Conversation is the cure

Friendship after the fallout

This “Feel Good Friday” isn’t about a nonprofit or a volunteer. It’s about something rarer, harder, and arguably more life-changing: the quiet miracle of reconnection. It’s about the kind of friendship that survives time, disagreement, and silence—the kind where, even after years apart and unresolved tension, one text can still crack the door open to something honest, vulnerable, and healing.

There’s nothing like spending time with a friend who’s known you for 37 years.

I used to spend the night at the house she and her husband built, pretty much weekly. Every time I’d walk across the dining room, I’d point to the stucco between the logs that I had applied during the home’s construction. I’d remind her that I had built that part of her home. “You’re welcome,” I’d say.

We stood together, waving signs at Sequim’s main intersection for Steve Tharinger. We traveled to Mexico to help Mayan women learn modern skills that they could bring back to their indigenous communities. When I lived in Seattle, she made the trip just to watch me sing with the Seattle Men’s Chorus during the Christmas season. In a crowd of 2,500, all I could see was my friend from back home.

She still keeps the card that I wrote when her mom died, and she was there for me when mine went, too.

Then came Towne Road. September 2023.

That Christmas was the first time in decades I sent her a card and didn’t get one back.
2024 flew by—and, for the first time in years, we were living in the same town and never found the time to reconnect. She zoomed past me on a bike along the Olympic Discovery Trail. Less than a second to register it was her. Did we not stop because we didn’t recognize each other? Or was it about Towne Road? That wasn’t like her, but I wasn’t sure.

While 2024 was the year I found my voice and tried to fill the void left by the presence of my mom, it was also the year that rocked me. I made new friends. I also lost some. I felt deeply supported by my community—and, at times, surprised by it.

The perfect afternoon

After the missed cards and the almost-encounter on the trail, my friend of nearly four decades sent me a text. She wanted to talk. In person.

It wouldn’t have mattered if I were being paid a million dollars to spin ten plates in the air—they’d all come crashing down. A conversation with her would always be the priority.

The chat ended up being exactly what a visit between friends should be.

She was concerned about her community, and she had questions about my role in it. She was curious about my views. And every so often, we talked about how our mothers still manage to speak to us. We laughed. We hugged. We never raised our voices. We didn’t assign labels to each other that we knew weren’t true.

We remembered: we are still the people we’ve always been.

That conversation reminded me what it feels like to be seen—to be challenged with love instead of suspicion. It made me think about the contrast between that kind of connection and the noise I’ve grown used to.

The noise

“How do you handle it?”

That’s the question I get the most. Not from her, but from the friends I’ve made in the past 19 months.

I usually blink and say, “Handle what?”
Then they explain: the vitriol online, the name-calling, the counter-blogs.

Here’s something you should know about me: I’m oblivious. I go to Charter Review Commission meetings, and I do my best to represent my district. I go to the County Commissioner work sessions and meetings too, and when I leave, I’m thinking about mowing the lawn or changing the sheets before my next Airbnb guest arrives.

Most of the time, I don’t really think about it.

Until something like this happens:

Not illegal, but unsettling.

Nate Tyler, once a hopeful candidate for the 24th Legislative District who was endorsed by Commissioners Mark Ozias and Mike French, frequently posts directions on Facebook showing how to get to my house.

To everyone I rolled my eyes at for supporting the Second Amendment or for sleeping with a gun beside the bed…

From a gay vegan who voted for Hillary and Inslee, I have something to tell you:

I’m sorry. I get it now.

There are so many emails I receive—tips, concerns—from people who say, “You can use this, but don’t put my name on it. I don’t want the backlash.”

When someone posts a picture of your home online, you suddenly understand the fear that comes with speaking up. Pushing for transparency in Clallam County can feel dangerous at times.

This isn’t the same town I grew up in. There is unrest raging just behind the sign in Sequim that reminds us to Be Kind.

And if that tension weren’t enough, there's another layer—the online world where the backlash doesn’t just simmer, it seethes.

The tick and I

Did you know there are two blogs dedicated to countering CC Watchdog?

One was started by a subscriber named “Sumgui,” who left CC Watchdog after I asked them to clean up the profanity in their comments (and I’m no prude). Sumgui now runs a Substack where he critiques my “racially charged and misleading narratives” about the Jamestown S’Klallam Tribe and explains why I’m wrong about tribal land, taxes, and economic impacts.

The other is written by “Ixodes,” which, if you’re not up on your Latin, means "bloodsucking tick."

Ixodes echoes Sumgui, but with bonus content about my employment, marriage, financial situation, and dementia. According to Ixodes, I’m not just misinformed—I’m losing my mind like my mom did.

People ask me how I’m doing when Ixodes drops a new post. I usually say, “Fine.”

It’s true. Someone has to watch the Watchdog.

I read the articles because I’m a vain narcissist who enjoys reading about my life. Some of what Ixodes writes is true. Some of it I wish were true. Some of it is close. And some of it’s so far from reality, it’s better than anything I could make up. I encourage you to read it.

But even with all that swirling, the thing that matters most isn’t the noise—it’s the clarity I found in a quiet, honest moment.

The real point

“Get to the point, Jeff.”

That’s what I just told myself.
And—since I’m oblivious—you’ve probably been saying it too.

Here it is: I just received a gift.

Not one you unwrap, but one that leaves you changed. A friend of 37 years didn’t write me off as a monster. She didn’t assume I grew horns and growled at the priest who performed my exorcism. She asked to talk.

We spent two hours in conversation. We talked about hard things. Familiar things. Emotional things. And those two hours? They’re among the most treasured I’ve ever had.

If I really am experiencing early-onset dementia, like Ixodes suggests, I hope one of my final memories is of that conversation.

If you’ve ever had the chance to reconnect with someone you love—really reconnect—you understand.

And if you ever have the opportunity to talk through a disagreement with a longtime friend, and they give you two calm, respectful hours without yelling or assuming the worst?

That is one of life’s greatest gifts.

Take it.

I just sent my friend an email thanking her for our time together. The last part of the email is something I want my friend of 37 years to know, and it’s something I want you to know too:

If you know of something happening in our County that lacks transparency, you know someone who wants to shed light on it. All I need is a thread to pull, and I'll do the rest. Likewise, if you know of an individual or organization making a positive impact in our community, I'd like to feature them in “Feel Good Fridays."

Wait—Did I mention this already?

Did I tell you the importance of talking to old friends?

I forget.

I think it’s my early-onset dementia kicking in—Ixodes, you were right!

Anyway—just in case—I’ll say it again:
If you ever get the chance to have a grounded, kind, open-hearted conversation with a friend, even one you disagree with, take it.

Seriously. Take it.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to take my evening meds and yell at contestants for buying vowels they don’t need.