A silly idea. That was my first thought when told I had to write on a card something people would be surprised to learn about me.
Because I only knew a few people at the pot-luck dinner, anything I wrote would be a surprise except to my wife. I became more intrigued when told not to sign my name. The cards would be drawn from a bowl one at a time and read aloud. The fifteen attendees would have to guess the author.
All of the guests were younger than me, some by three decades. What could we possibly have in common? We ate dinner not at a table but spread around the Pearl District loft. Many of the people worked together and huddled in groups. Read More
Across the Portland area, people are posting to blogs their photos of today’s sunset. It was breathtaking, and I too have pictures to prove it.
For those of us living east of the West Hills, memorable sunsets are rare. This is especially true in December and many months to follow because of the persistent rainy weather. But this has been a dry and warm fall with exceptionally abundant days of sun. Read More
The final official numbers are in: Barack Obama defeated John McCain in my Northeast Portland precinct, 3,771 to 379, or 89.96 to 8.94 percent of the vote.
Across Multnomah County, the tally was 76.69 to 20.61 percent. The precinct turnout was a 88.47 percent, slightly better than the 86.16 percent countywide.
I expected a blowout victory but nothing of this magnitude. The margin made me wonder about party affiliations. Turns out that Republicans only account for 9 percent of registered voters in my precinct, compared to Democrats’ 67 percent. So McCain carried only his party in Precinct 3253. Thus Obama’s huge margin came from the 24 percent who list no party affiliation. Read More
A squirrel is mocking me. We had a peace pact for a few years. But the critter has had an attitude ever since I removed its nest from the eaves above the front porch. Or maybe it’s because I inadvertently dig up nuts the squirrel has socked away around the yard. Read More
Move to Portland and you’ll immediately encounter people’s obsession with weather. I’ve lived here nine years and joke about the obsession while enthusiastically contributing to it.
The climate isn’t extreme, though the contrast between summer and winter is. But the weather obsession is less about reviling cold and rain and more about seeking connection to the natural world. That’s not easy, especially for urban dwellers. Monitoring the outdoors reassures us that we’re part of it. And with the weather beyond our control, constantly bemoaning or praising or simply commenting about it is also our way of creating meaning for our lives. Read More
I have this thing for gardening. Just me and plants and dirt. Creative yet mindless. Mixing and matching. Trial and error. Nobody telling me how to do it.
My three-year-old son draws better than me, but the yard is a canvas on which I can paint something of merit. I say “I” as if it’s me making the art. But in this part of Oregon, any fool can fashion a wonderland of color and texture and symmetry. The climate in Portland, viewed as inhospitable by some, is ideal for growing things. Read More
Hate knows no boundaries, judging from a map compiled by the Southern Poverty Law Center. It’s especially disconcerting to see the presence of hate groups in my city, Portland.
But I’m not naïve about such matters. After all, I grew up mainly in the South. Not that racism wasn’t rampant in the Northwest. I’ve read extensively about the Ku Klux Klan’s robust activities in Oregon during the early part of the last century. Read More
Two barbershops, fifty years and three thousand miles apart.
At one I had my first haircut without a parent in tow. It was in Florida, and I was a young boy new to the South. The father and son proprietors were Alabama crackers. The only time they spoke more than a few words was when talk turned to farming. They grew corn outside my small town of Maitland. I could tell they wanted to be with their crop rather than mess with other people’s hair.
What I remember most was their only employee, a black kid about my age who swept up hair. We often exchanged glances that felt like long conversations between occupants of different worlds. Read More
Some days some things jump out at me. This morning it was signs. I was traveling a familiar route, and three signs looked new to the urban landscape.
“Keep Portland Weird!” cried out from the west side of Music Millenium, the only place I buy CDs in person. I knew the store on East Burnside Street sold bumper stickers with the slogan. Until inquiring inside I didn’t know how many, more than ten thousand, or that the store had copyrighted the slogan. And had the sign painted a year ago. What fog have I been in? Read More
A young man played bagpipes while riding a unicycle on one end of the Portland Farmers Market. On the other, protesters decried passage of the anti-gay marriage amendment in California.
In between on the Park Blocks amid the produce and other foods was scene after scene that made my Saturday morning. Maybe the brisk bike ride to the market with wife and son heightened everything, an endorphin rush of awareness. Whatever the reason, I want more of that drug. Read More
I’m waiting for numbers. As in how my Portland precinct voted in the presidential election. Only county-by-county totals are available, though I know Barack Obama’s tally will be staggering. During the campaign, I saw only one John McCain sign in the neighborhood, and it was homemade. Obama signs, including this one in my yard, spread like dandelions. And nobody is taking them down. Read More
Parents like to display schoolwork the kids bring home. At our house we put it in on the dining table and eat it.
To be precise, Daniel isn’t our kid. He’s my nephew and twenty-three. But he’s living with my wife and me for now. With increasing frequency he’s bringing home what he prepares at school — delicious food cooked at the Oregon Culinary Institute.
He lugs the food in plastic bags tucked in his pack. Slung over the pack in a case are his wicked-looking chef knives. All this arrives home after train and bike rides. Read More
Every spring I start filling up the front porch with potted plants. The porch extends the width of our 1920s Craftsman house, so there are long wide ledges begging for greenery. The back deck next to the small goldfish pond gets a few plants too.
I gravitate toward the tropical and cold-sensitive, mostly begonias because of their exotic-colored leaves and elephant ear varieties that remind me of a youth spent in Florida lakes and swamps.
If I left them outside much longer, the first freeze would write their obituary. So a sad annual ritual took up an hour this afternoon: the move inside. Read More
