Reel Romance

Memo to our blog's youngest readers: There are those among us who remember a time when the home live-entertainment center consisted of a radio, period.  You could go "economy class" with a Crosley table model, or a Philco console; big enough to fill a hole on the line between guard and tackle.  (Granted, this was a line of the 40's, when football players didn't have the girth to occupy two seats on the team bus.)  If you weren't immersed in programs like Captain Midnight, and deciphering clues with the secret  decoder badge, then you were obliged to create your own entertainment....until the dawn of discovery, when.....

         ...... She was charming.  She was classy.  She was spellbinding, as I beheld her radiance from a distant table in Mrs. Zelinsky's third grade class at West Portal School.  Four years later, I achieved worldly -junior high- status, and the courage to ask her out for a date;  the only affordable date, and one of the most romantic ever - the movie theater. 

          Little did this writer know, after having asked and been accepted, that a thorough vetting process was to pursue his invitation.  The Spellbinder's parents gained all the intelligence they could about this precocious twelve year-old, who had the brass to ask their daughter out for an afternoon on the town.  Once given parental blessing, it wasn't "the town" as it turned out; it was a neighborhood (1931) El Rey Theatre. 

             Presently in use as a church,The El Rey was an arch-typical neighborhood movie house of the 20's and 30's.  The architecture followed a Moorish, Gothic, or Art Deco motif,  and was always finished with lavish appointments. 
        Ticket booths were beneath the shelter of the theater marquee; never inside the entrance.  The "color guard" consisted of at least four attendants, all garbed in the livery of the theater; the ticket booth lady, the census-taker dude who salvaged the ticket stubs, the usherette -equipped with shielded flashlight - and the vendor behind the irresistible temptations counter, where we indulged in one of two all-time favorites; Peter Paul Walnettos, or the Clark bar. (Butterfingers are a shabby imitation of the real thing)
            I digress.  To be sure,  this suave, debonaire veteran of two grade school-age dance cotillions, left it to the damsel to decide the movie for this monumental happening.  She chose the "Blue Grass of Kentucky" (Monogram Studios-1950), which proved to be a pre-Thanksgiving turkey, if ever there was one.  Vain attempts were made by this writer to pick up the slack in the screen play with occasional bursts of ill-conceived, nervous laughter.
             Replaying the devastation in my mind ("I'd go out with him again, if he weren't so silly") the only highlight of the day turned out to be the rides to and fro her abode on the K-line streetcar.  There followed a four-year retreat from movie dating; time enough to allow ego bruises to fade.  The retreat lasted until........

          .......   that night at the Varsity Theatre on Palo Alto's main drag.  This movie house boasted one very unique amenity; an open-air courtyard fountain, situated between the ticket booth and the foyer.  It's screen went dark in 1994. Praiseworthy attempts to restore this cinematic 

treasure have failed thus far. 

         Again, I digress.  ....She was the scintillating cymbalist of our high school marching band.  She was petite.  She was demure.  She was so alluring that your correspondent absolutely had to ask her for a date to see "The High and The Mighty" (Cinemascope-1954).  She said "yes" to the invitation without a moment's delay.    

          Despite the serious competition that John Wayne presented, my date was not oblivious to the tentative advance of my right hand toward her left during an appropriately engaging scene.  Au contraire, not only did she accept, she held mine in hers for the duration of the movie!  In so doing, she lifted your correspondent-at-large to a much more relevant "high and mighty" degree...if only in his own mind.  Because of a long-abiding fear of seeing this kind of beautiful bubble burst, we never kissed upon parting.  (High school New Year's Eve dances at the stroke of midnight are another story for another time.) 
               "Pride", as is written, "goeth before a fall".  As a matter of fact, not only a fall, but a winter, a spring, and summer. The '40 Chev powder-blue bomb and its owner spent the next year in movie-dating retreat after learning that a certain cymbalist-turned-Jezebel was ringing someone else's chimes, wearing his ring, and riding around town in his spiffy '53 Jeep Wrangler.  This guy was the kind of wimp illustrated in cartoonish Charles Atlas advertisements, and yet I was the one getting the facial.
              Said retreat lasted until....."The first time, ever I saw her face", on a fateful Sunday before freshman orientation at Willamette University.  From across the pews in a crowd of congregants at St. Paul's church I beheld her, and was immediately captivated.  She carried herself with a modest grace. She was a subtle, but riveting presence in her beauty.  She was the one and only, and I felt driven to take that first step to convince her that we were destiny's duo.  It shouldn't take a genius to connect the dots, and figure the direction that step would lead...to Salem's movie mecca, The Elsinore, of course!

One more brief digression:  On May 28, 1926, the Elsinore Theatre opened its doors to the public.  Developed by George Guthrie, an entrepreneur and lover of art, the Tudor Gothic building was designed to resemble the castle in Shakespeare's "Hamlet".  It was a cinematic museum, which fell into abuse and disrepair in the '70's.  However, over the past two decades, it has enjoyed a resurrection as a magnificent performance hall.   
          Back to the chase.  The movie of choice was the Burt Lancaster-Walter Matthau vehicle, "The Kentuckian" (MGM-1955)  To make it a truly memorable night, we stopped first at a local creamery to enjoy a couple of black & white sundaes.  Then came disaster!  Much to your scribe's shock and chagrin, he discovered that, after picking up the tab for the treats, he didn't have enough of the "folding green" left to cover the cost of admission to the show.  His face was doubtless as red as the crimson WU Bearcat jacket he wore.

         On the walk back to her residence hall, I conjured up a host of future prospects with my date of the evening. They all ended with a flashing neon sign, spelling "T-O-A-S-T".

         Strangely, miracles were still happening in the autumn of our freshman year.  This fair-haired beauty did consent to another invitation to see Burt and Walter duke it out at the Elsinore.  Fifty-six autumns later, it's fairly certain that the Bride has forgiven that original sin of omission, but it's even more certain that she hasn't forgotten.

                 

                                

               

                                   

The Credible Journey

Robert Frost and Henry David Thoreau make quite a pair to draw from.  The former was a native-born San Franciscan, who became one of the country's most renown poets and teachers while residing in the countryside of New Hampshire.  At the inauguration of President Kennedy on January 20, 1961, he read one of his own compositions, which was punctuated with puffs of condensation from the bitter D.C. cold of the day.  Forty-five years earlier, this four-time Pulitzer Prize-winner wrote a poem which abides with your scribe six out of every seven mornings.
               Being like Frost, and inclined towards roads less taken has usually been our way; leaning toward places and pursuits that the masses are inclined to by-pass, or overlook.  We opt for the makeshift espresso trailer over a Starbucks; the single screen theater over the multi-plex; the B & B in a quiet neighborhood over the downtown hotel.
               Born a half-century earlier, Thoreau was decidedly of a different stripe.  He could be considered by some to be an original environmentalist, hippie, and advocate for civil disobedience. Beginning in 1845, Henry David embarked on a two-year experiment in the minimalist way of life; sojourning in a cabin built by his friend, Ralph Waldo Emerson.  Had he lived in this age, no doubt he would have spent a night or two in a "Greybar Hotel".

              Each in his own words and ways suggest a fundamental and insistent yearning that abides in the human spirit, to wit: gain a closer relationship with nature, and perhaps, a less complicated life style.  Most important: to "get away from it all", even if so doing takes us only as far as our own backyard.
               Though we live on a fair-to-middling plot in rural Clackamas County, there are still a couple of reasons why simply being there does not entirely satisfy.  One is a septuagenarian's need for recharging through exercise.  With racquetballing and snowboarding firmly fixed in the rear-view, there has to be some form of exercise to keep this Swedish chassis from straying too far in the wrong direction.  What better alternative can there be than a morning walk along an expanse that's basically linear, relatively level, subtly diverse, and only a mile or so from home?!  Another benefit afforded by an hour or so of tramping is the departure from the daily dictates of house-holding, and the chance to replace them with the serenity, fresh air and rejuvenation that comes from being part of the world beyond the walls.

           Naturally, our trail of choice is removed from the mainstream of hiking venues.  It's an old Portland Traction right-of-way, which has been surrendered to the Rails to Trails

Conservancy, a Washington D.C. non-profit.  On November 17, 1990, we had the bitter-sweet experience of riding on the last trip ever taken on that railroad.  Now known as the "Springwater Corridor", this forty-mile loop will one day run from the east- Portland side of the Willamette River, through Boring to the lumber town of Estacada.  A consortium of government agencies may reclaim the corridor for mass transit uses whenever it wishes.  But in the meantime, it is dedicated to trampers and trekkers such as we for pursuing the mild side of wild amidst the alders, scrub maples, firs, and of course the occasional bothersome blackberry vine.  The stroll will be often accompanied by the tunes of chickadees and house wrens.   The bed of gravel on the trail is replenished every now and again by county workers.  Local habitues shrug in conceding to the wheels of progress over an eventual blacktop application.      

Once underway, wherever his path leads, the wanderer is free to multi-task; to recap the events of yesterday; to consider the agenda for today; to engage in personal devotion; to "veg out" with an mp3 player; or to simply celebrate life in the great out-of-doors.  The options are limitless.  No matter which one chooses, the circulatories and pulmonaries will ceaselessly express their gratitude.  Trek once completed, the rest of the day seems infinitely more doable. 

            With all these choices that lie just beyond our front door, down the hill and across the road, it's well nigh impossible to not reflexively consider those who inhabit the concrete jungles.  We are referring to those who, by dint of circumstance, are consigned to lives in the inner core of every major metropolitan area; where only fools would dare rush in.  They are the ones who must carry on each day with no trails, no trees,....and no tonic.

             What of them?                                                                  

Some Peanuts and Crackerjacks

          In his book, "Ghost Train to the Eastern Star", Paul Theroux opines that if what one writes is not autobiographical, it is plagiarism.  We agree, and while the topic of this month's post is our grand, old pastime, it is definitely sourced from an up-close and personal perspective.
          It has been over a year now since the last crack of the bat was heard, reverberating within the walls of Multnomah Stadium, a.k.a. "P.G.E. Park", a.k.a. "Jeld Wenn Field".  After a tenure spanning over one hundred years, our baseball team departed town, leaving precious few to mourn its passing.

          In their earliest years in the Pacific Coast League, of which it was a 1903 charter member, Portland first bore the moniker of the "Browns", then in succeeding years, they were referred to as the  "Ducks", "Webfoots", "Buck-aroos", and oddly enough, the "Giants".
          The nickname which became the fixture for the franchise came as the result of a newspaper contest in 1906.  That was also the first year that the Beavers won the P.C.L. pennant.
         The team moved to Vaughn Street Park in 1912.  Under the aegis of team owner and manager Walter "Judge" McCredie, the new facility featured an addition that was quite unique and controversial for its time: individual (as opposed to "bench") grandstand seating.  In later years, one member of clan McCredie was to become editor-in-chief of The Oregonian, while his spouse served as mayor of the city.
           Throughout my childhood and the majority of adult years, there has always been a Pacific Coast League, of which both the San Francisco Seals and the now-defunct Beavers were a part.  I still recall times as a pre-adolescent, beseeching my dad to go out to 16th and Bryant Streets to watch our Seals do battle with the Beavers.  One contest lasted into the eleventh inning....on a school night, no less.  Bless his heart, dad didn't wince or groan once, even though the fog and cold from the bay must have wreaked havoc with his asthma.
            Those were the days when hometown heroes in lower classes of competition remained around long enough for the fan to identify, and relate to.  You knew that first baseman Micky Rocco, or shortstop Roy Nicely would be fielding grounders in the infield tomorrow, the next day, and maybe even next season.  Nowadays, the only teams that can provide that kind of continuity are found at the major league level.  Even there, it's rare to see a player start and finish his career with the same team.  Loyalty has become an endangered species in the sporting world; not only for players, but for teams and towns as well.

When the Portland Beavers owner of record in 2008 addressed the city fathers of a need to relocate the team he had purchased, the "fathers" looked first to the grounds occupied by Memorial Coliseum; an architectural white elephant, masquerading as the venue for lower-tier conventions, road shows, and a team of high-school age hockey players which had long ago made an issue of deteriorating conditions in the building.  Before a serious feasibility study could be recommended, up stepped a small, but vociferous band of military veterans who wouldn't take anything but "no" for an answer.  Tearing down a building erected in memory of veterans was something akin to sacrilege, at least to them.  That the proposed ballpark could have been named "Memorial Stadium" did nothing to mollify the righteously indignant.
                 There followed a series of proposed alternatives, all of which drew thumbs pointed south by the city fathers: a vacant downtown Portland postal service headquarters building and property - - -too spendy; an eastside location, built within a city owned park- - -"not in my backyard"; a parcel of farmland on the westside- - -"money talks, but it isn't speaking my language" averred the owner.
                  So it came to pass that the biggest aggregation of ditherers this side of Capital Hill fumbled away any prospect for keeping our national pastime alive in the city of roses.  On Monday, the 6th of September 2010, our Beavers played their last game.  The record shows that on that day, they beat the Las Vegas '51's in front of a huge mass of hometown faithful.  The following day, the eulogies came in a deluge to the media.  Two days later, hardly a word of lament was heard or seen.  The boys of summer were now off and packing for sunnier Tucson.
                 Ahhh, but as a sage old Swede once said, "When one door closes, another opens".   All is far from lost.  Enter the Class A short-season Salem-Keizer Volcanoes!!!
                   While it will never be considered the "Hope" of baseball

diamonds, there is a jewel that is found, following a short drive to the south, which fairly sparkles.  Built in the span of one off-season with beautiful, unobstructed lines of sight throughout, it is the home of the San Francisco Giants "entry level" farm team. 
                   During every 7th inning stretch you can watch mascot "Crater" and his coterie of kids sing....to an organ accompaniment...the time-honored song.  You can watch the masked  "Roof Man" shoot Volcano tee-shirts from his specially-designed rocket launcher.  Most important of all, you can witness a squad of eager high school and college grads with stars in their eyes,  strutting their stuff for visiting scouts and fans.  No fewer than sixty-three (yes, 63) former Volcanoes have risen through the ranks to don the black and orange of the Giants, including Buster Posey and "Panda" Sandoval of the '10 World Series champion roster. 
                  Beavers, we still miss you, but bring on June of '12, and that first battle with those Everett Aqua Sox!
            

Just For Fun - Volume One

       As a service to its readers, The View is  presenting a list of organizations, perhaps even before they perceive the need to be organized.  Also included are the complementary convention sites; naturally, in advance of their need to convene......

Accupuncturists >>>>>>>>>> Pocatello, Idaho

Accountants Entry>>>>>>>Billings, Montana

Atmospheric Effluents Symposium>>>>>>>Carbon, Utah

Brotherhood of Body Repairmen>>>>>>>>Denton, Texas

Clinic for the Chronically Embarrassed>>>>Redding, California

Contortionists Guild>>>>>>>>>>>>Bend, Oregon

Corporate Logo Designers>>>>>>>>>Bismark, North Dakota

Culinary Conveyors>>>>>>>>>>Decatur, Illinois

Dehydrated Frenchmen>>>>>>>Pierre, South Dakota

Dental Surgeons>>>>>>>Yankton, South Dakota

Deodorant Manufacturers>>>>>>>Pittsburgh, Pennyslvania 

Divorce Attorneys>>>>>>>>>>>>>Sioux Falls, South Dakota    

Electricians>>>Sparks, Nevada

Ghost Busters>>>Casper, WY

Helene Curtis Reps>>>Baton Rouge, Louisiana

Holdup Artists>> Hanover, NH

Log Rollers>>>>>>>>>>>Cedar Rapids, IA
                                                    

Metropolitan and Rambler Restoration Guild>>>>>>>>>>>>Nashville, Tennessee

Napoleonic Historians Society>>>>>>>>>Waterloo, Iowa

Pollsters Pantheon>>>>>>>>>>>Gallup, New Mexico

San Francisco Giants Fans>>>>>>>Hope, Michigan

Shy Rights Advocates>>>>>>>>>Boulder, Colorado

Society for the Advancement of Reincarnation>>Phoenix, Arizona

Sunbathers International>>>>>>>>>>Starksville, Mississippi

Twins>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>Walla Walla, Washington

(Ed Note: The adjoin-ing photos were captured at the 52.25th Willamette University reunion of the class of '59.  While neither the Bride nor I graduated from old W.U., close, spiritual ties nonetheless abide.  Images were intentionally made smaller to protect the anonymity of the innocent.   HLR)

Give "No Child" an "F"

      In the budding years of my career as a teacher, a colleague imparted the following wisdom contained in what he'd likely refer to as a flow-chart of education: "The teachers are afraid of the principal.  The principal is afraid of the superintendent.  The superintendent is afraid of the school board.  The school board is afraid of the parents.  The parents are afraid of the kids.  The kids are afraid of nobody."  How ironic that decades later this pearl should serve as prologue for the folly and the fate of the "No Child Left Behind" law.

               The underlying inspiration for this disastrous attempt at reform by the previous administration seems to have been something akin to the old nautical axiom that a rising tide raises all boats. That "something" was obviously lost in transition from ship to shore.  Given that the idea was formulated and developed by"experts",who have spent precious little, if any time, wrestling with a lesson plan book, the law was doomed to failure almost as soon as it was launched.
              The act reads in part, "...funds enable schools to provide opportunities, programs, and resources for disadvantaged students to help them achieve state academic achievement standards.  Some funded services include: Placing a highly qualified teacher in every classroom; Develop effective instructional practices and materials: Professional development for teachers: Parent involvement activities."
                         The mandate from the department of education advised all federally funded school districts that every child in every classroom was expected to perform at grade level in math, and reading competencies by the year 2014.  All schools which fell below "established norms" following three probationary years of rehabilitation would be subject to closure.  The measure of performance was to be a periodically administered, standardized test; designed by another panel of supposed experts from each state.  According to a retired principal from Maryland, substandard classes and schools could be assessed as often as every eight weeks.  A 6th grader in Portland public schools was given a standardized test on four separate occasions.  An eighth grader in the same district went through the rigor six times.  Of course, these examinations came independent from, and in addition to the testing required in their regular classroom subjects.
            It all seems so simple and straight forward in concept and application.  What could possibly go wrong?!  Probably nothing...provided one ignores the fact that all elements for a monumental seismic event have gathered.
             Some of these elements are found in assumptions that are made about the behavioral and intellectual capacities that every kid brings to school.  For example, it is assumed that family stability, income and environment won't have any bearing on measured progress or potential.  It is assumed that all students are highly motivated test-takers, regardless of their frequency, and that they have a genuine need to achieve the highest possible results, every time.  It is further assumed that all kids - even down to third grade -  understand that test scores will have profound ramifications for doors of opportunity opening and closing in the future.
                All the while, "No Child" has imposed a series of teeth-gnashing dilemmas on those responsible for instruction.  Given that there are only so many ways to divide up a teacher's day, what gets sacrificed when a balance can't be struck, and future test results are perhaps hanging in the balance?  Should it be teach-to-the-test, or abide with the entire curriculum?  Rote drills or critical thinking skills?  Text book assignments, or hands-on creativity?  Individual needs, or the progress of the whole class?

                  Dilemmas are multiplied for the person in front of the chalkboard, or behind the door marked "Principal", for example.  What happens when things don't go according to their plan?  What happens when responsible, competent professionals can't meet the imposed standards after two of a three-year probabtionary period?   What will a teacher, administrator, or even a superintendent do when he feels his job is being threatened....even if by circumstances beyond his control?

         The first stress fracture of the law's foundation has been sighted in the school district of Atlanta.  As disclosed in a July 16, 2011 Associated Press article,  a Georgia State report has detailed "the nation's largest-ever cheating scandal, concluding that half of Atlanta's schools allowed practices that inflated students' scores to go unchecked for as long as a decade.
         Administrators - pressured to maintain high scores under the federal No Child Left Behind law- punished or fired those who reported anything amiss and created a culture of "fear, intimidation and retaliation".  
         The report names 178 teachers and principals. and 82 of those confessed.  Tens of thousands of children at the 44 schools,  most in the city's poorest neighborhoods, were allowed to advance to higher grades, even though they didn't know the basic concepts."
          "Everybody was in fear", another teacher said in the report.  "It is not that teachers are bad people and want to do it.  It is that they are scared."  As Jay Leno has oft times observed with a wink in his eye while commenting on a situation with an obvious consequence, "Gee, who could have possibly seen that coming?!"
            Another tell-tale line with similar stress marks has surfaced in Oregon.  On August 2, 2011, The Oregonian newspaper's headline declares: "Fewer Schools Meet Rising Standards".  The accompanying article states that ",......half of Oregon's 1,200 public schools now fall short of performance targets under the No Child Left Behind law, primarily because too few students in certain groups...read and do math at grade level..."
                         "A record 80 Oregon schools that serve a concentration of low-income students will have to offer students a priority transfer to another school or free after-school tutoring because they repeatedly missed performance targets......
              With the rash of schools missing performance targets this year, that number is likely to swell past 200 next year unless the law is re-written."  To which this retired pedagog must pose the question: Why do learned people persist in repeating the same approach to the same problem, and anticipate a different result?  To some at least, this is the definition of lunacy.

   Of the three schools in which I taught in east Multnomah County, only one has continually avoided the dreaded "Watch List" of alleged under-performance.  It doesn't take a degree in rocket science to figure out the underlying reasons.  It's as simple as noting: 1) the daily free lunch count  2) class size and 3) minority enrollment percentages.  Menlo Park has traditionally served a primarily middle-class, anglo-saxon community.  A commendable level of supportive, two-parent involvement in their child's progress and school activities has been a customary given.  It was this writer's own personal experience that neither of the other two schools could make these claims to anywhere near the same degree.  But by fiat of this law, all schools and students- regardless of per-capita income, regardless of cultural or intellectual limitations and capabilities, regardless of intrinsic or extrinsic motivation, regardless of the imposed, conflicting objectives in teaching..... must meet the prescribed standards of performance....even as those standards are arbitrarily raised.
             Deborah Meier, a member of the New York Univesity's Steinhardt School of Education recently spoke of the deeply-rooted problems she sees confronting America's education system, "Somebody needs to initiate the conversation about what schools are for, and what students and teachers are doing there, other than preparing for tests." 

            She remarked further, "We're trying to teach kids to exercise judgment, but they can't learn that from teachers who aren't allowed to exercise judgment."

                   In the words of the poet-singer, Leonard Cohen, "There is a crack in everything.  That's how the light gets in."  It is hoped that it won't be long before the present administration sees that light coming through the widening fault line, and seeks to repeal this fatally flawed, cookie-cutter approach to the shaping of our precious young....and those who teach them.

(ed.note: Stan Torrence, a former teaching colleague was commissioned to paint the two-room schoolhouse in Shaniko, Ore., which the Bride attended for part of her first grade.  The second school depicted is West Portal School in San Francisco, which yours truly attended for grades K-6.  He can confess now, without remorse, that Mrs. Pond, his kindergarten teacher, considered him a behavior problem.  HLR)

There's An App for That

                  Many among us document their personal histories by means of journals or diaries.  Another popular medium is photographs.  For this writer, the most telling testimony to life and times is a matter of another record:  The '78 rpm record, then the '45 record, followed by the 33 1/3.

As a kid, living in the only upstairs bedroom of our house on San Francisco's Ulloa Street, I was the beneficiary of the family's first-ever record player; a windup RCA Victrola.  Placed in the wrong hands. the tone arm on those machines would have made a formidable weapon, given the weight and the needles used.  Many was the lazy Sunday afternoon when I'd while away time, looking at the contrasting light and heavy dark grooves on the spinning '78 disc.  To the "studied eye" these revealed changes in dynamics and tempo.  "Fortissimo" came across as visually heavy.
              This writer can confess now, without remorse, that he never was really able to find a cure for this sickness I'll call, "audiophilia".  From records, it metastisized into reel-to-reel, cassette tapes, cd's, and into its present state.  That state is right outside the glittering gates of app-nirvana.  It's here that the Apple of our "I-s" is posted, his gold-plated collection plate ever reaching out.

                It was as much a matter of principle as pride that prompted me to declare six months ago that I was determined to be the last citizen of Boring to own an I-pad, an I-touch, or an I-anything.  There is an embarrassment of musical riches in our living room cabinet.  Another is sequestered on my hard drive.  After all, there does come a time and place when a good thing has almost been overdone,  doesn't there?! 

              The plea to "save me from myself" was lost on the Bride.  On Fathers' Day, bless her heart, she became co-dependent.  She gifted me with an I-touch.  Now, all manner of things I never knew I couldn't do without are available....with just a whisk of my I-ndex finger.
             Were my San Francisco Giants able to pull out another win in the bottom of the ninth?  Now to find out, it will no longer be necessary to pull out the laptop, or worse yet, channel-hop during our nightly interlude of tv-togetherness.  For a mere 99 cents, the score is right there every night;  just a vest-pocket reach away.
            A weather app was free for the download, with a couple of cities installed, presumably as defaults.  One of these is Cupertino, California.  "Why Cupertino?", someone might ask.  Well, silly someone, doesn't everybody want to know how hot it is at Apple's corporate headquarters?
             One of my other favorites is the classic movies application.  The Oregonian newspaper has been rather capricious about its TCM channel coverage, of late.  For $1.99, I will forever more have access to the weekly schedule of offerings, together with credits, backgrounds and synopsis that the hard-core, pre-1960 black and white film lovers among us truly care about.    Norma Shearer and Jennifer Jones, you will never be far away from me, ladies.

              I appreciate how Mr. Jobs allows us to pinch that penny with virtually everything he markets.  It's obvious that in this economic downturn, he cares enough not to do the expedient, profitable thing, and simply round up.  He has set the standard which almost all other businesses emulate.  Just take a look at the advertisements before placing your next garbage liner.  Can you find a single sales price that doesn't end with a nine-digit?  What a genius!
                Think of it....all those "9" applications, designed to fill sixty seconds of every disposable minute you have, I-tunes included!!  Does it get any better than that?!  If it does, please don't tell me.

Sweet Dreams Are Made of This??

           This is going to be a bit of a stretch.  It probably isn't Everyman's dream.  Maybe not even Every-other-man's dream.  The only hope is that it's more than just a dream for a party of two,  because its theme is one borne of a certain misery that loves beau-coups company.
           The stretch requires the reader's willingness to put reality into cold storage, inasmuch as this is a requisite for most all dream experience.  Now relax, but please don't close your eyes...at least while reading this self-inflicted expose.
             It happened in the wee-small hours of June 5, 2011.  Yours truly had nodded off, and was subsequently approached by one of his two dearest chums in high school, whose name happens to be Ben.  (Surname withheld to protect the innocent)
             "Have you finished your writing assignment for Mr. Vittitoe?"  -That Ben was not in my senior English class did not arrest the development of this dream.-  "No", I replied while staggering to recover from this blindside, "what was it?"  "Well," he advised with a "tsk-tsk" look in his eyes, "we were supposed to write a one-page essay on the most embarrasing thing that ever happened to us." 
                "D.C.B." allowed further that this assignment was due in twenty minutes, when our class was scheduled to meet.  This was cruel and inhuman treatment of the worst kind.  How could a pillar of Palo Alto High academia subject his students to such a topic?! High school has enough attendant embarrassment without having to present an assignment that was destined to plaster a bullseye on my backside, in full view of classmates.
                After a moment of elapsed Dream Standard Time, I decided to write a piece on a typewriter (conveniently provided) about sitting for a Sociology III essay final exam, after having missed all but the last week of class.  Yikes!  This actually was a real-time happening for yours truly. (ed. note #1: if you discern an anchronism....3rd term Sociology is a college level course....bear in mind that dreams do hold to a different standard of credibility,

dictated by the dreamer.)
             I can allow now, in the winter of life, that this wasn't the most embarrassing experience of my callow, adolescent youth, but it was "socially safe".  Thank heaven it was an essay test, and that I had a "bs" degree before I earned my BS degree, and received a reality-based C+ for my final grade.
              However..... the knowledge that I had dodged a bullet that should have nailed my scholastic hide to the wall has left a long-lasting impression on my psyche.  It has been forty years since I sat for my last post-grad exam in statistics.  Far longer still since the last time I reached down for some mojo to carry me through a test that I went into with the tank empty.

            Yet, with the predictability of  moon phases, once a month in morning's dark hours, I find myself re-visiting a moment of truth, where I must answer up to Mr. Vittitoe's outstretched hand, or an empty blue book, or a multiple-choice answer sheet, totally unprepared.

                    The funny/peculiar thing about this dream is that when Dear Chum Ben mentioned the due time for this assignment, subconsciously I knew that this couldn't be, because June 5th fell on a Sunday!  This realization prompted me to awaken; relieved, but in a cold sweat.
                     During years I spent teaching in the classroom, I came down with a heavy red pen on kids who, in concluding a creative writing assignment, would try to resolve a hopelessly implausible story-line by saying, "......and then, I woke up....."
                   Now, I'm left wondering, is this persistent dream experience a symptom of ying-yang, or a mutant strain of Karma?  One or the other has me by the collar.

HLR
(ed. note #2: I'll reserve, for future reference, my "back-up" dream, in which I try valiantly to maintain dignity and demeanor in front of my 7th grade students, while one-by-one, every article of clothing I'm wearing disappears.) 
                    

Doubt

    In the wake of the banner-sized news of our president's long-form birth certificate disclosure, there is a question which harasses to the point of distraction: When does doubt morph into ignorance, or something worse?
       During an Easter 2 homily, Fr. Fabian Nworkorie, our priest in Maupin, OR drew a parallel between the doubts of Obama's origins and those expressed by the Apostle Thomas upon learning of Christ's resurrection.  No amount of persuading. even the authentic and verifiable short-form seemed to satisfy some of the former, just as no physical evidence short of touching the mortal wounds would convince the latter.
           As history tells us, after Thomas had his transcendental moment of belief, he was eventually canonized.  But the many, modern-day naysayers, who dismiss short-form summations, are definitely of a different stripe, and a worrisome one.  They have taken the argument to places where reasoned mortals, as well as angels, do not tread.  Fr. Fabian was gentle and forgiving in his account of this attitude.  We suspect he was according its underlying motivation the "benefit of the doubt."
             But the nagging suspicion continues that some in the forefront of media attention have crossed the line between doubt and something far darker.

   In an opinion piece, written by Goldie Taylor for Grio Magazine entitled "Why Obama shouldn't have had to show his papers", she writes: "This morning, as White House staffers released copies of the president's long-form birth certificate, I couldn't shake the feeling that something ugly was going on.  For the first time in recorded history, a sitting president of the United States found it necessary to produce his original birth certificate for public inspection.  Not once, in 235 years, have we ever demanded proof that our president was born on American soil."
                 She goes on to say, "When they tell you this isn't racial, don't believe them.  This controversy was constructed solely as a way to deligitimize the presidency of a black man.  Those who question the location of Barack Obama's birth are the very same people who would pack up, and move out of the neighborhood if someone like me moved in next door. 
                 When they say they want to take their country back, they mean from us."

                   
                 I want to believe that since our president has produced what was called for, by a distinct but vociferous minority, that this kind of clamoring will cease.
                I want to believe that, regardless of color, the office of president still commands a respectful attitude on the part of the electorate.
              I want to believe as Anne Frank did, that people are really good at heart.

              I want to believe.

               As the apostle Thomas might have implored.....perhaps more than once...."Help me in my unbelief".
                                      Amen

An Eyeful of the Eiffel

           Before launching into the topic of the month,  the editor needs to address some previously held misconceptions vis-a-vis the French, in general, and Parisians, in particular.  Calling a spade, "a spade", my biases have prompted a veto every previous time a measure to travel there has been brought to a vote of our full house.  They include the following:

            A) The French are haughty and arrogant.  This conten-tion is baseless .  Au contraire, they are friendly and engaging people.  Only once during our stay here has anyone fallen into the old stereotypical notion.  This individual was an employee of the Louvre, whom when asked the whereabouts of the nearest lift, looked dismissively down his Roman nose, which conveyed with body language, "Inquire about impressionists like Degas or Cezanne; their use of ochre or burnt sienna in subtle brush strokes, but don't waste my time with talk of lifts."
                    Patrick, our Chinese waiter with an Anglicized name, serving food in a Thai restaurant with French menus, was among many who proved to be the rule rather than the exception.  With every trip to our table, he delivered a joke which brought a round of guffaws.  When a brief power failure occurred, and the lighting was subsequently restored, he proclaimed to all, "Happy New Year".
                   B) If you don't speak French, you will be looked upon as a visitor from another planet;  the planet Pluto, in fact, which astronomers have recently relegated to "lesser planet" status.  Wrong again!  Everyone from tour bus drivers to desk clerks to just plain folks on the street were eager to at least try to provide help, while the majority were most willing and able to converse.  We found this to be true of all age groups, save ours.  Bottom line, if you require directions in gay Paree,  ask anybody but a "q-tip".

                    C) French motorists are plumb crazy.  This point is debatable, but it must be acknowledged that there is a method to their madness....  albeit one that only they can truly fathom.  The circular street around the Arc de Triomphe is
a prime example.  This route is a potential cuisinart for cars.  There are no lines to delineate lanes.  This makes for some very interpretive driving.  Five cars across can be lined up to funnel through three cars abreast; moving at right angles toward the formidible five.  Add to that the traffic advancing from the opposite direction, and you have all the ingredients of a recipe for controlled chaos.  But strangely, in all the time your fearless spectator gazed down at this scenario, there was never a fender-bender.  What's more, seldom was a horn honk heard.

           The wife of a fellow traveller from Vancouver B.C. was stuck behind the wheel of her rental car, in the innermost circle of vehicles around the Arc.  Try as she might, she could never slip out of that ring.  She finally gave up, stopped her car in the flow of traffic, and called the rental agency to have them pick up her car.  The caveat:  If  you're going to parlay, you'd better be able to do more than parlez.

           Oh!  About the Eiffel.  It richly deserves its status as the signature of the City of Eternal Light.  It was well ahead of its time as a marvel of architecture and engineering. 

     Urban legend has it that Hitler, on arriving in Paris, wanted to ride up on the tower's elevator. However, an electronic malfunction denied him that opportunity, and he was forced to climb all the stairs to reach the highest possible vantage point.  After he left, an electrician was able to restore service to the elevator with a single twist of his screwdriver.

        

         The Eiffel experience is well worth the time and the tab, but quite frankly, the Golden Gate Bridge does more for me.                             HLR        

                  

There Goes the Neighborhood

   With its windows boarded, and en-

trance chained, the casual passerby would be tempted to look at this derelict building, and dismiss it as typical urban blight. Kindly resist such temptation.  From a much deeper perspective, it is a monument, reaching back eighty years, when the hub of  local commerce was not the mall, the shopping center, nor the trendy "market place".  Rather, it was the corner grocery store.  While it's fairly easy to cite all that the present has gained for the consumer, the past deserves to be remembered for what has been lost in our social fabric.               This was once a Safeway store at the intersection of 57th and Fremont Streets in northeast Portland.

               It was known as a '30's model, given that it was built in 1934, during the depths of the Great Depression.  Stores closely resembling this architectural style dotted the cityscape in areas from Washington state to northern California until the middle sixties, when they began to disappear, one by one.  Each had subtle cosmetic differences which gave them their own unique character, but some common aspects of design were imperative, given the demands of the time.

              Car ownership was a luxury which relatively few households could afford, and ice boxes were the standard for refrigeration.  These two limitations were very critical in addressing shopping needs and behaviors.  Rather than visiting the grocery store once a week, or even less frequently, the consumer of the '30's, '40s, and even early '50's was constrained to buy only what could be carried, or hauled in a shopping cart.  Such a duty exacted a rather obvious consequence.  The appearance of daily denizens became as predictable as the rising of the sun, and it was fairly common practice for the majority to be received by clerks on a first-name basis.  (Three guesses as to whom in the family heirarchy this task usually fell!)

                The typical store of this period had three check-stands; only two of which were ever regularly used, and stationed in a row, in front of the two swinging entrance doors.  Mounted on each of these was a big, black behemoth - the omnipresent National cash register, which would have been capable of anchoring a sizeable river vessel.  All were equipped with a green produce key, a red department key, a white tax key, and a grocery key, which also served as the motor bar.  Hitting that motor bar generated  the characteristic, "chug-a-la-CHUG-a-LA" sound. The cash drawer had accommodations for even fifty-cent pieces.  Remember them?!   

                  '30 model stores were staffed by five male clerks, including a manager and assistant (dressed in white shirts and ties) two female checkers garbed in mint-green smocks, one produce clerk, and two meat cutters.  All tasks, except those of the meat-cutters, were interchangeable.  With that basic crew, the store managed to provide for its patrons seven days a week.            

                  As you entered, to the left was the produce department, with a couple of small "islands" allotted to the less time-sensitive items.  Against the wall stood a single, refrigerated rack.  Extending behind were four very narrow aisles consigned to dry and canned goods.

                 To the right, and behind the check-stands stood the meat department, staffed by two personable meat cutters, standing behind a refer unit, which offered various kinds of fresh cuts and grinds, all deployed in metal trays with drill team precision in their display case, where nary a pre-packaged item was to be found.  Given that it was a neighborhood store, the elderly ladies, and even some of the younger ones were greeted with a "Hello, dear!  What can I get for you?"  Guys were accorded a corresponding guy-greeting. Every evening the late shift meat cutter, who was always the second string player on this two-man team, would spread fresh sawdust on the floor of wood-inlay behind the display case to make ready for the next business day.

                 Behind the meat department, and toward the back of the store was the domain of the dairy and frozen foods.  The dairy occupied a space roughly equal to the length and height of a VW Microbus, while the frozen food case was less than half that of a Beetle.  This was an era well before reach-in refrigeration, when product was either "reach-out" or "reach-down", with no glass-paneled doors to impede access (or reduce cooling costs).

                When stores such as these were deemed passe, they were replaced by fewer, substantially larger, more contemporary models in more "lucrative environs".   Filling the void in some of these same '30 model niches were a few chains, bearing the aphorism "convenience stores", which translates to retailing that's long on carb-heavy comestibles, beer and lottery tickets, but with a distressing dearth of meat and produce.  Corn dogs, anyone?

               As to the social side of trade, which was so vital an aspect of a trip to the store, nothing remains.  As a culture of consumers, we have grown more insular, more circumspect, less inclined to either walk or chat.  Such a rarity it has become to be among of cadre of clerks where everyone knows your name, and you know theirs.  Neighborhoods where stores like the old Safeway used to exist have become an endangered species.  "Since we're neighbors, let's be friends", used to be coin of the realm for a few years...even as that realm was fading from view.

                Now, the $64 question:  So what, who cares?  For openers, your scribe does; having worked in stores such as these during the twilight of their time.  His jobs were many.  Oftentimes, late evenings and early mornings seamlessly melded into one another.  Yet there was an abiding satisfaction gained in providing a presence and humble skills to a community which appreciated and depended on them.  Many were the good hearts and gentle people whose lives intersected with his in those less complicated, more engaging days of the little corner store.

             That time is loved, and missed....even if by a minority of only one.  However, with the cost of a gallon of gasoline edging relentlessly toward $4, who's to say it won't return?!  There is enough of Don Quixote abiding in this vintage '37 spirit to dream that impossible dream.

(Ed. note: the medallion logo was Safeway's trademark from 1946-81)