Bullet Points

Prologue: With this post, The View will take a two-month hiatus from its usual form and substance to address a serious topic.  Aside from matters of government finance, there is no more controversial or divisive issue in the United States today than gun control legislation.  The View has invited two former law enforcement officers to express their opinions on five identical questions relating to the subject.  The first interview with "Mark" will be posted this month.  The second, with "Terri" will follow in the April posting.  Now, the disclaimer: The opinions expressed therein are not necessarily those of this editorial staff.
                  Mark was a sworn police officer for 33 years; serving as a patrolman, detective, court enforcement (civil law). and state certified crime prevention specialist.  He also spent twenty-seven years in the US Army and National Guard as a Military Police officer and Investigator.

View: What is your overall attitude towards current proposed national legislation regarding gun-control, ie: background checks, assault weapons, limited capacity clips, etc.?

Mark: I believe that any legislation that makes it harder for convicted criminals and the mentally ill to get guns is a huge step forward.  Combine that with mandatory gun safety classes before gun ownership, and education efforts regarding the effect of entertainment violence, and we'd be on our way.  This would also include a little talked about part of the federal legislation that would make it a federal felony crime to "traffic"in both legal and illegal weapons and sales.  This impacts people stealing guns, and selling/trading them for drugs or cash.  Also, it should be a crime to leave a weapon unsecured, and a felony if it falls into the hands of a child.  Gun owners need to be held accountable.  Last, we cut off the flow of illegal gun sales at "gun shows" - everyone gets a background check, and applicable waiting periods.

View: Many changes in weaponry have taken place since the days of muskets, militias, and the drafting of the second ammendment to the constitution.

Mark: Militias are organized groups established to protect citizens and the country.  Our US military forces and state National Guards are examples of organized militias.  Militias protect people from other people that threaten them with realistic ability to kill.  In today's world, there are weapons of mass destruction that exceed even the wildest imaginaiton.  When England's first protestant king passed a law to disarm the civilian populace in 1698, he was not well received, and it is still as issue there.  That laid the groundwork for many folks who fled England for the New World.
              The U.S. Supreme Court does its best to interpret the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, according to the original intent, but tempered against current mores.  It does not have an obligation to protect the US.  That falls to the Executive Branch (of government).  The last major decision by the Supreme Court was in 2008. when it ruled that the states must follow the same guidance regarding gun ownership as the federal government. We saw the restrictions on concealed handgun licensing in Oregon, for example, cut back to allow any citizen with a clean record to get one.

View: Do you believe that all "qualified" citizens are still obliged to bear arms for the sake of self-protection?

Mark: Yes, with a good definition of "qualified" (as previously talked about).  I honestly believe that the rest of the world is totally terrified of the concept of invading our country, mostly because of our constitutional right to own guns - and a lot of Hollywood!  They can pinpoint where our military strengths and weaknesses are, but our entire population being armed is a huge deterrent.  An invading force would have extensive supply lines, and a challenge to replace losses in its ranks.  If every American had the ability to get a gun, and shoot one invader, attrition would decide the conflict in our favor.  Sadly, I think that if some country feels that it is strong enough to take us on, we won't have a chance to use our guns in the face of a nuclear war.  Also, remember that in today's wars, you can win by destroying the economic ability of a nation to care for itself.   That's one of the reasons that the World Trade Center (09.11.2001) was specifically attacked. 

View: Do arms-bearing citizens help or hinder the cause of law-enforcement?

Mark: This is a tough one.  Guns have only one purpose - to take life - human or animal.  Target shooters and gun collectors take issue with that, saying they are for fun and hobby. That's crap. A gun is a gun is a gun. Because of their lethality, guns can dissuade others from hurting someone, but they are still guns. I've talked to true "bad guys" who are terrified of being shot during a home burglary.  Not many burglars do get shot during a home break-in, but the chance they might, I believe, does cause a lot of bad guys to find less dangerous ways to get property or money for drugs.

View: Can you conceive of a justifiable reason for anyone not employed by the military or law-enforcement to own an AR-15, AK-47, or any other type of assault weapon?

Mark: Yes, it they are sane, and undergo proper gun-safety classes and background checks, and go to jail on a federal charge if they sell or give the gun to someone else without the same background checks.  Magazines (clips) should be limited to whatever is the standard issue for that weapon.  Even the military does not use magazines with huge amounts of bullets, for many reasons.  The shooter at Clackamas Town Center (12.11.2012). and others who had illegally purchased high capacity magazines, had a serious weapons-jam because that type of gun and magazine are not designed for shooting large amounts of bullets.
         In the same way that I've said "a gun is a gun is a gun", I apply that to assault weapons, as well.  Yes, citizens should be entitled to own an "assault weapon", but the magazines should be restricted to no more than eight (8) rounds, which is less than many semi-auto handguns, and the same as most pump shotguns.
                                              ~         ~         ~        ~       ~


                        

Cosmic Questions

Premise:  At some time in our lives, each of us has posed at least one question for which we have never received a satisfactory reply.  Typically, the answers have been: a) inadequate, b) oblique, or c) totally non-existent.  Choice c) likely is due to the fact that it would be a waste of breath to pose the question to anyone in the first place.  So, we press on with our lives, abiding with a mild form of frustration, for want of finding that which has to be out there....somewhere in the cosmos.   A litany of the most hackneyed, or threadbare of questions would begin with offerings such as, "Why do bad things happen to good people?" Conversely, "Why do good things happen to bad people?"  Then, there is always the elementary school standby, "How high is up?"

            What follows are the contributions to this pursuit of the unanswered; as offered by our steadfast, loyal readership.  Last names have been withheld to protect the innocent.

            If the pen is mightier than the sword,  then why do actions speak louder than words?               
                                                        ~ Ben, Portland ~

            Why are Americans so obsessed with dying healthy?
                                                        ~ Peter, The Netherlands ~

            Is this all there is?
                                                        ~ Gary, Hood River, OR ~

            Why, if I am standing in the store, and change checkout lines, does it always take longer than if I had never moved?

                              ~ Tyler, Battle Ground, WA ~

             Will we ever see the transcripts?
                              ~Ben, Springfield, MO

             Why are we, as a human race, improving on obtaining and dispersing information, yet failing to meaningfully translate it into "knowledge", let alone consistently discern amid it all, truth vs. falsehood?
                                                        ~Alice, Richmond, VA ~

             When is dinner?
                                                        ~ Rees, Portland ~

             If simplifying the tax structure would save huge amounts of money, hassle, and mean reduced monitoring of the government in our lives, then why can't we have a simple flat tax?
                                                        ~ Ken, Portland ~

             Is it only a coincidence that the cars which are crowding my tailpipe, or which pass on the right at slightly under the speed of light, that such cars are red?
                                                       ~ Susan H., Portland ~

           What is Atlas kneeling on when he lifts the world?
                                                       ~ Margaret, Danville, CA ~

Do all husbands leave small change in every room of the house?
                            ~ Sarah, Fort Collins, CO ~

Astronomically speaking, what happens to missing matter?
                                                       ~ Larry, Reno NV ~

Vye is it der is so many more horses aziz in da vorld den der is horses?
                                                       ~ Al, Boise, ID ~

How did the ancient mariners know that one nautical mile would exactly equal one minute of a degree?
                                                       ~ Gaylord, Spokane, WA ~

As a train passes cows standing in a field, why are the cows always facing the train?
                                                       ~ Chuck, Portland ~

What's the big deal about thumb-sucking, anway?

                                                       ~ Cyndi, Portland ~   

Why is it that no one likes any governement except when they want something?
                                                        ~Joe, Surrey, ME ~

Now what do I do?
                                                       ~ Pat, Portland ~       

Is there life after birth?
                                                        ~ Charles, Columbia, MD


      
   

The Music of our Laughter

        Every teacher who spent as many years in front of a chalkboard as your scribe has a wealth a stories to tell; some triumphal, some tinged with sadness, and some downright laughable.  What follows is a smattering of the last.  Joy has a way of embracing laughter, and even if it can't always be that way,  joy is what life should be about.

                        "Dune Buggy", whose real-life name bears the same initials, was the designated pistol of the classroom.  It's a  given that every teacher is provided at least one; that's the administrator's solemn duty.  D.B. was a street-smart kid, knew how to play the angles,  yet likeable, in his own mischievous way.  This son of a preacher man saved most of his talent as a rabble-rouser for basketball practice.

                    During one such session, he couldn't resist baiting a lesser-talented kid, even though he himself was on the scrub-roster.  The "baitee" would blow a layup from here to eternity, and there D.B. would be, to ape and laugh at the poor kid.  His coach, namely moi, warned him not once, but twice to leave the victim of his scorn alone.  Twice he ignored.  Following his third "performance", he was banished from the court, and told to shower-down, and head for home.

                          Shortly after D.B. departed the premesis, yours truly visited the locker room,  only to discover that all the floors were dry;  not a trace of water anywhere.  It didn't take a forensic scientist to determine that the guilty party had violated a cardinal coaching rule, to wit: you practice, you play,  you must then shower!

                         The next day, before the start of class, I pulled the boy-buffoon aside, and inquired of him, "David, did you take a shower after practice last night?"  Without a waver or a blink, he looked unhasitatingly at me and said, "Yes, coach."   Hmmm.  "Then why was it that when I came in the locker room a few minutes after you left that I didn't see water anywhere, not even wet footprints?"  His reply was the most incredible of defenses: "I didn't wash my feet".  The kid, who dared to go walking on water one better, then spent a few noon hours on the gym bleachers;  pondering certain physical improbabilities.

..............................................................................................................

                  "Back to school" was something that was greeted with mixed feelings.  There was the excitement and anticipation of a fresh start, a new batch of students, and the eternal promise of a year that could be the one to top all years previous.  But, for most male teachers at the elementary level, there is a definite downside. It has to do with classroom decor.  Most guys in the profession look like total klutzes next to their female counterparts, especially when it comes to matters of bulletin board-design.   The square feet of cork , demanding to be dressed up, seems like miles of daunting and taunting for those of us who are....shall we say....artistically challenged.

              One year, I made the decision to "reduce the field of play", by purchasing some posters;  huge posters, that were big enough to cover closet doors.  There were photo-stills of sports celebrities in action that I knew would appeal to the athletes in the room.  Also purchased was a nice woodsy, environmentally-themed poster.  But the coups de grace was the portrait of a classic, maternal type; similar to Whistler's Mother, captioned with what I perceived to be words to the wise: "Express Thyself".  How could one miss with that?!

            Two days before school was to begin, a former student happend by to say "Hi", and have a look about the room.  As he was finishing his grand tour, he paused, and studied the matronly figure in the rocker.  "Coach, are you sure you want this poster?" In a Clackamas County heartbeat came the response: "Of course, I do!  It has just the right message for a caption, don't you think?!"  Billy shuffled in his shoes, and replied, "Well, I'm just not all that sure you really want that poster."  Shortly following, we parted company, and I resumed work on the finishing touches that would welcome all my kids to Mighty Room 5.
           The following day was the final prep day before summer vacation's last big weekend, and its last hurrah.  Traditionally that is  the day when the building principal passes in review of all the classrooms for a round of inspection.  Teachers aren't required to salute or stand at attention, but we'd jolly-well better be ready!
          "Dean" gave everything in my room the thorough once-over, before he, too, stopped and looked critically at the rocking madonna.  "This poster has to come down, Hal".  "Why, Dean?" was all that came to mind while being caught totally off-guard.  "It is just a picture of a lady seated in a chair with what is a very appropriate (most important term in "educationese") caption encouraging expression.  "Take another look at the woman's hands", the principal directed. 
             There, the lady pensively sat; hands resting on her lap, one atop the other.  The top-most hand was nestled open-faced, with the middle finger...... fully extended..... and.... pointing skyward.  In no more time than it took to say the verbal equivalent of "OMG", the offending poster was dispatched; never again to see the light of day.
            Came Tuesday and the first day of school, and along with all the other observances, the school secretary hand-delivered the morning bulletin.  At the bottom of the page was the following declaration by the principal: "From now on, all posters must pass an inspection by the poster inspection committee before being displayed in any classroom.  I am that committee."  The notice generated laughs, as intended,  but the edge to it was only too obvious to at least one of the faculty.
...............................................................................................................

               The first day of April is not a day teachers generally look forward to, and with good reason.  It is the day for mentors to play the victim of playful pranks, perpetrated by those who have absorbed seven months of savvy.  Savvy that goes into figuring out the behavioral patterns of the guy (or gal) behind that big desk in the front of the classroom. 

               Yours truly has been the recipient of salt and pepper-spiked molasses cookies, and whoopee cushions*; skillfully hidden on my '48 model swivel chair.   Though when it comes to out-foxing the teacher, kids tend to forget that we were once students ourselves.

               7:30 of an April 1st marked my arrival at school; as was my custom.  "Teach" wanted to get there early enough to prepare, have a cup of coffee with the colleagues, and catch up on any building gossip that was circulating.  This was THE fatal flaw in my students', "The Mighty Room 5 Rhinos", planning for my April Fool's come-uppance.  While they could peg when I would leave the building, they hadn't figured out when I'd make my return.  No student, in his right mind, ever willingly comes to school at the un-Godly hour their teacher did.

                      Waiting for my 4:00 pm exit on the thirty-first of March, they must have hovered around in stealth for the critical moment.  Then, they pulled their ploy.

                     What yours truly beheld upon his return to Room 5 on that first day of  April was a setting, totally absent  any furnishing:  student desks, teacher's desk, overhead projector and cart, paperback book rack, couch and carpet; the whole enchilada was gone.  I could almost hear my gasp, echoing in the void.

                     Footsteps were quickly retraced to the entrance, then to an empty classroom at the end of our wing.  There, the stash was discovered, every last piece the kids had "relocated" after I had left the afternoon before.  The lead custodian at our school feigned ignorance of the caper, but obligingly helped me return all the goods to their rightful place;  just as they were when the boss left the building the afternoon before.          
                    As my Rhinos filed into the classroom, the look of disbelief in their eyes was unmistakable.  It was like someone had just told them that they would all have to repeat 6th grade the following year.  Even at that age, girls can pretty well mask their feelings,  and boys of any age are as easy to read as giant billboards, but all of the kiddies were absolutely stunned.
                   Of course, their mention of any skullduggery afoot would have been an admission of collusion, at best.  One and all remained mute.  After the pledge to the flag,  the whole herd sat down in their desks, more or less meek as mice.  They were denied their April Fool's joke, and the laughing satisfaction of "a good one, well-played" on Mr. R.
                   But to carry off an academy award winning performance of my own, I had to press on with the agenda of the day as if nothing...absolutely nothing had happened that was out of the ordinary.  Not a hint of a "ha-ha", nor a smidgeon of a smirk could betray the "blissful ignorance" of my behavior.  Arugably, it was the best acting job in my entire teaching career.
                    It wasn't until I had driven off  the parking lot at the end of the day that I luxuriated in the last laugh,  a window-rattling guffaw.  From that spring day until the close of school for the summer, not a word was spoken by anyone about that April Fool's fiasco.  The kids got their "just desserts", and I had mine.

                    (*Ed note to our readership from distant lands: This prankish device functions like a bellows,  producing a sound generally associated with the W.C.) 

                   

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.