Hard to correlate these two disparate ideas: airplane crash victims lost high in the Andes resorting to cannibalism, and stark humanity imbued with love.
But that’s what played out on the movie screen tonight in the documentary Stranded: I’ve Come From a Plane That Crashed on the Mountains. After the plane carrying the Uruguayan ruby team went down in October 1972, sixteen of the forty-five passengers survived for more than two months. Had they not eaten from the bodies of their dead companions, they too would have died in the aptly named Valley of Tears. They were rescued when two team members trekked for days through towering peaks. Read More
I find myself drawn to people who embark on solitary adventures far from the helter-skelter of cities. Contemplating them is an escape from the mundane and predictable. Seriously imagining myself in their roles induces tinges of exhilaration — and panic.
In August last year, I wrote about and began following the blog of teenager Zac Sunderland, who continues his quest to sail around the world. Now I’m also following John Wells, who moved from New York to the Texas desert where he’s “living off the grid.” John blogs daily about experiences. And not just about the overwhelming challenge of building a self-sufficient enclave in the middle of nowhere. Read More
On yet another snowy Portland night come this news in a flier left on our front porch: neighbors up the street are holding an Inauguration Night Party and Parade.
Besides dinner, patriotic songs, and apple pie for dessert, we’re invited to carry President Obama signs and American flags, and bang on pots and pans in a march through our Irvington neighorhood. Of course I’ll be there with Suzame and Atticus and our Obama painting in hand.
If there were similar grassroots gatherings after other presidential inaugurations during my life, I’ve not heard of them. As the flier says, “It’s time to party! We’re taking back these United States of America!”
New Year’s Eve feast at Simpatica’s communal dining tables. Suzame and I sit across from each other. A couple takes the seats next to us. Strangers, but not for long.
He’s a musician, she’s a pediatric nurse practitioner. Outgoing and warm, they’re scheduled to wed in June. Talk turns to politics, and they describe an African trip last November to work for a charitable medical group:
They’re in a remote Kenyan village. They crowd with other people around a small television in a tiny house. Dawn creeps through the windows. The house has no electricity. Car batteries power the TV. Barack Obama is giving his victory speech.
Tears, disbelief, jubilation. And, suddenly, respect for America and its people.
Thanks, Lee and Madeleine.
Like many people, I’ve been dwelling today on my year’s highlights and lowlights. Besides the most important and obvious — the health and love of my family, I keep thinking about what it means to have rekindled long-lost friendships with a handful of high school friends.
They’re not just people I like because of our good times together way back when, but I admire them for who they were and even more for what they’ve become.
Though they live far away, the expression “my friends” never sounded more resonant and meaningful than at this moment.
And in these perilous financial times, I’m also thankful that I’m not the toothless man I saw today a block from my house. Gaunt and younger than me, he stopped his bike and examined an orange next to the street. (An orange on the ground in Portland is indeed odd.) He smelled and squeezed it, then tossed away the fruit. Read More
No one is happier about Portland’s record December snowfall finally melting than our Irvington neighborhood Gnome. There was more than enough white stuff to fill his tree-trunk abode, so I’m assuming people kept his doorway sufficiently cleared so he could maintain his perpetual southeasterly gaze from our block. Read More
Portland’s rapidly melting blanket of snow reveals how whacked out the city became during its record-setting bout of wintry weather. Many people who zealously clean up after their pooping dogs didn’t. The result: on the sidewalks there’s lots more to slip on than patches of slushy ice.
Were dog owners too cold and hurried to bother? Did they think the snow would make the droppings permanently vanish? If I was generous, I’d conclude it was snowing so hard that people simply lost sight of what Rover left behind. Read More
I wrote recently about the fertile ground my neighborhood Safeway provides for observing people and things I’d otherwise never see. Passing through its doors makes me suddenly alive to the world.
That’s not what I was thinking this afternoon as I trudged through ice-encrusted snow to the grocery. Soon after entering, I saw a tall young man who looked familiar. Is that an actor from the HBO series Six Feet Under? The guy who played the the whacked-out character Billy?
Can’t be, I thought, as I watched him and two companions head for the deli counter. I moved closer. He spoke to one of two companions. The voice was unmistakable. Read More
A tooth that played a key role in chewing more than 49,000 meals and countless snacks died today in Portland. The veteran molar was 45 years old.
The death of Tooth 31 came after three weeks of intense medical treatment, including two root canals, antibiotics, and x-rays. “We did everything we could,” said a specialist called in to save the tooth. “Sometimes there’s no choice but to pull them.” Read More
Portland’s commitment to mass transit and bicycling is no secret. Bus and train ridership continue to increase significantly. Bike traffic is becoming positively European, accounting for 13 percent of all traffic across the main four downtown bridges spanning the Willamette River. Read More
Snow in downtown Portland is rare and scant enough to incite giddiness. Decades ago, however, blizzards buried the city. Doing historical research, I’ve come across microfilmed newspaper clippings from early in the last century that describe snowfall measured in feet, not inches. In some instances, the city was so paralyzed that food shortages occurred.
What arrived this morning may inconvenience some people but delights me. Not just the visual serenity but the joy in my little boy’s voice: “Daddy, it’s winter!” Or, “Daddy, snowflakes landed on my tongue!” Snowballs and a snowman are on the afternoon’s agenda. Read More
Portland’s robust recycle and reuse ethos is stronger than I thought. But the competition for customers may be getting out of hand, judging from this scene:
A sign in a vacant lot on NE Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard advertises potted Christmas trees. I see some as I drive past. Next to the trees are stacks of mattresses. Christmas trees and mattresses are visually incongruous items, so I head back for a closer look. Read More
I live between two Portland groceries stores a mile apart. But shopping at them feels like visiting different countries. Whole Foods to the north is organic, expensive, and attracts a well-scrubbed crowd. Safeway to the north is cheaper, bigger, and attracts more diverse clientele.
Both meet my consumer needs. But during trips to Safeway, I observe things that stick with me. They’re not momentous. They don’t give deep insight into anything. Still, they stand out, as if illuminated on stage. Read More
