Sample Life Stories

Davis

The smaller part of life is what happens to you, and the larger part is how you respond. Circumstances change, we gain and lose resources, develop and refine strategies, but themes emerge. And with Davis, those themes are caring and a deep curiosity about the world.

A “World’s Fair Baby” born into the Pacific Northwest when Seattle seemed like a quiet fishing village with a large airfield, Davis developed a rich internal world, a careful and examined life. We often read such people as shy or standoffish, and Davis had some hard years growing up, the load got rattled on a few occasions, but music saw him through; specifically, the sophisticated secret beats of New Wave, which he discovered in high school before anyone else in Federal Way had ever heard of The Clash. Recorded voices from across the sea shared their experiences and helped him see other places, other ways to live. Told him he wasn’t alone.

Turns out, the reality is the “shy boys” contain so much more than we can comprehend; they’re constraining their power as a favor to the rest of us. Davis is such a person. Whether you find him, or he finds you, prepare to receive and withstand the force of his love and intelligence.

His generosity and tender judgment were on early display. As a quiet, deliberate schoolboy, he befriended a Brazilian exchange student, the catalyst for a lifelong love of language and travel. There is so much to see and know in the world, and the way to see and know it is to look and listen. Which Davis did, throwing himself into his studies, practicing Portuguese and Spanish and dedicating himself to a life of service, starting with a Peace Corps mission to Belize. 

And there he taught and there he learned, and there he traveled, and there he discovered untapped reserves of character. He came out to his parents at the height of the AIDS crisis, at the dark peak of the Reagan years, and that bravery was rewarded with love. And while some might pull the ladder up behind them after reaching a height of acceptance and safety, Davis chose instead to use his position as a foothold from which to lift others up.

Settled by this time as a sociology graduate student at the University of Washington, Davis leveraged the tools available to him and strategized to save others from poverty and persecution, smoothing paths, sacrificing his energy for the sake of others. And over the years, the people who drifted in and out of his sphere were changed for the better, enhanced by his energies. Skilled at recognizing patterns and working within broken systems, Davis drafted policies and dodged bureaucracies, always seeking justice and connection.

Friendships blossomed. Among them, the “Happy Hour Group,” the Fulbrighters around the world, the work colleagues who became friends, and he stayed fiercely loyal to them all. Relationships bloomed and faded, but his drive to discover the world and the good he could do in it remained. New languages were learned, new connections were made, and none deeper than the close crew christened “The Gayzelles.”

At a safari-themed cabaret, the hunter’s spotlight shone on his table, and through the alchemy of fate and the wit of the emcee, the Gayzelles were born, a prancing herd of charm, intelligence, song, and laughter. They were already close, already aligned, but being named gave them an enduring power, and the hoofbeats of the Gayzelles were heard stampeding throughout the range of the region’s cultural offerings. A force to be reckoned with at cocktail hours, brunches, plays, and rowdy island getaways.

They helped one another to help others, shared comforts and sorrows, pleasures and recipes. And they lifted one another up. After a long-time partnership was severed, and the very concept of permanence seemed a fantasy to Davis, The Gayzelles closed ranks around him, let him know he was safe.

And our subject is too warm, too bright, too alive to know solitude for long, and one magical weekend in exclusive Humblebrook (invite only, reader!) affection returned in the form of David. David! The culmination of (some would say reward for) a life of self-examination and preparation. Every lesson learned led down this path. Every hurt, every joy, all built the Davis who would meet David.

It happened to be the 4th of July, but there would have been fireworks regardless.

Of course, the curious among us would like to know more. How exactly did love develop in those warm and friendly halls? Was it a glance, a stray touch? Alas, as that great champion of privacy, Judge James Hooper, pronounced at the wedding, “What happens at Humblebrook, stays at Humblebrook.” It is not for us to know, but it is for them to treasure.

The union has been a lasting one, bolstered a great deal by the love of David’s parents who, as in-laws will, frequently seem to favor Davis. They’ve supported one another for over a decade with no signs of slowing, no dimming of the light. They have the occasional “rub,” for who that cares does not? To love is to rub. 

A physical couple, they love to challenge one another on hikes. A sensual couple, they love to decipher the complexities of wine. An intentional couple, they love ritual and celebration, feast and holiday. Together they’ve unlocked many of the world’s secrets. 

They’ve guided one another through the inevitable passage of time, through the death of Davis’s parents: his principled and complicated father and especially his beloved mother with whom he had a relationship that deepened over time, seasoned with love and forgiveness. With the wisdom he’d learned in his own relationships, he had come to see them as people and not just parents. 

Davis and David. David and Davis. Through medical surprises and realities, through the ever-changing sentiments and morals of the country they live in, their love is constant and, since it’s Davis – much analyzed and understood.

A picture emerges, a pattern forms: Davis is someone who is cautious because he knows that leads to greater reward, hesitant only when he recognizes that patience leads to greater understanding. He is a singer, a writer, a teacher, and an incredible listener. In short, the sort of person you want at your table when the spotlight hits and the emcee turns your way.

He’s never the center of attention but frequently the focus of thought. A slow burn is Davis, warm and constant, comforting and steady. His flame flickers in times of crisis (as it must), but it stays alight. For all who know him, for all who take benefit from his expertise, pleasure from his company, insight from his reason, Davis glows yet.

Parsley

Rosemary Saginaw, known to her friends as "Parsley," was born in 1954, and in the 70 years since has made the most of every minute she's been given. Described by her parents as "a mild baby," it's believed she used these uncharacteristically quiet years preparing and plotting for the wild times to come. There are few today who would describe her as "mild."

Quite the opposite, as her teenage participation in garage bands and her roles in protest marches in her college years marked her as something of "a firebrand."

Regarding those protests, she always shares some advice her friends made great use of, and it is this: "when you're at a protest, stand in the middle of the crowd. The police..." We have to pause here and acknowledge she didn't use the word "police," and continue.  "The police will block the front, and they'll approach from the back, so when the action starts, there's always an alley to scatter to from the middle position."

It was a guiding principle she would follow throughout her life.

She scattered through a lot of alleys in her day and broke a lot of tambourines. We mentioned the band earlier; though they didn't record anything, The Herb Garden made a lot of great noise, and it was learning there was such a thing as being too enthusiastic with the tambourine that led to her switching to the drums.

And the rhythm of that beat kept up, even long after the flood that trashed the band's instruments and put an end to the Herb Garden. Rumors that the flood was started by Parsely's music-hating dad have been debunked, not thoroughly, but debunked. The idea that he might have left a hose on overnight to stop the music, wreck the garage, and excuse the purchase of the wet vac he'd always wanted is just ridiculous and definitely not something Parsley still thinks about.

And, in any case, the free time led to her joining the speech and debate club, which led to her becoming the sort of public speaker that spoke so movingly at the protests, which led to her long career as a subject-matter expert in the history museum, which is how most people know her. She was a fixture there for the better part of three decades, helping kids, bringing the exhibits to life, deepening everyone's connection to the material, to history.

She never married, never had time, and, as she likes to say, nobody could ever reach her ideal, Suleiman the Magnificent. "I don't get out of bed for anything less than a world conqueror," she liked to say, "or into one either." It wasn't for lack of suitors. Many men approached her at the museum's info booth hoping to hear the answer to the question, "would you like to grab a coffee sometime?" and she definitely gave them that answer, and it wasn't yes.

Once or twice, as she likes to say, she would have to "get up on her broom," and chase them out, but more often than not, they got the message and she could keep her boots on the ground.

Not that she didn't have her fun, and not that she doesn't still. Just ask anyone in The Jefferson Senior Center where she now makes her home. A founding member of the entertainment committee, editor of the yearbook, and, yes, she draws on her teen drumming talents and taps out the rhythm at the social dances. Her knees are bad, but she keeps the time as well as anyone.

And this is all just the Parsley we know, the Parsley she shows the world. Her interior life is as lush and vibrant as anything she's revealed to us. A huge fan of Battlestar Galactica, a serious reader, a solver of puzzles, and a writer of poetry. And though, as we've been discussing, she's not shy about public speaking, she's never shared any of her poems in public, a shame since they are quite advanced. She gives us permission to share one here:

"Another sunset, another breakfast for dinner/Another poker night, another lucky lucky winner.
I won't cash 'em in, because I still need 'em/Tomorrow's card game might just be for freedom."

A sentiment as deep as the roots of the rosemary of her birth name and as fresh and true as the parsley of her taken name.

Her knees don't work so well these days, but her pen still flows, her tongue still wags, and her eyes glow just as fiercely as they ever did. And you don't need good knees when you've got a broom to fly on. 

The picture is clear. We're confronted with a woman admired by her coworkers, appreciated by strangers, and comfortable in her own skin. She'll take the lead in any situation and is just as happy to direct from the back, it's the sort of balance that keeps you right in the middle when the protest gets charged and it's time to slip down that alley. This former mild baby is always in position to participate in "tomorrow's card game."

Seek her out where you can find her: pressing paninis in the senior center kitchen, volunteering at the Vandersloot Aquarium, or cracking jokes in a lounge chair at the public pool. Ask her about the time she went to Italy and took a cooking class. Ask her about the time she beat a history professor at Monopoly. The key, she'll tell you, is to play as the thimble. "You can't beat the thimble," she'll say.

Ask her about the time she ran out of gas in Billings and about the time she guessed the Wheel of Fortune answer before the first letter was turned. "It wasn't even a rerun," she'll tell you, "I just had a feeling." And ask her anything about sharks, whelks, or even Suleiman the Magnificent. And if you're the lucky one who does get to take her out for coffee, she'll tell you she takes it "creamy as custard and sweet as a Southern smile."

Keep going Parsley, you font of knowledge, you veteran of danger, you bringer of truth. Tell us what we need to hear, and then keep on telling us.