September 2007

Meet Tim the painter

Last week, a friend of mine asked me to help her with a little carpentry project.

I drove over and began hauling my tools in the front door when I heard someone whistling.

I expected a little guy with a beard and a funny hat, but instead I found a big guy on a ladder with a brush, and he was a pretty good whistler as well.

I wondered why he was in such a good mood so I asked him.

"I like painting," he said.

Ok, that makes sense.

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Rita P. Phillips

Rita P. Phillips passed away August 26, 2007. Born in Biloxi, Mississippi, Rita was a life long resident of the New Orleans area and retired from Godchaux's. Rita then moved to Burien in 2003.

Mrs. Phillips was preceded in death by her husband, Lem Gardner Phillips, and a brother, Richard A. Palmer of Luling, Louisiana. Rita is survived by nieces Pamela P. Smith of Normandy Park and Deb Curry.

There will be no services at Rita's request.

Theodore Walter Weber

Theodore Walter Weber, 90, passed away August 27, 2007. He is survived by his wife, LaVerne, and daughters Nancy and Chris, all of Seattle, a brother, Herb, of Chicago, step-children Greg, Gary and Lori, and 11 grandchildren.

Services will be held at 11 a.m. Thursday, September 6, at Bonney-Watson Washington Memorial, SeaTac

Sharrows are on our streets

On our city streets, bicycles pedaled by human power and weighing a few pounds for each skinny frame, must maneuver among speeding cars, trucks and buses. With growing numbers of cyclists, the city of Seattle has introduced lane markings called sharrows, reminding drivers to share the streets with bikes.

Sharrows (shared lane pavement arrows) are a bike symbol and two directional arrows (or chevrons) on the streets.

"Sharrows do not change the rules of the road for cyclists or drivers.

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My West Seattle - The glory of flight

It is my turn to fly. I prime the engine with a squirt of gas and engage the propeller spring. One crank winds the spring tight, and then I release the prop. Like someone with a really bad cold, the engine sputters, spits, coughs...and dies. On the third try it spins to life with a buzzing sound that drowns out the world. Along with that buzz comes the oily smell of exhaust. A smell that means one thing: it's time to fly!

My friend Larry holds the plane in place as I run to the center of the field.

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