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In the last few days, I’ve found myself haunted by an image. It appears to be unforgettable — as it should. Recently, I was shown a picture of a child in Africa. Taken in 1993, the image displays a starving child collapsed on the ground. Those familiar with the area indicate she is struggling toward the direction of a nearby food center. Next to her body, a vulture hovers awaiting her death.
Because I love my prefrontal cortex, because I have an inordinate amount of pride and for this reason don’t like to make a fool of myself in front of other people, and because it’s illegal, I don’t drink.
When “Bud” Ericksen served as Bothell mayor from 1969-1973, the mayor and members of the City Council sat around a huge oak table supported by tree-stump legs and they conducted the city’s business from reasonably uncomfortable chairs.
Friend, Camille, and I meet for breakfast once a month at Steve’s on Main Street, Bothell. We love it there. The booths are comfortable, noise level low, the atmosphere is downright homegrown folksy and waitress, Bobbi Graff, is delightful.
Another tax day in America has come and gone (with the property tax deadline just around the corner). It brought to mind the vast difference in Bothell’s tax base today compared to when Bothell was designated as merely a town in the eyes of state government. That would have been in the late 1950s, when the primary tax dollars were being generated by three car dealerships — Green Ford, HasBrouck Chevrolet and Ericksen Motors.
Nurse: “Doctor! There’s an invisible man in the waiting room!”
Editor’s note: This is a tribute to Dorothy Harshman, who passed away March 31 at the age of 86.