By WILL NORTH
In a moment of weakness (these moments seem to be coming more frequently as I get older), I agreed recently to talk to Vashon’s Rotary Club.
Who even knew there were clubs of people who love rotaries? In my experience, a rotary (also known as a “roundabout”) is a British highway feature, a sort of every-man-for-himself traffic circle, which takes the place of, say, a sensible traffic light. It’s a brilliant concept, in that it keeps traffic flowing at intersections, but it’s also terrifying if you are not accustomed to driving on the left as they still do in that stubborn-minded little country. But right here, on this very island, there were fans of rotaries! You learn something new every day.
Except that, as usual, I got it completely wrong.
It turns out that Rotarians are neither fans of rotaries nor whirling dervishes. No, they are in fact business people who raise money to support various local civic purposes. They do good deeds. No one knows why they feel thus compelled, but I think sometimes it’s better not to ask. Also, no one knows why they chose the name Rotary either, instead of, say, something far more sensible like other civic organizations did: the Elks, the Moose, the Masons or the Odd Fellows. I’ve always liked the notion of a club full of odd fellows. Their official name, by the way, is the Grand United Order of Oddfellows Friendly Society, or GUOOFS (pronounced, I think, goofs). I think I’d fit right in.
But I digress. It saddens me to reveal that the Rotary Club member who invited me to talk withheld certain critical information. I don’t know whether withholding information is a key part of the Rotary rulebook, but you can imagine my shock when he finally confessed that they meet at 7:00.
A.M.!
I don’t know about you, but I am barely breathing at 7 a.m. The woman lately known as my wife and I have tea together early every morning, which is to say that she chatters away and I just nod occasionally in order to keep from nodding off entirely. To be honest, I don’t think she expects or wants a response from me anyway.
Did I mention 7 a.m.? So, I get in my car, turn the radio way up high to keep me conscious and drive to the senior center, where the Rotarians meet. I’m expecting people like myself: you know, slumped against a wall sucking on a cup of coffee, snoozing in their seats … but no. These people are actually alive, awake and warmly welcoming. They introduce themselves, shake my hand and smile a lot. I can’t help but wonder if someone — the sergeant at arms, perhaps — hasn’t slipped something into their coffee to make them so chipper. It’s frightening, really.
Finally, I get up to the podium and I say, “How can you people call yourselves a civic club when you don’t even have a secret handshake?!” This brings the house down. I’m thinking these people are the easiest audience on earth.
To the Rotarians, and to all who contribute to the welfare of this odd little island, I extend my heartfelt thanks. But please, next time call me at cocktail hour.
— Will North is an island novelist. His latest novel, “Seasons’ End,” is set on Vashon.
