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!

Walter Mitty Lives!

          For those who've never read the book or seen the movie, Walter Mitty is the day-dreamer renown, brought to life by the pen of James Thurber in 1939.  With just the slightest smidgeon of suggestion, he could leap into a parallel universe. where he was instantly transformed into an heroic fighter pilot.  For his next fete of derring-do, he could easily morph into a brilliant, life-saving neuro-surgeon.  Naturally, and in all cases, he was the object of fawning adoration.
          Haven't we all fantasized about doing things we could never do, in places we've never been?  Isn't this what prompts portly, old men to migrate to Arizona in mid-winter, slap on spikes, don mitts, and, for a few thousand dollars, play hardball hero with a collection of major league has-beens?
           We understand that Walter's character and exploits have been defined by several authoritative sources as "ineffectual".  Au contraire, he dared to dream, and should be looked upon as  intrepid...even if only in the minds of those similarly afflicted.
            The most profound, and longest-lasting of what we'll term my "daydreams" was inspired by out-and-out wanderlust; a trait that should be totally out of character for a newly-minted classroom teacher, loving husband, and father of two pre-adolescent kids.  The year was 1968.  A television series of one year's tenure called "And Then Came Bronson" provided my "kickstart".

            The lead-in for each episode shows Michael Parks in the the title role, pulling up to a stop signal at a busy San Francisco intersection in his hot Harley Hog.
           As he revs his engine a couple of times, a tired, beleagured Willie Loman type in an old sedan peers out his driver's side window alongside, and asks Bronson, "Taking a trip?  Where to?"  Bronson thinks a moment, then replies, "Oh, I don't know....wherever I end up, I guess."
          The Willie-type muses, "Man, I sure wish I was you", to which our hero replies, "Really?  Well, hang in there."  With that, our guy tools off, down that long, lonesome highway, bound for another destination where he's never been, to encounter people he's never met, and doing things he'd never done.
          Every Tuesday at 9:00 pm, Bronson had this "Easy Writer", peering over his shoulder....taking notes...dreaming dreams of a white, silk scarf, trailing behind his Viking-green bike helmet, as I tooled off with him to wherever we'd end up.  Ah, for the life of the two-wheeled cowboy!!
          This life vicariously lived absolutely could not end with the last entry of the series.   What followed were several stretches of serious dreaming in order to devise a plan that'd sell the worthiness of motorcycling to the loyal opposition in our household. The price of a gallon of gas was spiking toward (gasp) one dollar.  A bike could save countless cruzeros at the local pumps.   I could leave the ever-thirsty Ford Bronco in the garage, and save it for commuting to school during foul weather days.  And, according to "those in the know",  two wheels are far more maneuverable than four in a multitude of road conditions.
           Still, there was a niggle of doubt that this argument couldn't seal the deal.  The clincher would be an advocate who would be both friend and owner.  All three of these criteria were met by my guy,  good ole Myron.  "g.o.M" accepted the request without a moment's hesitation.  Have bike-will travel was his credo.
          On a scale, flanked by A) jumping for joy, and B) putting her foot down, the Bride leaned toward the latter, but discretely witheld judgment.  And Judgment Day did come, assisted by the presence of friend and second cousin-by marriage Myron, along with wife Rena, and his magnificent riding machine.  Myron was going to make my day, impart his teaching expertise, and sway a certain skeptic about ownership's virtues and values.
           The rationale was in place.  Now, it was time for the moment of truth.  At the top of our hill, Myron climbed aboard his 250   

Honda Scrambler.  I straddled the rig, and sat in behind him.

        Herein, the story takes a twist, a turn, and a dip,  just as did all the dream-adventures of Mitty in Neverland.  Walter, at the crucial moment prior to reaching crowning glory, invariably came up short.  The fuel tank in his Sopwith Camel went empty, just as he was about to administer the Coups-d-grace to the arch-enemy Red Baron.  Or, his surgical nurse would faint at his feet at the instant he was replacing the last segment of  cerebral cortex in an historic brain-transplant.
                With yours truly, the undoing was a hole, dug by our mole-hating hound, "Trusty Rusty".  It lay obscured by the tall grass of our elysian field, just a few yards in front of Myron's Honda, as my faux leathers rippled in the rush of downhill acceleration.
                My dear friend, my mentor, my guide had no clue what hit him when the front wheel of his bike was swallowed by that hole.  In an instant, he vaulted over the handlebars like he was shot from a cannon.   As he fell to the turf, he reflexively looked up in a daze.  A nano-second later, he was buried in a Swedish avalanche in the person of moi.  Witnessing the entire spectacle turned debacle from a living room window were his wife and the Bride.  Game over.  Adios, Bronson.  Check back with me later,  Walter.  Much, much later.  Something a little more tame, like maybe a zip line exploit with the grandsons would work.
                   Epilogue   To this day, if asked, Myron would probably concede that his face still seems to be a little flat on one side.  The same held true for his Scrambler, but to a much sadder extent.  It was never the same after absorbing the hole trauma.  My mentor, his wife, and the two of us still see each other fairly regularly.  We laugh, and we josh, but for some inexplicable reason, that summer afternoon in '68 hasn't been recounted by any one of us.

Of Quiet Desperation

         The statistics and quotes speak for themselves.  No pontificating nor moralizing will follow.......

                    

• Years by which the average lifespan of a homeless person is shorter than the overall average: 30 ( Harpers, March/2012)

         Total taxable wages paid by Mitt Romney to four household helpers in 2010: $20,603 (IRS forms, released 1/24/12)  Annual Salary range for Boston-based domestic help, including two weeks paid vacation: $40,000-$50,000 (Boston-based domestic staffing agencies, as reported to MSNBC 1/24/12)

         "I'm not concerned about the very poor."  Mitt Romney (2/1/2012)

• Date on which Florida began requiring potential welfare recipients to pass a drug test before receiving benefits: 7/1/2011.  Percentage who have failed the test: 2.5.  Estimated amount this will save the state over the next year in denied benefits: $98,000 (Harpers-November/2011)

       Total of fines levied against Bank of America for violations of the Fair Housing Act, including practices of discrimination against qualified African-American and Latino borrowers on home loans: $335,000,000 (Associated Press 12/11/2011)

       "When one gets in bed with government, one must expect the diseases it spreads." Congressman Ron Paul (March 14, 2007)

         "Tell you what, Rick, $10,000 bucks? ........ A ten thousand dollar bet?" Mitt Romney challenge to Governor Rick Perry during a televised debate. (December 10, 2011)

         Percentage of  Americans who say their households couldn't come up with $2,000 in thirty days: 47 (Harpers-September/2011)

         December 2011 national home foreclosures: 1,344,296
Average foreclosure resale price: $177,575   (Realty Trac)

        Factor by which a person experiencing long-term unemployment is more likely to report a first instance of mental illness: 3  (Harpers -January/2012) 

         To Occupiers: "Go home, take a bath, get a job."  Candidate Newt Gingrich (November 19, 2011)  

         Ratio of job applicants to newly available payroll positions: 5:1 (Economic Policy Institute- December/2011)

        Rank and percentage of unemployed by state: 1) North Dakota, 3.4  2) Nebraska, 4.1  37) Tie: New Jersey and Oregon, 9.1, 50) California, 11.3  51) Nevada, 13.0 (US Bureau of Labor Statistics, November 2011)

        "If you don't have a job, and you're not rich, blame yourself."  Erstwhile presidential candidate Herman Caine (October 5, 2011)

        "I don't want to make black people's lives better by giving them somebody else's money.  I want to give them the opportunity to go out, and earn the money."  Former senator Rick Santorum (January 2, 2012)

          Number of jobs lost by African American women during the recession: 233,000.  During the first two years of recovery: 258,000 (Harpers-Feb. 2012)

           Estimated total number of homeless in Multnomah County, including four categories of residents with no permanent home address: 15,563.  Percentage of change in the past two years: +8 (Research compiled by the city of Portland and Multnomah County)

"All of the Occupy Wall Street movements start with the premise that we owe them everything.  They take over a public park they didn't pay for, to go nearby to public bathrooms they didn't pay for, to beg for food in public places they do not want to pay for, to instruct those who go to work to pay for the taxes to sustain the bathrooms, and to sustain the park, so that they can self-righteously proclaim that they are the paradigms of virtue for which we owe everything." Presidential candidate Newt Gingrich (November 19, 2011)

                 Percentage of Chinese and Americans, respectively who struggled to pay for food in 2008: 16, 9.  In 2011: 6, 19.  (Harpers- January 2012)

                  "Being poor is no disgrace.  It's just damned inconvenient"  Safeway Stores, Inc. co-worker (June 1964)

(Ed. Note: Top Photo by Alex Barth, "From Reel to Real".  Bottom photo, courtesy "The Romney Propoganda File".  "Harpers Index" in Harpers Monthly provided data)

Boring Personalities - The Sequel

           On the first day of the school year, teachers are obliged to cover student policy and code of conduct. In addition, they usually discuss their own unique house rules: things like expectations for passage in the hallways, boy decorum in the lavatory, etc.  "The Litany" in Mighty Room 5, home of Rosene's Rhinos, was probably the same in all aspects, save one.
At the end of my recitation, and with straight-faced earnestness, I told my class of wide-eyed sixth graders that from that day onward, the word "Boring" was to be used exclusively as a proper noun, and not an adjective - no exceptions.  I added further that, in assessing my teaching methods, students may, in private, use words such as "dull", "insipid", "bland", "uninspiring", etc. However, under no circumstances were they to use the "b" word. 
         Naturally, the more mischievous among them wasted little time placing that word in discourse, and within my hearing range.  At least, they were able to draw the distinction between what's common, and what's proper....when it comes to nouns.  The luminaries of our hamlet, spotlighted in this posting, are a far cry from common, and of course are very proper.

         At forty-three years and counting, there are very few families which can top our tenure in Boring. The clan of patriarch Bob Boring is one which does...by a scant five generations.  No parade of personalities would be complete without his profile,
          His, ancestor, and the original settler, William H. Boring, was a civil war veteran.  As has been the case with all his descendants, he was foremost a farmer.  Bob worked the family's land, scarcely a mile from the town's main and only drag.  This was his vocation when he wasn't hauling lumber, logs, and equipment for Valberg Lumber Co; the last of our seven sawmills. Doubtless, he was on hand to deliver product to freight cars on the old Portland Traction Co. railroad line when the latter made its nightly stops;  in our "commercial district",  and a scant two blocks from the hub of mill operations.  This was the railroad which gave the town the second half of its original name, "Boring Junction".  Though it hasn't been confirmed, Bob could well have nurtured his love of model railroading from that experience.  He and his son were two of the last six employees to walk past the sawmill gates when the plant closed in 1999.
           During the course of his four-score and some odd years as a resident, Bob has witnessed some significant changes to the landscape around the town we call home.  The most welcome have been the establishment of a fire district and its headquarters building.  The other noteworthy addition is our one and only municipal agency, the water district, over which he presides as board chairman, and which now services slightly over seven hundred homes in the area.  On the downside of progress, we share his lament that our charming, boondocky character is steadily fading from view. Literally and figuratively, Bob is our main man about town.

           As noted elsewhere in this post, Boring's inception dates back to 1903.  There are three buildings remaining which have a similar vintage; all near that first bend in the road as one motors through what we like to call "Mt. Hood's Gateway".  One of these is the grange hall.  Another is a brick two-storey which housed the original post office. The third is at the hub of the commercial district.  It represents Boring's only "mostly-full" service grocery store, McCall's General. (Evidently fresh meat and produce are not considered critical items to stock by the local gentry.)
                  The present owners, Ben and Donna Lee, were born in South Korea.  Ben immigrated to this country in 1989, returned to marry Donna one year later; then came back to stay in 1991.  Snared by a tangle of red tape, Donna had to wait two years to join him.  Prior to setting up shop and sinking roots in Boring six years ago, they operated a sandwich shop in Oregon City (Oregon's oldest city) and another grocery store twenty miles west of Portland.

                 According to Ben, former residents from distant reaches like Michigan and Illinois make return visits to their store.  They must be like the swallows of Capistrano, coming home to this turn-of-the-century relic.  While walking along the original hardwood floor and gazing up at the tongue-and-groove ceiling, they're doubtlessly attempting to reconnect with younger days, wonderful days.  When asked about the exact age of the building, Ben shrugs.  "It's just old", he allows, without fear of rebuttal.
             The current proprietors are both very upbeat about their present day retail experience.  Of all the places where they've lived and worked, their niche in the Land of Continuous Excitement is what they've liked best.  They are firm in the belief that the clientele in our corner of Clackamas County is the most friendly, and has provided them with a real sense of belonging.  As with all the other businesses in town, there has never been a single incident of vandalism to their property.  "We like it here."  We like you back, Ben and Donna.

         The insert for our third profile is not the product of PhotoShop trickery.  A palm tree actually does grow in Boring.  You will find it planted in the patio, directly in front of the Red Apple, Boring's classiest, and only legitimate restaurant. Its forebears at the same location were known as the Boring Burger and Paola's Corner; both of which provided fare that was supremely average on their best of days.  They were the place to go when pressed at the end of a stressful day, and the only alternative was a meal at home; which the man of the house would inevitably be obliged to prepare.  Thanks to Hong Chan, husband Rick and the crew of R.A., their spot on the corner of Oregon Hwy 212 and S.E. 282nd St. has given sweet deliverance to the townsfolk of both genders.
       The couple met twenty years ago in Quandong (formerly known as Canton) China.  Rick had already become a citizen of the U.S., and because of this it was a relatively simple procedure that allowed Hong to accompany him back to the states.  Through a series of contacts with family and close friends, they have managed or co-owned restaurants in Salem, Milton Freewater, and Tri Cities.  They became aware of the Paola property via word from another family member, and purchased it from them in June of 2010.

            Owning and operating the Red Apple has been anything but the proverbial piece of cake, especially for Hong.  Until six weeks ago, she had to oversee the entire operation by herself while Rick was dealing with health issues.  This meant supervision and scheduling of staff, inventory, quality control, as well as coping with a declining economy and a host of other headaches too numerous to mention.
            Now that hubby is back and tending to the galley, she is more free to do what she likes to do best; being on the serving side of things.  Hong knows that now she doesn't have to fret about ordering this or that, or the quality of the cuisine.  This writer/reviewer is quick to add there should never have been a moment's worry about what she brings to table.  Whether it's the Friday or Saturday night prime rib special, the Asian items numbered one through ten, or the rest of what's offered, everything has always been "primo", and reasonably priced.
            With Hong, as well as the rest of the "Magnificent Seven" interviewed over the past year, we enjoy much more than a consumer-provider relationship.  We are friends.  We are neighbors.  In a larger, busier environment who knows if that would have been possible?