beyond the playing field. Not gleaning anything further, we walked on, noting only the piles of plastic rubbish and beer cans growing at their feet.

“End Fossil Fuels Now” banner on Marble Arch

A few blocks along, we arrived at Marble Arch, on the NE corner of Hyde Park. A HUGE poster was draped across the Arch, evidence that Extinction Rebellion is alive and well in London. In fact, the day before, they’d blocked several of the bridges across the Thames, in one case led by a 76 year old woman who refused to get up off the pavement and the young policemen were initially unwilling to remove someone who might be their grandmother.

Then, on into Hyde Park, was a large group of Pakistanis protesting various shake-ups and anti-democratic events in Islamabad, Pakistan’s capitol. I’m sorry to say I have not kept up on this world hotspot, but the UK has the second largest population of Pakistani’s not living in Pakistan and they ARE keeping close track, and they are not happy with what’s going on in their homeland.

Finally, my favorite by far. Today, walking through Sloane Square a few blocks from our flat, we came upon a couple hundred elementary school kids holding their handmade signs and pictures, marching and chanting “Save our Planet.” Plenty of grown-ups were around to shepherd them safely across streets. We, on the sidelines, cheered and clapped and many cars honked their support. I have to say, it brought tears to my eyes.

One more sign of the times around here (and I imagine in other western cities) are Ukrainian flags and colors flying here and there. Here are two sightings in London:  one at the giant Battersea Power Station renovation and one at the venerable and ancient Somerset House on the Strand.

Ukrainian flag flies over Somerset House on the Strand.

Battersea Power Station park chairs signaling their support for Ukraine

 

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Settling In, again…a year on

We arrived back in London a little over a week ago—it’s taken about that long to feel fully adjusted to time change (8 hours ahead of PDT). I guess it takes longer as we age. So far the weather’s been windy and cloudy but over the week it’s warmed up from high 40s to low/mid 50s. Not too bad for walking tourist types like us. Everyone’s told us that the week before we arrived was gorgeous and warm—the daffodils in the parks definitely testify to that as they have all gone over.

The flat is nicely as we left it in December. Even the butter and jam we left in the fridge is still serving us well. Speaking of food (no surprise there) I solved the problem of ‘who’s going to babysit my sourdough starter while we’re gone?’ with this: “Me! I’ll just bring it with us.” I triple wrapped the starter in sandwich baggies and put it in our checked suitcase. No problems there—it stayed nice and cold in the unheated luggage compartments. Fed it on arrival, realized we had no cast iron lidded pot to cook it in so Peter found one on amazon.co.uk and I made a loaf by memory (having also forgotten the recipe). But it turned out just fine.

First Sourdough in London

A little more food. April 1 was our 40th anniversary so we went out to dinner at Five Fields (we’d eaten there a few times before). I had the veggie tasting menu. Can you guess what this is?

Mystery Veggie

One more foodie thing—one of our friends here is a restaurant reviewer and blogger. A place had just opened up in our neighborhood that he wanted to try so we three went for lunch. He knew the chef, so we got a few extra touches. He ordered the saffron risotto because he said that’s one of the dishes that sets the great apart from the good. This one was great. You may already know that the best risotto rice is carnaroli, but did you know that when it’s aged for a few years (you can buy it aged—not cheap of course) it just gets better? News to me.

Finally, an amazing installation at the Tate Britain. It’s there through January 2023, so really seriously think about seeing it. Google Hew Locke Procession to see and learn more about it. Here’s one of my photos of it from yesterday (also the one at the top–there are almost 100 figures). Incredible.

One small slice of Hew Locke’s Procession

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International touristing during a pandemic: Getting There.

 

Typical London roofscape, seen from the window of our rented flat.

Peter and I went to London for 6 weeks a couple months ago. I wrote short weekly notes home to friends and family. Now we’re home, but the trip remains a happy memory. Here are some of the highlights.

The trip itself was full of surprises. Doing the online forms for the Passenger Locater Form (required by the UK) and for Verifly (strongly recommended by British Air) was a real pain. That comes after making appointments for three tests in the UK on days 2, 5 and 8 (expensive!), and another couple in Seattle (free) before we left. Then when I tried to check-in, British Air said I didn’t have a ticket. Much angst and many phone calls before they finally they admitted that indeed yes, I did have a ticket.

We loaded our phones with all the requisite forms and also had printed backups. The BA people at Sea-Tac were the one and only people who asked to look at them. Happily on the plane, we sat on the tarmac for about 90 minutes getting something fixed before take-off. Flight was empty—20 people on the whole 787.

Getting into the British spirit, I watched a David Attenborough special on species extinction, and a Prince William documentary with the same general messages. They both toed a tricky line between “it’s all over” and “there’s still a chance.” Prince William was far more articulate and intelligent than I’d expected, and I learned that his youngest kid’s name is really pronounced “Louieee” not Louis.

Arriving at Heathrow, there was no gate for us, so a bit of aimless taxiing ensued. Finally sprinting off the plane, the airport was empty. People coming from the US with US passports were allowed to zip through the automatic passport-reader gates, no line at all. We were told that they aren’t using Verifly at all, and no one mentioned the word quarantine or looked at our COVID-19 test documentation.

The whole thing took about 2 minutes. It took longer to get our bags.

Wednesday, we walked over to our first of our three COVID-19 tests—a nice 30 minute walk (no rain, despite the forecast) from our rented flat in Belgravia (right behind Harrods and the Ecuadorian embassy where Assange resided for seven years) over to the testing site near Victoria station. We’re allowed to un-quarantine to get tested, go to doctor or buy groceries if no delivery is possible. Test was efficient—a mouth and nose swab. Negative results emailed to us the next day. We’ve now been called by the test-and-trace people every day to remind us to stay in quarantine. Which we are.

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Dreamcatchers and masks

A fully vaccinated friend was over for dinner a week ago. Peter and I, also fully vaccinated, are tentatively stepping back into the pleasures of having (fully vaccinated) friends to dinner, and eating at other friends’ (fully vaccinated) houses too. Indoors!! What a treat! It feels so new to have other people in our house, and equally strange to cross over other people’s doorsteps.

My N95 COVID-19 mask and our dreamcatcher

This friend happened to notice our little dreamcatcher hanging over a COVID-19 mask on a windowframe hook in our dining room. Powerfully meaningful, she pointed out, having the two things together.

Not to me, as I had no idea what dreamcatchers meant. Back in my hippie days, certainly I’d seen them, knew their name, but thought of them as nothing more than a kind of decorative macrame, with the added benefit of symbolizing that us white kids supported Native Americans in an admittedly undefined and diffuse way.

Today dreamcatcher images are on tattoos, jewelry, fabric, etc. and are one more example of cultural appropriation wrought by our ever-expanding consumer economy. Dreamcatchers’ real meaning, however, was explained to me by our dinner companion: they are a device used by many indigenous tribes to protect from misfortune and encourage happier times, whether in the dream world or the daily wide awake world.

The juxtaposition of the N95 COVID-19 mask and the dreamcatcher, which I had unwittingly hung together, turns out to visually (and perhaps spiritually?) express my heartfelt wish for all humans to be free of this terrible virus.

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How to Chop Down a Tree if You’re a Woman

Too Big for a Lollipop Tree

Endless basement cleaning has unearthed a folder of short essays written by my mother in the early 1950s. They must have been written when she was finding it particularly tedious being a middle class housewife and mother of three young children. The folder also contained seven stock rejection slips from Ladies’ Home Journal, Woman’s Day, Good Housekeeping, and, daringly, the Atlantic and Harper’s.

Here’s one of her efforts, which I enjoyed enough to think you might too. It’s certainly a trip down one American midcentury lane. My mother’s name, by the way, as she wanted it seen in print, was Jean Bakke, although sometimes she retreated to Mrs. John Bakke.

 

How to Chop Down a Tree if You’re a Woman

I never thought I’d have to chop down a tree until I was asked to take charge of the lollipop tree at a PTA Carnival. You probably know what a lollipop tree is. It’s an ordinary tree that you hang two-cent lollipops on to sell to the children for a dime. They usually have them at school carnivals because they make so much money.

Well, when I was asked to take charge of the lollipop tree that means I had to get the tree and the lollipops and everything and the problem was where to get the tree. Later I thought maybe other women might need a tree for a carnival sometime and my experience would help you if you ever did.

Now of course if it’s around Christmas you won’t have any trouble. You can just buy one because evergreens are best. It was October when I needed mine, though, and I had to think of some other way of getting it.

Well, fortunately I have a friend who lives in the country and she has sort of a woods behind her house so I called her up and she said I could have a tree out of her woods if I came and got it. I said I would.

The first thing I did was invite my neighbor along to help me cut it down. Actually it turned out we didn’t have to cut it down but that part comes later. We did cut down one tree though, and two women are really necessary. Also it’s more fun when there are two of you. And I think you ought to leave your children at home. It makes for a more pleasant outing when you don’t have to worry about little fingers getting cut off by axes and saws and things.

Now as long as you have the children taken care of at home, you might as well pack a lunch and make a day of it. I prefer a simple lunch but you can take whatever you like. I took a sandwich made of meat, cheese, and lettuce (and bread, of course), a can of tomato juice, and an apple. My neighbor had practically the same only she took a thermos of coffee instead of the tomato juice. But, as I said, you can take whatever you like.

The clothes you wear should be the sort of thing you would garden in. I wore saddle shoes, ankle socks, blue jeans, and a tee shirt. And, of course, a jacket although it was really a lovely day for October. So often it’s raining. Actually this part doesn’t make a lot of difference except I don’t think you’d be comfortable cutting down a tree in a dress because you might get the skirt hooked on things.

Now as for what you take to do the cutting with. I thought a hatchet would be best and it was. My husband thought we should take an ax but I didn’t want to use it because I tried to cut up a soup bone with an ax in the basement once and I think they’re dangerous. I think the reason they’re dangerous is because they have such a long handle and you have to stand so far away from what you’re aiming at that you can hardly ever hit right where you want to. Of course, that’s if you don’t have any experience with axes. It’s probably not that way with everybody. But we took one just in case.

My neighbor’s husband gave us a two-man saw which is a saw with handles on both ends so two people can push it back and forth. It probably would have been very useful if we’d wanted a bigger tree. I took a regular saw that you saw boards with but we didn’t use it. I think sawing takes a lot more skill that chopping does.

Actually we got two trees but we only brought one home. The first one we chopped down with the hatchet. One of us held the tree steady so it wouldn’t jiggle so much and the other chopped at it. We took turns holding and chopping because it’s tiring to bend down and chop for a long time. When we finally got it down it wasn’t as pretty as we had thought so we looked for another. Sometimes it’s hard to tell about a tree that’s standing with a lot of other trees close to it. I suggest you don’t chop down a tree until you’ve walked all the way around it and looked at it carefully.

We got the second tree by pulling it up. We really didn’t think we could but just tried anyway and we were awfully surprised when it came up without any trouble at all. Small evergreens don’t have many roots and they sort of spread out and don’t go down deep in the ground. At least that’s the way it was with this one.

However if you need a tree I don’t think you should count on being able to pull it up. Trees probably are different in different parts of the country and I think a hatchet is best. Anyway it worked for us and I hope it will for you.

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