A sprinkle of salt spurs even the pokiest of slugs into making a move. The tiniest of shakes, scarcely enough to make their blood pressures rise, compels the dank little devils to shrivel up and melt away, like the wicked witch of the west.

A sight of a slug decomposing into a trail of brown aspic is so revolting to strangers—those who have stumbled, unprepared, into our salt sprayed Pacific Northwest—they scurry back home faster than a crab can sidle under a rock. Visitors make excuses: they detest the rain, can’t cope with the drizzle, and don’t function well in a fog. But those of us who live here know it is not the rain per se that causes panic: We don’t get as much rain as Boston or Miami or even New York.

Just as a sprinkling of salt turns a slug into a rung on the litter ladder, along with cigar butts and chocolate wrappers, it is the salt in their systems which causes newcomers to feel so uneasy, so breathless, so shriveled that they pack up before their vacation is over or the moving truck has arrived.

Since we are a nation stroked on two sides by sizable amounts of saltwater, you would think we would welcome a well-seasoned tourist. Our Puget Sound is a just a puddle compared to the seven seas and assortment of oceans draping our globe. But most ocean air disperses as easily as dandelion fuzz; by the time you head inland a hundred miles or so there’s not a trace of the scent of the sea. In the Northwest, however, we play ping pong with our breezes, bouncing them back and forth over Puget Sound, from one mountain range to another. They pick up salt like a snowball gathers flakes. Once you take your first deep breath of Northwest air you know you have finally swallowed the caviar of sea breezes, and this is pretty heady stuff for an unsuspecting stranger.

We natives know a good thing when we smell it and suck it into our lungs—air as crisp as apples, fresh as salmon, more pungent than aerosol pine. But it is no wonder neophytes are overwhelmed when our air plunges into their lungs. It is as much of a shock to the system as downing a six pack of local strawberries and then breaking out in hives or eating chowder until the clams come out of your ears.

Living in the Northwest takes getting used to, even though in most ways, we are no different than the folks who stay with us just long enough to feed French fries to the gulls or wrap unsuspecting fingers around a steaming latt…, double and tall.

Those of us who survive here are ordinary people, except for all the salt in our systems: we, who drop (and not on a dare) from mountain high to low tide without missing a meal; we who set our families into a mossy corners and curl up for the night rather than stay in the motel up the road; we who wear fine woolens and blue jeans (at the same time), play softball in the rain, jog in a deluge, and golf in a fog are ordinary people, except we come a bit more well-seasoned. This gives us a flavor all our own.

We have a pizzazz lacking among people who ration their salt out of round blue boxes with metal dispensers on top. They might pour a thimbleful into a shaker, throw a handful over their shoulders, go elbow deep into a sack of chips, but that is not enough to build up much of a tolerance. When these people journey west and meet, head on, the smack of salty air they gulp it in until they overdose, and they want to go home.

Once you get accustomed to it, you will never want to live without salt. Water with salt is better than water without. A mountain stream is like Grandma’s cream gravy; all it needs to make it perfect is a pinch of salt. Most lakes would almost measure up to our Puget Sound if only someone would dump in a truckload of salt; rocks would wear smooth enough for skipping, pools scampering with crabs would replace stagnant lily pads and dozing frogs, and hapless lake breezes settled on shore like a beached canoe would wind up and take off like a witch on a broomstick.

No matter where you live salt comes in handy. If you have a sore throat mix a little salt with warm water and gargle. Those of us in the Northwest, of course, just need to step outside and yawn. If you have sore feet, soak them in a pail of salty water. Or if you’re lucky enough to be in our area, just take off your shoes and wiggle your toes in Puget Sound.

Strangers make fun of us with our wet knees and soggy socks and barefoot prints across rain soaked grass, as though they are trying to rub salt in our wounds. But the laugh is on them. They don’t understand that a rosy sting of a salty breeze can even lower your blood pressure if you relax and breathe deeply enough.

If you’re a newcomer, take us one day at a time. Move slowly. Breathe with restraint. Slather on salt screen and spray salt repellent until you’re sure you are in a Northwest state of mind. But don’t rush it or you’ll run the danger of turning into brown slime and oozing away like a puddle of slugs I once knew.

I like news and I’m not picky. I might be a news junkie but I’m not a news snob. I want to know it all—the new, the old, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Newspapers, radio, magazines, they’re all the same to me; they all have news. It is the message I’m looking for, not the medium.

Television news is something else. Here, broadcasters peddle their wares as slickly as hucksters hawk snake oil. Hours before the evening news is scheduled, networks throw out their hooks. They want to keep our fingers off the remote with a skillful "stay tuned," but once they catch us they promise even bigger and better news at eleven. I don’t want to wait until eleven. I want to hear the big news now.

What’s more, I don’t like it when newscasters peck at me. I don’t like it when a reporter sticks his or her face on the screen just to remind me that the news is next. They’re toying with me; a public service announcement and four commercials are next. I don’t like it when an anchor person appears just to tell me the news will be here in three minutes. And I don’t like it when someone interrupts a program before it is over to announce, "The news is about to begin." I know it’s about to begin. That’s why I’m sitting on the couch.

I especially don’t like it when two impeccably groomed faces settled behind a big desk recite, "This is the five o’clock news starting right now." I don’t want them to tell me it’s starting right now. I want them to start. When Fred Astaire begins a scene he taps his foot. He doesn’t say, "The dancing is about to begin." And when Charles Dickens writes a book he starts out. "It is the best of times; it is the worst of times." He doesn’t write, "The Tale of Two Cities starts right now".

If anything should be straightforward its the news. This is why I want television news people to not talk until it is their turn, tell us as much of the news they can fit in, and then stop talking.

Speaking of the news, doesn’t it seem as though a lot more of it is breaking these days? When news used to flash it was as sudden as lightning hitting the house. Bulletins cut in to the picture even if it happened to be fourth and a foot at the goal line.

Lately, newscasters announce, "Stay tuned for breaking news." Or, "We will begin our six-thirty segment with a late-breaking story." Usually the story is a car in the ditch or a bank being robbed or a meteorologist predicting a change in the weather or some other accouterment indicating life goes on as usual. Any report that can wait until six-thirty might be news and it might be late but it is not breaking.

When television reporters converse with each other they don’t sound like real people. For example, Rich starts telling the news. Then he reveals that Chad is on the scene with breaking news about the news. You would think a cameraman would switch directly to Chad. Instead Rich segues by saying, "Chad." Chad answers, "Thanks, Rich," and talks until he is finished. We know he is finished because he says, "Rich." Rich, not to be outdone, replies, "Chad," and cuts away to Polly, on the scene somewhere else. We are sure this is Polly because Rich introduces her as Polly and then he says, "Polly." Polly says, "Rich." She says, "Rich" again when she is finished. He responds, "Polly." Anchors always have the last word.

Television news bothers me the most when it slides into a bait and switch as cunningly as a con man. Sometimes it’s the meteorologist who casually mentions that a gigantic storm is brewing out on the Pacific. "Will it hit us here in the Northwest?" he’ll muse. "And if so, when?" he chuckles. Just as I am about to shout that weather people shouldn’t ask rhetorical questions, he comes out with, "I’ll let you know right after the break."

It might be the anchor flaunting breaking medical news. "Would you like a sure way to improve your health?" she might ask. Despite myself, I lean forward. "Be sure and stay tuned. We’ll have the whole story for you at eleven." I force myself to stay awake, and finally, at twenty-five minutes after the hour, comes the report—which is that Americans must start going to bed earlier because we don’t get enough sleep.

I yawn and promise myself I’ll be in bed in three minutes.