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)

Boring Personalities

Once upon a time, Hillary Clinton wrote that "It Takes a Village".  With all due respect to our Secretary of State, I beg to differ.  All it takes is an amalgam of 705 water district users, 2 convenience stores, 2 taverns, 2 traffic signals, 1 espresso stand, 1 gas station, 1 barbershop, 1 post office, and a steadfast refusal to be politically or even geographically defined.  That is Boring, the land of continuous excitement, and Mount Hood's gateway to Clackamas County.  Within that aggregation rise a few warm hearts who, over the years have contributed significantly to the pleasantries along a bi-way of life, known to the outside world as Oregon Highway 212.  They are the focus of this month's entry.

Barristas and bartenders must have the same degrees hanging somewhere in their establishments, though I've yet to spot them.  Mixology is one that's mandatory.  To be successful, both have to know the deft touches for the perfect blend of flavors, and if they know their patrons well enough, they don't ever have to ask what the latter would like to quaff.  They already know, just as they already know their clienteles' favored conversational topics while the drinks are being prepared.  Our own barrista of ten years, Jeff, also has this vital degree in communications.  Its a cinch that he runs through his own mental checklist every morning as we drive up:  the San Francisco Giants, the University of Portland Pilots, our two-mile daily constitutional on the Springwater Trail, etc.  And when he invariably asks us, "How's it going?", he's genuinely interested in our answer.  There is nowhere else on the planet where you can enjoy up-beat conversation while purchasing the tastiest of double lattes with sugar-free vanilla; all for the almost-embarrassingly modest tab of $2.50.  Take that, Starbucks.  Espresso Depot (hard by the post office) rules!

               The year we retired from the ed. biz was also the year that Annie retired as my personal barber.  Yours truly did not have to venture far to find her successor.  Enter Wendy, proprietor of Wendy's Salon.  The first thing a newcomer notices on entering this establishment is not the old-timey barber's chair.  No No. The big game hunter family patriarch has seen to that.  What greets you fore-most are the trophies, hung from three quarters of the walls of the business; heads of a cape water buffalo, zebra, and wart hog, for example.  She is a Cezanne with Scissors, especially when it comes to the limited distribution on this writer's dome.  Her popularity demonstrates that the "Salon" designation hardly dissuades legions of greybeards from frequenting her shop.  Her artistry includes the all-important attention to the eyebrows, lest they become "caterpillars", burgeoning above the baby blues.  Wendy, like our barrista, has a corresponding advanced degree in communications.  Your scribe just recently learned that his "every-other-Friday-gal" married into a family of former professional hockey players, who once played for the old Portland Buckaroos.  What a gab bonanza for the future!  Coif-clipping, beard briefing are, of course, standard entrees on her menu.  Ahh- but throw in guy-pedicures, and you've definitely changed the name of the game...though it must be confessed that I've yet to avail myself of this added dimension.  One is obliged to ask, where else in the free world can you have all of these services provided...in a museum of natural history?!

                 Presenting Helen Priority and Kristi First-Class; Boring's Marvels of Mail.  These ladies have special gifts which raise a p.o. trip to a plane above the mundane.  Among them are ever-ready smiles, words of levity and good cheer.  Not only that, they both are endowed with...let's call it "postal prescience", that for them foretells the exact request a customer will have before he even gives voice to it, ie.; "Are you here to pick up your mail?", which is almost invariably accompanied by "Where did your travels take you this time?" Patrons come into their place of business by the fives and tens every day.  How could either of them possibly suspect that this scribe had been travelling?  (Others might have presumed that I had been engaged in a covert CIA operation.)  "Care to resume delivery?"  "Would you like cash back with your stamps?"  Considering the vast array of services their employer provides, no ordinary, mortal clerk could possibly anticipate the specific need without an uncanny sixth sense.  It has to be much more than female intuition.  What's more, they are dear hearts.

               Three years ago, the Bride and I formulated a ten-year plan to vacate this abode, and transition to something more amenable to the inevitable.  The plan was to attack one room in our house each year, and eliminate all things within that we both agreed would be superfluous in the smaller picture.  Truth to tell, we have yet to confront that first room.  It's good people, such as these Boring Personalities, that make it easier to just kick back, forget the plan, and continue to smell the roses.

y

Sweet Mysteries of Life

During a lifetime, we must all acknowledge a trickle, like a leaky faucet, of questions for which satisfying answers could never be found; no matter how long we lived nor how far into the cosmos our thought waves radiate.  While we accept the fate, we are never dissuaded from posing the all-encompassing question, "Why"?  What follows, then, is a sampling of this writers collection; all prefaced with that single, solitary word, Why......

.....when we dine at a restaurant, does the bride always get the prime people-watching place at the table. while I get to stare at the wall behind her?
.....does "one good turn" always get her most of the blanket?
.....is it imperative for me to hang onto 150 vhs tapes of movies I watched once, and will probably never watch again?
.....Chica, our West Highland terrier, is forever being conned by jackrabbits into believing that they are catchable?
.....has life treated me better than I deserved, especially in matters matrimonial?
.....can't most women enjoy driving a car with a six-speed manual transmission?
.....do competetive juices need to surge when the car, once behind you, pulls up alongside to your right at the stop signal, while ahead of you, traffic narrows to one lane?
.....did the Wasco Country sheriff's deputy let me off, without even so much as a warning when he had me nailed for going over the 55 speed limit by a good 20 mph?
.....upon furtively reaching for my wallet as the plate is passed, at a church other than my own, are the odds less than 50-50 that the first "pull" will yield a bill that's the right "denomination"?
.....should I feel emasculated for no longer owning a pickup truck, nor having ever grilled steaks on a 500 hp barbecue with surround sound?
.....in our society, did an upraised middle finger become the commonly recognized gesture of scorn, while an upraised thumb has come to connote approval?
.....during some times of desperate need, has an angel, in the guise of a total stranger, appeared in response to that specific need?
.....do casual acquaintances casually ask, "How are you?", all the while knowing that anything more than a three-word response will probably amount to something more than they'd want to hear?
.....did a flock (yes, flock) of over thirty rufous hummingbirds gather, and hover like helicopters over our deck, of a summer's day, for close to two minutes before dispersing?
.....when traveling, does the outbound leg always seem to take longer than the journey home, even when the route is the same?
.....is it no longer astronomically correct to call Pluto a planet?  For heaven's sake, if it isn't a planet, what is it?
.....doesn't Hallmark call Valentine's Day what it is: the "Sweetie-you'd-better- deliver-the-goods-or-you're-toas-titos" day?
.....do rhetorical questions require a question mark?

"T" is for "Tolerance"

       It's a given: as attention-arrestors go, pet behavior is a slam-dunk.  The video clip which accompanies this entry is instructive, albeit in an admittedly simplistic and child-like fashion.  If only what is seen could be applied in the world of adult-like contention!  The interplay between puppy and cat does provide us with a teaching moment or two about the virtue of tolerance.  Who knows how much of the following litany of lament could have been erased, were principle offenders compelled to watch it, and watch yet again:
               A former Oregon State engineering student who happens to be muslim, failed in his attempts to detonate a bomb during a tree-lighting ceremony in a jam-packed Pioneer Square, a.k.a. "Portland's living room".  Short days following, an inmate in a local correctional facility was severely beaten; ostensibly because he happened to be muslim.  At about the same time, a mosque in Corvallis was fire-bombed.  (Whether either of the latter two incidents came as a consequence of the former is moot, and for the sake of this argument, frankly beside the point.)
                The Westboro Baptist Church of Topeka, Kansas routinely sends out "emissaries" to attend soldiers' funerals nation-wide, in protest.  Their claim is that war deaths are God's punishment for immorality in our society.
                Outside a Multnomah County tavern, patronized by gays, two customers are mugged.  The only "justification" provided was the victims' alternative life-style.  This is an all too frequent occurrence, according to sheriff's deputies.
               The forgoing is a small sampling of the most recent, local news items which underline the flagrant disregard for the freedom, and personal space of others.  Like weeds, swastikas and racist epithets blight the urban landscape.  Bombings of abortion clinics and murders of its practitioners continue.  So do trash-talk, arrests, and deportation of illegal immigrants who come to this country only in hopes of etching out a less meager existence in a world shadowed by fiscal ruin.
                 To those who pull constantly against the forces of greed, jealousy and hate, while pushing for humane treatment of others, you are to be commended.  As the poet/musician, Leonard Cohen, wrote, "There is a crack in everything.  That's how the light gets in."  Thank you for continuing to seek it out.
               To the light-challenged we encounter, isn't it about time that we extend a calm, but assertive "paw" while admonishing with but one word...."ENOUGH!"?
               There is much to be learned from our pets.

(ed. note: The additional videos you may have noticed came as "part of the package", could not be separated or divorced from the intended, and do not represent the political views of this writer.  Asking him if the inclusion was really worth it, is a fair question.)