ORCA (or Calgon?)

I just realized another thing I like about Oregon, so I've decided to post a list - what blog is complete without a list?

Top 10 things I like about living in Oregon

1) Me in California, wife in Oregon = bad. Together in Oregon = good.

2) Greenery. Yes, it rains as much as they tell you it will, but plants like water.

3) Dairy products. Milk for $2.00 a gallon, eggs for 60 cents a dozen - both from farms right here in Salem.

4) Eye contact. Salespeople, bank tellers, gas station attendants, waitresses - they all look at you when they speak to you, and then stick around to listen.

5) Speed limits. I have an old truck. In California, it was a hazard on the freeway - even when going 70 in the slow lane. Here, a sign that reads 30 or 35 actually holds traffic to within 5 miles of that limit. Old trucks like 35.

6) Water. I like backpacking, and in Southern California, that means you carry a lot of water. Here, it seems every trail follows, crosses or leads to water. I live right next to a creek.

7) I know, I'm a kid at heart, but a fireworks aisle in the grocery store? Too cool.

8) The Willamette River. I cross the Willamette at least twice a day, and every time I see it, I want to build a raft and just float, Huck Finn style.

9) Mayberryness. There is a certain appeal to the slow pace, the old storefronts, the kids playing at the park - not AYSO, or Pop-Warner, or Little League - just kids playing.

and, my most recent realization:

10) a truckload of firewood, well-seasoned, for $31.

(This winter I'll probably post a 'ten worst things' list, but so far so good.)

No Profanity

I think that I shall never see
my old friend Manny Manatee.

It used to be, when I went to the sea,
I’d look out on the water and there he’d be.

He’d say, "Long time no sea, my friend,"
and laugh, and wiggle his back end
(manatees are quite fond of jokes,
a fact not known by many folks)

I’d tell him that he looked quite well,
(although with manatees, it’s hard to tell)
I’d kneel by the water and chat with him,
and he’d just float, or bob, or swim.

Yet last time I went, he did not come.
I sat for hours, my feet went numb.
And as I rose, and turned to go,
I glimpsed old Manny, down below.

"Manny, I said, where have you been?"
He rose and gestured with his fin.
"Twice I've been hit by a catamaran;
I’m sorry friend, but I’m tired of man."

How can you believe this is where you began?
And then sprouted legs, went up on dry land?

I tried to convince him we’re not all like that,
but for people the ocean’s just for looking at.

People visit the ocean to drink and relax,
to slather on lotion, and lie on their backs.
With no sign of motion save a reach for their snacks,
they seldom consider their manatee facts.

They drive to the ocean in their minivans,
they lie on the beach, they work on their tans.
They darken their skin and whiten their teeth,
but they don’t give a thought to who lives underneath.

Humanity, he said to me,
is simply concerned with vanity.

And that,

to a manatee,

is insanity.

And I agree.

The Singing Drum

Being new to Salem, I had to visit the World Beat Festival - the first real 'event' since we got here. It's held every summer at Riverfront Park, right on the Willamette. The park’s divided up into different villages – Asia, Europe, Africa, Native America – and it seems food is of equal focus to the ‘beats’, making it a feast of sights, sounds & smells.


Each village is a huge circle of pop-up tents, equally representing foods, crafts & clothing from that area’s cultures. Some of the craftspeople, most of the clothing people & all of the performers were wearing traditional garb, & there was cool stuff to see in at least one corner of each village. In the center of each, there was always something going on – kids playing mancala, dancing dragons, an Irish maypole. I bought a Cambodian good luck fish and an Indonesian writing journal, and enjoyed seeing beautiful batik fabrics, native American fishing hooks & African udu drums.

I spent about 4 hours there on Saturday, and soaked up much culture – Native American dances, Aztec dances (“these were taught to our grandfathers by their grandfathers”), steel drums, Dixieland jazz, celtic harp, Flamenco guitar, Irish steppers & Taiko drums. All day they have had story telling circles for the kids – each little village sharing their traditional folklore. I’m not really the Renaissance Pleasure Faire type, but there was a lot here that interested me.


That evening I went back for African music, a jazz trio & a Gypsy fire dance. The amphitheater was full for Obo Addy, a drummer/composer from Ghana. GREAT band – they played 2 songs and then went into a 45 minute jam which he called “the singing drum”. They played until about 9:30, then after dark the festival closed with Gypsy fire dancers. Very professional troupe, well-choreographed moves that would be flammable for lesser dancers.

An Embarrassment of Boxes

I recently moved from California

to Oregon

and after several trips to the thrift shop

and three trips to the dump

I found myself with over 300 boxes
of stuff.

Not furniture, not clothing,

Just stuff.

An embarrassment of boxes.

I remember when my grandfather

moved after years in Hollywood,

acres of excess

stuffed into a clapboard garage

which had collapsed long ago

but was unaware,

as the broken appliances

and three-legged chairs

upheld the facade for years

after its demise.

After his passing the building groaned,
the roofline sagged
like an old swayback horse
under the weight of an unseen rider.

In truth,
the horse died long ago,
yet remained draped over its
skeleton of castoffs and keepsakes.

Of course, that has nothing to do
with the legions of boxes now residing
in my own clapboard garage,
waiting to be unpacked, sifted and sorted,
as I search for those treasures
which were once my grandfather's.

I walked over to the local high school...

So,

I just walked over to the local high school to watch softball. Being a bit of a baseball fan, and catching occasional snippets of spring ball on the radio, I walk over from time to time whenever the field lights are on.

Tonight was the worst mismatch I've ever seen, and the winning team wasn't any powerhouse. A couple of company teams, just 18 working guys. Top of the inning it's three up, three down. Bottom of the inning it's single, double, single, single, triple, steal, double, single, and finally - the first out. It was really entertaining, like the Keystone Cops or the Washington Generals.

The poor guys were so earnest, but they couldn't even get the ball from third to first. The other team was just hitting bloopers - grounders and pop-ups and little dribblers - but the guys couldn't catch it, couldn't pick it up and certainly couldn't pass it on to one another with any degree of accuracy.

The sad thing was, they were the more powerful hitters. They'd hit big, soaring flyballs, or drives right at a player, but it was always three up and three down - and then the slow, painful slaughter.

But it didn't seem painful. It was just like, "this is the way we play ball." There was constant chatter among the players, but with no purpose. Somebody would stumble to catch an innocent, childlike bump of the bat, and there was nothing like, "that's alright" or "good hustle" or "what a moron" - nothing. Just idle chatter.

So,

An hour and a half later, after watching a full four innings,

it just wasn't funny anymore.