The Little Church That Could

           Almost everyone has memories of their childhood which embrace books and those who once read them to us.  Oft times I still think of my father, seated with me at the kitchen table in the early evening, reading from one of a collection of "Oz" books.  Doubtless, there were things he could have engaged in after a hard days work that would have been a more pleasurable diversion for him.  Yet for the better part of an hour, and for several times each week, he chose to read to me, as I followed along, the exploits of Dorothy, the Scarecrow, Tick-Tock, and Ozma.  We must have waded through at least a dozen of L. Frank Baum's works before it was mutually agreed to move on, and leave those sessions as a marker of the life we shared.

              Precious as those memories still are, it wasn't the Oz books that occupy the top wrung on the best-ever list.  That very lofty spot belongs to "The Little Engine That Could"; a story originally published in 1930 by Arnold Munk, who for some weird reason, adopted the pen name of "Watty Piper". Such a really big deal it was that the three '78 rpm record album of that story was parked under the family Christmas tree for your scribe in one of his more tender years. (Please bear in mind that one side of a ten-inch '78 could only hold about four minutes-worth of recording) Whether or not it was the first book anyone ever read for themselves is unimportant.  What does matter is the impact it has had on the way three generations of its young readers tend look at life.
               In a nutshell, here is the storyline:
                         ~A long train must be pulled over a high mountain.  Larger engines are asked to pull the train; for various reasons they refuse.  The biggest locomotive in the roundhouse declines, allowing that it would be too much of a haul for him. The request is sent to a small, blue, yard-switcher, who agrees to give it a try.  The engine succeeds in pulling the train over the mountain while repeating its mantra, to the same cadence heard  with a load-pulling steam locomotive, "I-think-I-Can-I-think-I-Can".  Little Blue ultimately triumphs over the impossible.~
                      There is a real-life counterpart to Pratt's tale, found in Oregon's Clackamas County hinterlands.  Once upon a time it was called just plain "Holy Cross Church". While it was still a fledgling parish and renting space every Sunday from the local Adventists, it was given the gift of land; deeded by its wealthiest benefactor.   The area surrounding the plot was and is rural,  and very agricultural in character.  The state highway which once fronted the property was relocated long before the church came into being.  There are neither housing developments nor shopping centers, either east or west, for a good five miles.   This is exactly the kind of place that would prompt anybody with even a novice's understanding of demographics to offer the following advice: "Don't go there!"

                       Yet go there, they did.  While standing in their own field of dreams, the faithful decided to "build it, and they will come".  So it was done, with only the bare minimum of professional contracting expertise, and a whole lot of volunteer labor that was long on willingness, but short on skill.  To the casual observer, the church design looks like nothing so much as a double-wide manufactured home.  For practical purposes, that's what it is, but with a few essential and strategic refinements.
                     "They" did come for awhile, but sadly priests have a way of coming and going.  Each seems to reel in many upon arriving, and pull  away some upon leaving.  Still, everything was in a way, comfortably constant, until one certain Sunday.  Then, during his Penetcost homily the good father admonished the congregation, "The choice is yours.  Do you wish to retain a country club image; have a cup of coffee with friends after mass, and go home for another week........ or, do you wish to get involved in this community, and do the work of a mission?"  Since he was fluent in Spanish, "Father Tom" had his own notion of Plan B. 

            Every other Episcopal church in the area considered a combined liturgy too heavy a load to pull.  Undaunted, the plan was implimented.  It meant "bringing in the sheaves" of migrant laborers from the neighboring nurseries and fields. To go out to meet them at their level, their workplaces. To roll out the Spanish-speaking carpet, listen to their needs, and give them a spiritual place to call their own.  The effort yielded what our priest had hoped for.  Holy Cross became Holy Cross/Santa Cruz.  The changeover seemed like a divine stroke of genius.  Initially, every Sunday saw a packed house.
                      Sadly, a bi-lingual service is a liturgical cup of tea that has very limited appeal in the traditional anglo-Episcopal scheme of things.  The hands which once raised the building and turned on the lights dwindled to a precious few.  English-only visitors treated the church entrance like a revolving door.  Some thirty-five years later, the flock at Holy Cross/Santa Cruz is made up of scores of young Latino bucks, does,  and a few old goats.  It is largely a parish of vagabonds; those who not only must live from one paycheck to the next, but many must also keep a wary eye on the rear-view mirror for that flashing blue light....a light which could signal a rapid, one-way trip back across the border.  Without doubt, when it comes to involvement in the parish, they are committed to the "can-do" and "want to", but the "time to" is a whole different ball game. 
                          Every Sunday produces a slightly different cast of characters lining the pews; each harboring a different set of issues and  pressing needs for the following six days.  Yet they love their spiritual home because it provides a place to have their "Primera Comunions" (first communions for their young children), "Quinceaneras" (a rite of passage for fifteen-year old girls), "Bodas" (weddings), and of course "bautismos" (baptisms). 
Most importantly, it is a place where they are comfortable in the certainty they will be treated as brothers and sisters in every aspect of corporate and social life. 
             As of the last treasurer's report, there aren't all that many pledging pistons to drive the HC/SC locomotive,  making the grade all the more difficult to climb.  Only five of the faithful have the capacity to write a check, and cover expenses each month.  The rest drop in a loose bill or two whenever possible.  But everyone stands shoulder-to-shoulder in fueling the argument for survival.  They are not about to concede defeat while the wheels are still turning, no matter the steepness of the roadbed.

               Will this church be around after the next critical analysis, when pencils of diocesan officers are sharpened, and grim projections of future  realities are detailed?  Only You-Know-Who has the answer, at present.  However, if there are those inclined to wager, don't bet against the Little Church That Could! 
     


             

For Want of a Flash Drive

     While easing into life's mid-winter, it's become obvious that there are certain realities of life that by-pass other age groups, which can't be totally ignored by ours.  Let's take the daily observance of lunch, for example.  The sandwich, a handful of chips, and a low-cal gatorade are this writer's standard bill-of-fare.  This dining experience invariably plays out to the accompaniment of the noon tv news.  Therein lies the rub.

Marketers choose that time to launch their colon, catheter, and feminine hygiene commercials.  Why do they subject the viewing public to this kind of insidious torment?  It's because: 1) they know they can; that renaissance geezers, such as this writer, are creatures of habit, holding fast to the notion that twelve chimes signifies chow time.  Twenty-seven years of teaching in the classroom helped to reinforce that behavior. 2) We fit the demographic for the products these fiends are trying to sell.  That leaves the seasoned-citizen-diner with the alternatives of either banging repeatedly on the remote control mute button, or else, staring at a ham and cheese on rye that looks less and less appealing with every passing "pitch".

              Next, the following senior-scenario is inevitably played out:  In an airport, or a sidewalk in town, or a hallway in a building, the call rings out from behind you...."Hey, Hal!", or "Hey, Mr. R.!", or "Hey, Coach!" All of the foregoing are most often suffixed by, "Do you remember me?"  Of course I/we do!  Everything, that is, except for one minor detail, their name.

                  What ensues is a dialogue, immersed in a frantic, yet hopefully furtive ("frantive"?) search for the nearest mens' room, or the nearest broom closet, or any safe haven that would provide refuge from the one holding the name-hammer over your head.

                  However....a restroom or closet isn't always that accessible, especially when one finds oneself out on a hiking trail, miles from either, while completing one's two-mile morning constitutional.  Ultimately, as it becomes obvious with every passing exchange, one must say to that fellow hiker, "I'm sorry, could you give me your name again, please?" (Thank heaven you remember that she is a cross-country airline flight attendant, for which she appreciates your "powers of recollection".)

                "Of course", she says, "It's Diana.  You remember you'd given me the title of  Lady Di for future reference?!"  The Lady Di had unwittingly skewered this wintry acquaintance of hers, and made irrelevant all kinds of accolades and kudos that powers of recollection had granted him before.

                All of which bring us to the gift(?) of digitized memory retrieval, also known as the "Flash Drive".  Depending on the price you are willing to pay, these devices can store data from the capacity of a generously-sized biography (footnotes, family tree and illustrations, included) to the Complete Works of Plato, Gray's Anatomy, Tollstoy's "War and Peace", the New York City telphone directory, and for good measure, the full, unedited film version of "Gone With the Wind".

                 They are very handy, USB plug-in tools, and known affectionately by some as "thumb drives" given that they are scarcely the size of an adult thumb.  But their size, meaning critically, their portability, can also be their liability...if placed in the wrong hands, such as those belonging to a forgetful septuagenarian.

                  Our little "beastie" travelled with us this year, down the spine of Sweden, from Stockholm to Malmo.  From there, across the fjords of Norway, the canals of Belgium, and the streets of Paris.  Not only that, it was a constant companion on flights to and from ports-of-call.  It was a safety net for daily journal entries of our travels, along with a huge hunk of gigabyte for digital photos.  So tight was our bond, that it came close to receiving a nickname normally reserved for house pets.  "Ysidro" comes to mind.

                 Some time between our return and a fortnight later, the flash drive went "a.w.o.l.", as in "Absent without leave", a phrase generally associated with desertion in military circles.  However, we acknowledge that this is misdirecting blame that is rightfully ours.  "Ysidro" didn't desert moi.  Moi deserted Ysidro.

                To this day, the "Y-search" continues.  The investigation (read that "obsession") falls something short of magnificent.  Our house, and all manner of possessions have been repeatedly given an examination befitting TSA airport security; all to no avail.  IN the interim, there have been a host of rationalizations that have been conjured to soothe the wounds of this aging ego.  

             Albert Einstein would walk off to teach his physics classes at Princeton University without first slipping on his socks.  On the other end of the age spectrum, grandsons have repeatedly lost jackets...even a tee-shirt with the prized nom d'plume of "HoneyBear".  But all of this is small comfort to a guy who's wondering where all this absent-mindedness is leading.

              The missing electronic companion retails for a mere $5.99.  Everything on it is safely stowed on a laptop hard drive.  Why then, oh why, is this "Y" allowed so much space on the backshelf of this writer's mind? It is another in a rash of itches that cannot be scratched, and shares the shelf with other little irritants.

                 For example, why is it increasingly difficult to grab a wink of sleep after five o'clock in the morning, and why do people mumble their words now, more than they ever did before?  These queries come by tip-toe, unbidden, into the mind of a muse with far too much discretionary time.

                Not to worry. Now that the answer to the ultimate question of the meaning of life, the universe, and everything has been found (our readership knows it as the number "5"), your scribe can at least partially devote his attention to the Hereafter, while posing yet another question:  What am I here....after?

               Kindly excuse me while I meditate.......... 

A Redside Revival

        Nestled high above the Deschutes River reposes the central Oregon town of Maupin.  If, in the summertime, a traveller were to pass by en-route to the hinterlands, he would likely say that this is a bustling, vibrant community; with busloads of rafters, and van-fuls of fisher-folk, bursting at the seams to dip their vessels or lines into the waters below.
         While trekking on a well-trodden path, the city's watering holes, hostelries, and outfitters doubtlessly thank recreation-seekers of all stripes.  The anglers among them who hook a "Redside", know it as a specie of rainbow trout, and a prized catch, as well as the most unique nickname in all of Oregon high school athletics.
              The rafters are after something else the river has to offer: rapids like "Box Car" and "Oak Springs".  Innumerable family albums have been graced with been-there-done-that photos of those who've navigated those falls.  Like swallows returning to Capistrano, many make the pilgrimage each year to relive the thrill of the ride.

             But alas, Maupin only really bustles from the merry month of May to Labor Day.  Following the first Monday of September, the local merchants hunker down for the next seven months, awaiting the next harbinger of summer.
              It wasn't always that way.  Once upon a time, like so many of its comparably-sized brethren, Maupin was a thriving mill town, which employed hundreds of workers, and sustained a hefty local economy.  However, once the mills shut down, score after score of the gentry in these communities moved elsewhere.  What remains in their wake hardly amounts to more than sleepy, wide spots on roads less traveled; leaving places like Paisley, Mitchell, even Fossil (Wheeler's county seat), struggling to keep its school doors open.

           While being economically hard-hit, what might have spared Maupin that ultimate fate is the river; originally coined during fur-trading times as Riviere des Chutes, or "River of the Falls".  This swirling, sinewey stream continues to provide a population of 420 what's needed to survive each long, wintry dry-spell.
            South Wasco County high's enrollment is a reflection of the local economy's down-turn.  It has taken a precipitous drop in enrollment, from well up in the hundreds to sixty-three, and holding.....  You will not find a Bijou movie theatre on the three-block drive down the main street of town.  High school athletics, read that: The South Wasco County Redsides, are the only bona-fide show. When teams aren't playing on a Friday or Saturday night at home, downtown Maupin goes dark in a really big hurry.  If it could be said that the heart and soul of a town is its schools, that would be no more true anywhere else than here in this high-desert refuge overlooking the Deschutes.

              The mayor of Maupin has an idea or two for future economic development, and the Redside athletic director is looking forward to some hefty help up front in the few years ahead.  If only the city and the team's followers can find the patience to abide!  Being a school of less than 100 students, S.W.C. participates in the eight-man Big Sky football league.  Sadly, three years ago, there weren't even enough players to field a team.  The football field's blocking sled and scoreboard clock stood dormant for an entire season; the first time ever for that kind of tragedy.
                The resurrected team has not compiled a record which instills fear in the hearts of its adversaries.  The total number of victories over the past two years is two (2), and both of those came against the same opponent.  Thank heaven for Portland Lutheran!  The rest of the games have resulted in teeth-gnashing, wall-bashing losses of 20-30-40 points.
                However, as we've been assured by the observations of Mayor Ross, and A.D.- Coach Hull, help is on the way.  We look forward to the time when the town enjoys a rennaisance, and....when once again the call to "Fear the Fish" will be the rallying cry of the Redside faithful.
                   
      
    

Can You Hear Me Now?

In his science-fiction fantasy, A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy,
author Douglas Adams allows that the "answer to the question of life, the universe, and everything is 42".  With all credit due a writer of his magnitude, we beg to differ with Mr. Adams.  His analysis was spot on....until Steve Jobs and Apple Computer decided to expand their product line. From our view, the answer to that question is now 5, as in I-Phone 5.
                      To the dismay and disappointment of a few, the departure from "42" started with the first cellular telephones.  These were hefty, mobile devices; the first in a long line that was designed to liberate the user from dependency on his home telephone, and ultimately, the need to relate to the, uh..."non wifi'ers".  The originals were roughly the dimensions and mass of a brick, and no doubt, could have filled a gap in the fireplace, as well as affording its owner: 1) a handy door stop, or 2) a martial arts Judo-chop enhancement.
                      The year was 1990, and the dawn of a new technology.  While both new and exotic, this revolutionary mode of communication was an ungainly beastie.  Toting them around town was a challenge.  Too heavy and bulky to tuck into a purse or pants pocket, and hanging halfway to the kneecap when holstered to a belt, they tested every owner's deployment skills.   But when you could plant one in the middle of a tavern table or a secretary's desk, there was instant status and recognition.  The rest of that part of the world in your influential sphere was obliged to acknowledge that you had arrived!
                       However, arrival did come at a price; roughly the equivalent of that spent on the purchase of a used 1967 Sport Fury convertible with a 383cc engine, Hurst linkage and vibraphone sound. (Many were the days when this writer would cruise around town with the top down, and kids shrinking from sight as their dad accompanied the radio; singing song after song. - But we digress)  Back to the chase>>> Given the fact that every school in which we taught had an abundance of phone lines, there really was no apparent need for this big, black bauble.  There had to be some other rationale, some other justification for ownership beside those of the obvious ego-stroking kind.  Oila!  There was!

                        The safety gambit came into play.  Supposing we were driving home in the evening, following a parent-teacher meeting or a workshop.   The road is deserted, and we run out of gas.  There is neither gas station nor convenience store to be seen, anywhere.  What to do?  Well, we pull out our trusty techie toy and call home.  That's what we do!  The gambit worked.
                     Fast-forwarding to the present, and twenty-two years later, the editorial staff has been advised of the release of the aforementioned I-phone5, with applications that can do "virtually" everything but walk your West Highland Terrier.  Apple stock has risen to over $700 per share.  The feeding frenzy at electronic stores has been common tv news footage for several days.  To some purchasers, the '5 will be such a constant companion,  that we can envision the day when plastic surgeons will offer the opportunity for their surgical implantation.

                     Of course, and as with previous models, the owner can interface this phone with his Blue Tooth.  Forgive us if we sound like Cro-Magnon refugees, but where did that name come from?  This thing that holds one ear in a death lock is not blue.  It also does not look like any incisor, bicuspid or molar we ever saw.  To the casual passerby it seems to convey the unspoken message, "I am presently, or about to be engaged in a phone conversation which is, or will be, infinitely more appealing or essential than anything you have to say.  Don't bother me." ( Sort of reminiscent of hamburger commercials we have seen.)  In other words, this is a device with the potential to be rather off-putting.  So much for the advancement of face-to-face interaction.
                    As for us, it could well be that we are the last in our neighbohood to own a "2G"- that's second-generation-dumb-phone.  This device doesn't do anything but send and receive calls, and under duress,  take pictures (4),which have never been sent to anybody. (One of these is a snap-shot of the Bride, snoozing in her recliner during our nightly two-hour time of tv togetherness.  Again, we digress.)
                  The question that abides is the same as it is for the personal computer: are we - given all the benefits of immediacy, accuracy (5) and time sponging - any better off than when the answer to everything was 42?  Inquiring minds and certain neanderthals need to know.
                 

Random Observations of a Fearless Spectator

~If you are obliged to reserve seats on a train, there is a better than 50-50 chance that your designated seats will be backward to the direction that train takes.~

~When preparing for an overseas trip, one can never pack too many dried prunes.~

~It's amazing to note the number of train and plane passengers who shift from laptop to smartphone, and back again...without ever looking up, or even occasionally seeking some other form of diversion.  It's as though they would be totally lost in a world without the ability to digitally dabble.~

~ One doesn't need to look at the landscape to know that he or she is in Sweden.  All they need to do is look at the women and children. (With apologies to cousin in-law Christian, who is Svenska, through and through).  ~Family ties increase in importance with age.  In life's winter, they become most important.~

~At the very beginning and ending of a long journey, the experience of a good night's sleep is largely a myth. ~

~When surveying a bistro or brasserie, and we hear the name "Rick Steeves", our first instinct is to make a quick 180 degree turn.  Mind you, it's not that we dislike Rick Steeves.  In fact, we and some of our closest friends are devotees of his travel books.  But "getting away from it all" means that after flying a third of the way around the globe, the last thing we need to hear is the same old dialect we thought we'd left behind.

~If the traveler happens to see a guy on the streets of Paris or Brussells. wearing flower-patterned walking shorts, black socks, and brown loafers, there's a better than 50% chance he's a local citizen, and not another American tourist.  However, if he's also wearing a baseball cap, the percentage drops considerably.~

~On the train ride from Malmo to Oslo, a Norwegian fellow traveller remarked, "...gasoline isn't really expensive for those who live here; only for those who don't."  The lady, a teacher, wasn't speaking in  a self-satisfied, haughty way.  Rather, to coin an oft-used Yankee idiom, she was simply "telling it like it is". The "Big Mac Index", which frequently appears in The Economist magazine, is based on the world market value of the dollar, and the global uniformity of ingredients used in preparing that particular sandwich.  Norway is the most expensive country in the world for having the pleasure of munching a Big Mac....for those who don't live there.  In purely financial terms, it is Switzerland-north.  But as a former student of ours points out, "It is a gem".  The stellar attraction of Sweden's neighbor to the west is far from the golden arches of Mickey D.  Its fjords make one entirely forget about hamburgers.~

~Speaking of comestibles, the American phrase "crash diet" and the French word "patisserie" cannot peacefully co-exist in the same thought sequence; let alone the same sentence.  That being said, when told that a buffet in our Paris hotel would fetch 18 euros per person, frugality weighed in heavily, and prompted us to take a ten minute walk and discover a small, 3-table neighborhood bakery.  There, for a mere bagatelle of 7.10 euros we had our morning lattes, a shared bottle of o.j. and two french pastries!  This was the morning regime for four successive days.  When it was all said and done, the charge to "sin in haste, and repent at leisure" seemed to work comfortably for us.*

~"Brussels" is the way those of us in the U.S. are accustomed to reading the name of the capital of Belgium.  However, the inhabitants of that fair country spell it "Bruxelles", and pronounce it (broo-SELLS).  Correspondingly, we on this side of the "Big Pond" are used to seeing the French city of Chartres pronounced pretty much as it is written.  Au contraire, those really in the know say "SHOT-truh"  The challenge is to say the "truh" as if you're speaking with a mouth half-full of water.~

~Found in the main square of Brussels is the city's most important museum.  On the fourth floor of that museum is a most unusual collection of dolls called "Pis Mannekens", which are replicas of the most photographed fountain in the entire country, and which is located  just a few city blocks distant.  Created in 1628, the practical purpose of the fountain was to provide a source of drinking water to the town inhabitants, but done so with a wink.  The fountain is actually the statue of a very young, very male child, doing "what comes naturally"  The museum contains well over 50 look-alikes, all garbed in various modes of dress - from Elvis to a Montreal Canadiens hockey player, and all with the trademark "holding pattern" with the left hand.  The "Manneken" has come to symbolize the collective attitude of the towns' citizens; one of liberal perspective, open and accommodating attitudes, and a spirit of celebration. It is seen replicated in museum porcelain, candy shops, posters, and gift shop figurines by the hundreds.  What might be given a "parental advisory" rating for this kind of exhibition over here is casually ignored over there.~

~The seating capacity of San Francisco's A.T. & T. ballpark is 41,915.  The estimated number of patrons, in a serpentining queue, awaiting entrance to the palace at Versailles on a particularly warm day was 41,915.  The question was, "How long would it take to reach the decision to abort this mission?".  The answer was, if stretched,  5 minutes.  Plan B for the day was to continue the train trip to Chatres, and to see the massive cathedral there; all 110+ meters in length and 176 stained glass windows of it.  An added benefit was and is to hear a recital performed on the cathedral's behemoth organ.~

~One adventure must end before the next can begin.~

*(ed note: neither your scribe nor the Bride gained one pound during this trek.  HLR)

Troublesome Waters

Prologue:  The piece which follows may seem superficially like "small potatoes", given that it refers to a very remote corner of the cosmos in rural Clackamas County.  However, the surge of turbulence felt here has also been felt, to a much greater extent in the politics of the midwest and beyond.  It is testimonial to the ever-widening gulf of perspective between those who hire and those who provide the goods and services.  The editor concedes his own biases in the following address to the Boring Water District Board, but leaves it to the readership to draw their own conclusions and opinions. The address was given at the May 2012 board meeting. HLR

                 >Members of the Water District Board and Madam Clerk:
        For those of you who don't indulge in Sunday comics in general, or specifically in yesterday's issue in particular, the Dilbert comic strip has a genuine significance in current budget deliberations.
                   In it, the Dilbert character addresses his boss, saying, "I need to get this technology certification.  Boss replies, "Whoa, no way.  If I pay for your training, you'll use your certification to get a better job.  At the moment you're in the Goldilocks zone.  You're not hot enough to get a better job.  And you're not  yet incom-
petent at the one you have.  When your skills expire, in the next year or two, I'll replace you with someone younger."
                 To which Dilbert, in anger and frustration replies, "You're a monster! I'll pay for my own training, and leave you to marinate in your own stench."
                   The final panel depicts a corporate vice president-type asking the boss, "How did you keep your training expenses so low?"  Boss replies, "I marinated in my own stench."
                    Perhaps this is too harsh a parable to describe management-employee relations in this district, but that begs the question, "What would be a more vivid and accurate one?"  What...in light of the following evidence:

•                     The board rejected a request by the watermaster for a compensatory stipend to attend classes which would have improved his skills, as well as his value to the water district.
•                    The board rejected a proposal by the watermaster to provide work on behalf of the district for the installation of water pipe.  The proposal was substantially less than a bid submitted by an outside contractor.  This proposal was rejected despite the fact that the watermaster and his coworker have an impeccable work history, totally free of any liability claim that could be ascribed to the product of their labor.
•                   The board has withheld approval of the watermaster's determination of when it would be most expedient for him and for water district patrons to receive his allotted vacation time.  This, despite the number of years of good and faithful service he has provided to the district. Despite the esteem in which he is held by water users and neighbors alike, as well as the commendations he has received.

                   Perhaps the board can perceive how some patrons might draw a parallel with Dilbert in management-employee relations.
                    Some board members would perhaps argue that the decisions rendered came as a consequence of sound fiscal policy; of prudent management of resources and revenue.  Yet others, who knows how many, will see actions such as these as petty vindictiveness - of management arbitrarily putting down the workforce, simply because it can.
                 There is obviously an atmosphere in this relationship that is creating an odor.  Is it as obnoxious as Dibert's stench?  That's difficult to say, but it's obviously not pleasant for certain of us to smell.
                   For better or worse, the atmosphere of the workplace is determined, to a profound degree, by employers.  Fair and equitable treatment of staff, creating an environment where staff knows it is appreciated and supported, can elevate the work of the day from pure drudgery to sublime satisfaction.
                 Is it within the board's potential to create a positive atmosphere between itself and staff?  Time will tell.  Rest assured, rate payers and voters will be waiting and watching for tell-tale signs.   Thank you.<
            (ed. note: At the conclusion of this address, the board chairman asked for comments from other board members.  There were none.  HLR)
                                 
                
         

Bubba Clee-Shay's Directive

From the desk of Bubba Clee-Shay, C.E.O. to all office personnel:

          Please be advised that the bottom line, at this point in time, is that we have to change the narrative.  There is a golden window of opportunity that awaits us.  We have to be ready to seize the moment, at all costs.
          It goes without saying that we expect all personnel to double down, go the whole nine yards, and give it their best shot to turn this thing around.  That will be the robust thrust of our first course of decisive action, detailed in a newly revised mission statement; citing chapter, line and verse of where we need to be pushing the envelope, and pulling out all the stops as a team.  Duplicate copies will be available with an enclosed S.A.S.E.

Be that as it may, it's crystal-clear that it's now or never for a new and different course of action.  The corporate heirarchy is behind this revolutionary, new game-plan, one hundred and ten percent, so to speak.

It doesn't behoove us to dwell in the past with trickle-down economics or Obamacare in the eleventh hour, as it were.  Also, it would be counter-productive to describe this initiative as,  "So not happening!" Call it what you will, it is what it is.  Everybody will be empowered by all means necessary to maximize entire potential, and make it happen.  Badda-bing, Budda-boom.
                     Will we throw any reasonable alternative under the bus?  Not hardly.  Will it sell in Peoria?  Funny you should ask.  Is "artisan" the new-age way to define what we're after?  Time will tell.  When it's all said and done, game-changers come in many shapes and sizes.  What we can't abide is re-inventing the wheel, and going back to square one.  Make no mistake, all options will be on the table, and no stone will be left unturned.  Now, let's go for the gusto, marshall the troops, and begin networking like there's no tomorrow!

                   If this campaign collapses like a house of cards, or we run it up the flagpole and nobody salutes, I'll likely throw in the towel.  It'll be time to open the golden parachute, and spend more time with my family.  I'm just saying.
                Let me leave you with these words to live by: No matter where life's road takes you; whether it's the boulevard of broken dreams, or the highway to heaven - there you go.
Have a nice day.
B. Clee-Shay

ps: This bus is leaving the building.  B.C-S.

The Wonder from Down Under

      Serendipity comes in many shapes and sizes.  To experience it, all that's necessary is a willingness to be pleasantly surprised.  You could discover it at a garage sale, where you stumble across a Mobilgas globe for your 1932 gasoline pump.  You could encounter it where the sidewalk ends and a new trail begins, leading to an inviting picnic or camping site.  Or... you might reel it in while trolling on the internet for an intriguing website.  It is what lay behind door #3 that led this writer to a delightful discovery in Invercargill, New Zealand, home of the southland's only country music station.

         A few words of explanation are in order:  Invercargill is both a place and a thing.  If there were a person by that name, Invercargill would hit the noun tri-fecta!  The thing aspect is a march composed by Alex Lithgow in 1901, and is part of the standard repertoire of high school and military bands practically everywhere.  It reached its pinnacle of fame following the Gallipoli War in Turkey in 1916, which involved both NZ and Aussie, or "Anzac" troops.    The march owes its title to the place-aspect, a city found at the southern tip of the Southland of New Zealand. (ed note: when referring to their country, locals use "land" as a suffix rather than the word "island".  The latter is reserved for New Zealand's "west island", which as we know, is populated by wallabies, dingos and penal colonists, but we digress....)

                  At this point in the story our readership would be justified in asking, "OK, so what, in the mind of an ancient Oregon viking, is the connection between country music and this affinity for a green patch of Oceania, on the other side of the international date line?

                The former is the result of an affliction/addiction, contracted in high school from one of our two closest buds.  It has since been diagnosed as hopelessly incurable, requiring a two-hour treatment Monday thru Thursday to maintain spiritual equilibrium.  The latter came on the heels of a two-week trip from Auckland in the north to Dunedin in the south in the spring of 2000.  A more friendly and welcoming country simply does not exist.

            One day last year, during a siege of idle speculation Google, the cyber-guru was consulted, and yes, country music does exist there.  However, stations with that format are rarer than the nation's beloved talisman, the kiwi. The guru directed us to 105.2 fm, a station arriving on-air in 2000.  Following an investment of $30,000 and the establishment of a studio in the back half of a garage, this beacon of the Southland has held forth under its present ownership for the past ten years.

          
Station-meister Scotty has been the "man for all seasons", carrying the bulk of the load for engineering, programming, advertising, and fund-raising.  Speaking of the latter, all of the dj's are volunteers, and there but for one reason; their love of the music. It's grass roots radio at its finest.  To be sure there are advertisers, and they do buy air time, but income barely covers outgo for station maintenance.                                                                                                          Our jack-of-all-trades has to continually beat the donation drum to make ends meet.  Therein lies a blessing in disguise, a saving grace.  It's found in an amazing amount of support the station has garnered from local clubs and musicians sympathetic to the country cause.  This has been sufficient enough to sustain a tireless effort to survive.  Scotty's devotion can best be illustrated by the farm ingredients in a ham suffle.  The hen (staff, clubs, musicians) is involved, but the pig is committed.  With all apologies due for the porker profiling, the C.O.O. of the enterprise falls in the latter category.  Not that it's all nose to the grindstone for the guy.  He still finds time to roam the back '40 at the controls of his unique all-terrain quad.
             Where signal strength is concerned, 105.2 fm is legally bound to maintain a relatively low profile via a dipole antenna, and repeater on nearby Forest Hill.  However, internet streaming enables this station to vault over that limitation, and project a world-wide presence.  Listeners from distant reaches like Russia,  the United Kingdom, and the eastern provinces of Canada have checked in with the on-air hosts.  Based on the number of phone calls the station typically receives in a week's time, Country Radio's market surveillance department calculates the base of the listening audience easily reaches six thousand.  By Southland demographics, that has to merit admiration.

           Occupying the 10:00-12:00 studio slot each day is Bev, whom we gravitate toward daily since her on-air time coincides with our 3:00-5:00 pm time frame in the "man cave." While behind the microphone, she fields a steady stream of "lovely phone calls" from her legion of fans and admirers.  Her play-mix is an artful balance of oldies, New Zealand style top-30 hits, and local talent.  In the year since we happened on this delightful piece of serendipity, both she and Scotty have become personal friends.
          Granted, this genre of music is not everybody's audio cup of tea.  That caveat aside, to the best of our knowledge (including occasional biases) there is only one station in the radio-free world where one can still regularly enjoy the Everly Brothers singing their 1958 Billboard #1 hit, "Bird Dog" and the amazing, sequin-studded Hank Snow, along with his Rainbow Ranch Boys, warble a rendition of "I've Been Everywhere".  You'll be able to hear these, as well as a host of other vintage 50's, Nashville and rock-a-billy pieces, all while basking in the down home feel emanating from a down under town.
         A final word to our younger readership: Starting at about the time of your 60th winter, you'll begin to notice a greater inclination to cling to things past.  At about 46.3 degrees south latitude on your Rand McNally, there is a radio station that has provided us one sure and steady grip.  In your own quest, may you be as fortunate in finding a pleasant surprise.

          

               

           

7 X 7 + 7

         An old Swedish bromide acknowledges that too soon we grow old, and too late we grow smart.  Swedes are heavy into all kinds of lamenting like that.  It's a national sport.  Take it from one who's participated countless times, especially when it comes to life and times sixty-five years ago in The City by the Bay.  Its charm, sophistication and diversity were, shall we say, "vastly under-appreciated" by a certain ten-year old of that era.  San Francisco is 7 miles in length, 7 miles in breadth, and has 7 hills in its topography.  Big deal.

         The ever-present, never-pleasant fog.  Carl Sandburg wrote of the stuff as "creeping in on cats' feet".  As a pre-adolescent, I could never buy that lyrical malarky.  West of Twin Peaks, fog drapes whole neighborhoods under a smothering blanket.  On too many days, the puritanical sun never shone until almost noon.  In mid-April of this year, it still doesn't.

         Avenue after avenue and row after row of houses, bunched so closely that a laser beam couldn't find a shaft of separation between them.  At the age of ten, I saw "I Remember Mama" at a neighborhood theatre.  It was supposed to be a movie about a mother's (Irene Dunne) selfless devotion to her family.  What I saw was a black & white essay of immigrants to S.F. coping with life in a bleak, congested Scandanavian neighborhood.  This was cinema verite.  It was obvious to me that the screen play's writer saw my town the way I did; realistically.  In 1947, pre-adolescent Swedes, Danes, and Norwegians consigned to life in the city found it hard...at least, that's one minority's assessment.
             Diversion then, apart from stamp collecting and Tom Mix on the radio, were those times when Fr. O'Day of St. Cecilia's parish would involve the local under-age, green-space challenged in a game of softball..  But where was it invariably played?  On the asphalt parking lot adjoining the church!  Particularly disappointing to this writer was that our cleric/hurler pitched for both sides, so that really pasting one of his cream puff lobs beyond the left fielder's outstreched glove hardly drew any notice or satisfaction.

            Twin Peaks to the Pacific Ocean is a vicinty where Shel Silverstein would be put to the test because here, the sidewalk never ends.  Conversely, the dirt trail never begins.  Want to climb a tree, or capture a crawdad in a creek?  Forget it! The West Portal terrain is where no self-respecting garter snake or bullfrog would ever venture.  Try Marin, or head south to Santa Clara county, where the sun always shines, and they have heated outdoor swimming pools...and lots of dirt, and trees, and creepy crawlers!

           But that sentiment was for then, before I put away my childish things.  Now, several scores of years later, I see through the glass much differently.  The City that I couldn't wait to leave is now the one to which I constantly long to return.  My birthplace is as all-knowing as many a mother who tolerantly admonishes, "You couldn't fully appreciate me during your childhood, but there will come a day when you will."  That day came to pass in the autumn of the years.
           Now, well into life's winter, 27,315 days and counting, what slipped under spring's radar can be more fully recognized.  Lizards, unpaved paths, and rushing water can be found in a multitude of places where sidewalks end.  But in other, more important considerations, the town where I breathed my first is non-pareil, a one-and-only.  No matter how many times this writer leaves then returns, The City welcomes the prodigal son back with her own unique fragrance, her unique beauty, her unique embrace.
            One of many causal, but friendly S.F. acquaintances asked during our most recent return if things had changed much over the years.  Thankfully, very little of the important stuff has.  And many of the places that were either overlooked or ignored in my callow youth are still around, and have endearingly remained as they were, way back when.

            It's mandatory.  On the first morning of the first day of each reunion, first item on the agenda has to be breakfast at "It's Tops"...where time stops.  Built in 1935, and found on the corner of Octavia and Market Streets, it remains virtually unaffected by the years.  You'll be greeted by the affable and attentive Miss Sheila, garbed in a pink smock.  It's very reminiscent of 40's-'50's attire, which complements the diner's decor.  Wurlitzer selection boxes in all eight booths, twirling fountain stools, period photos and ads adorning the tongue-and-groove all add to the touch.  But the menu....ah the menu..especially items from the griddle!  The bacon waffles and french toast are magnifique.  There is a cozy booth for two just inside the door and up one step that's our favorite.  Why should a delightful tete-a-tet be the sole province of dinner?

              In Golden Gate Park,  and sandwiched between the new DeYoung Art Museum and Steinhart Aquarium (which the city fathers now insist on calling the "California Academy of Sciences") is an architectural wonder that frequently escapes notice, the band shell.  Strangely, no docent nor staff employee seems to know when it was built, but it's a lead-pipe cinch that it at least pre-dates the 1939 Treasure Island World's Fair.  Many was the Sunday when my father would chauffeur his family to hear military bands play march after march of John Phillip Sousa.  These performances weren't particularly awe-inspiring to the young and the restless, but the enticement of an ice cream cone after every finale was undeniable.  Looking at it now from a "seasoned" perspective there is an appeal about the place that couldn't be recognized when parents would have been most pleased.  Timing is everything.

              Gazing off to the north from the Embarcadero and across the bay, one cannot avoid the sight of  The City's signature monument, and regrettably something that has become a bit of a cliche.  Anybody who has ever visited our town has at least one photo of the Golden Gate Bridge, right?  So what's the significance now?  It's that the prescient engineers and architects put it all together just in time to commemorate the arrival of the high school class of '55!!  However, all those born in 1937 should feel honored.

             Finally, it is common knowledge that artisans of all stripes autograph their finished works, but nowhere else in all the cosmos has this writer found a chamber pot which bears, on the bowl itself, not only the name of its designer, but also the craftsman who installed it! This is the penultimate in the a-commode-dation of nature's needs.  The only superior creation would be an original from the studios of Thomas Crapper and Company, London.  This particular piece can be found, and appreciated, in room 774 of the Whitcomb Hotel (vintage 1916) on Market Street.  It is mounted on a raised, marble platform, giving it a genuine, regal feel.

             In all respects, from its objects d'art to its neighborhoods steeped in history to the friendliest of populations, San Francisco remains "The City that knows how".  Move over, Tony Bennett.  You aren't the only one who left his heart there!