The lubricating agent for social intercourse is civility. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus Christ addressed the need for civility by telling the multitudes to put aside, "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. If your cheek is injured, turn the other cheek"
Like so many things Jesus tells us to do, that one is hard. Just ask the guy currently occupying the White House. Or ask me.
Those of us who passed the finish line a long time ago spend an inordinate amount of time digging out little snapshots of incidents from the past; some for giggles, some for a deserved cringe. Like what I call my probably 20-years-ago Dick Tracy episode.
I needed a refill of meds I was completely out of and so would have to wait for the pill guy to do his business. No problem; I'll take my front section of the NY Times and go to Freddie's Starbucks and wait for the refill to be ready. After dropping off the empty pill bottle at the pharmacy, I remembered we were out of the mints we always kept in the glove compartment so I rolled up the newspaper, stuck it in my back pocket and got in the checkout line to buy the mints. As I cleared the checkout I heard the guy behind me say to the checkout girl, "He's stealing a paper." What? This guy's talking about me? When I turned around the guy is embarrassed that I heard him and he won't look me in the eye. "Hey, Dick Tracy," I say to him while pulling the paper from my back pocket, "this is a paper I subscribe to and bring along to read while waiting for a prescription to be filled."
It's one of those "Gotch'ya" moments. The poor guy looks around for some place in the store that doesn't include me, probably wishing he was in Anchorage, Alaska or any place but Milwaukie, Oregon. The checkout girl is confused, embarrassed and wondering how I knew the guy's name was Dick Tracy. It's plain that it's time to strike the set of this little social melodrama, so I leave. Jesus frowns.
Looking back now I see my angry reaction to being called a thief (Newspaper headline: "Heist of New York Times in Fred Meyers Foiled By Alert Citizen") triggered an over-reaction. Forget the Dick Tracy business: just turn around and say, "This is a paper I subscribe to" and leave. I wish I had done that.
Wednesday, October 9, 2019
Wednesday, October 2, 2019
About This Girl I Knew
I was older but she was wiser. Georgann tried to keep it a secret from me that she was smarter than I was and she made all her friends promise not to tell me. Of course, I had figured that out 15 minutes after we first met.
As the cutest girl in Crow High School, she was a pom pom twirler who, after graduation, was recruited, along with three other girls from northern states, by an all Black college in Mississippi who needed white girls to dot the "i"s in their band's cursive spell-out maneuver. I'm pretty sure that's true. Too far from home, she decided, and instead chose Southern Oregon College in Ashland for her continuing education.
There were distractions (fermented hops, the Applegate River) but she left SOC with an Mrs degree and pursued a banking career with First National Bank, soon to become Wells Fargo. Fast-forward 10 years or so and Georgann has removed McNeal as her last name and replaced it with Landers. She has immersed her daughter, Kathleen, in Catholicism at All Saints Elementary and Central Catholic High School and now points her toward Eugene and the University of Oregon.
Then a life-changing course explosion: The mature mother of one resolves to go back to finish that original quest for knowledge and she does exactly that. She took to the rhythms of college classes like an alcoholic finding a key to the keg cellar. Straight "A" all the way in Economics. And then that walk across the stage in cap and gown to claim her Honors degree with a smile that lit the arena.
She retired as a Vice President of Wells Fargo Bank.
As the cutest girl in Crow High School, she was a pom pom twirler who, after graduation, was recruited, along with three other girls from northern states, by an all Black college in Mississippi who needed white girls to dot the "i"s in their band's cursive spell-out maneuver. I'm pretty sure that's true. Too far from home, she decided, and instead chose Southern Oregon College in Ashland for her continuing education.
There were distractions (fermented hops, the Applegate River) but she left SOC with an Mrs degree and pursued a banking career with First National Bank, soon to become Wells Fargo. Fast-forward 10 years or so and Georgann has removed McNeal as her last name and replaced it with Landers. She has immersed her daughter, Kathleen, in Catholicism at All Saints Elementary and Central Catholic High School and now points her toward Eugene and the University of Oregon.
Then a life-changing course explosion: The mature mother of one resolves to go back to finish that original quest for knowledge and she does exactly that. She took to the rhythms of college classes like an alcoholic finding a key to the keg cellar. Straight "A" all the way in Economics. And then that walk across the stage in cap and gown to claim her Honors degree with a smile that lit the arena.
She retired as a Vice President of Wells Fargo Bank.
Wednesday, September 25, 2019
Getting To Know You
You can't hide what's on your face. It's hanging out there for the world to see and unless you go Muslim and adopt the hijab as your attire of choice, you're stuck with what you created. Because, of course, we all design and sculpt, minute by minute through the hours and years of our lives, the face we show to people as we maneuver through our days and nights. It's such a subtle thing; impossible to pin down individual features but the mystical combination of those fleshed out thoughts and attitudes send the message of who we are.
So I'm on the train heading to my workout and I see, facing me three rows down and across the aisle, a man, probably early 40s, with a striking face. Could be an American Indian warrior (maybe a cowboy or two thrown in) with strong cheek bones, hawk nose, intense eyes, short pony tail. If only he had a scar running across his nose and down his cheek. But he has that eye-grabbing look. I don't want to stare so I keep looking at him with my corner-of-eyes technique and wish I could know his back story.
I imagine this:
Me: "Hi. I'm Bill and I wonder if I could hear your back story?"
Him: "What are you, some kind of creepy weirdo?
Me: "No, no. I'm a student of faces and yours fascinates me and challenges me to find out all about you."
Him: "SECURITY, SECURITY."
It's not easy being a wannabe famous story teller.
So I'm on the train heading to my workout and I see, facing me three rows down and across the aisle, a man, probably early 40s, with a striking face. Could be an American Indian warrior (maybe a cowboy or two thrown in) with strong cheek bones, hawk nose, intense eyes, short pony tail. If only he had a scar running across his nose and down his cheek. But he has that eye-grabbing look. I don't want to stare so I keep looking at him with my corner-of-eyes technique and wish I could know his back story.
I imagine this:
Me: "Hi. I'm Bill and I wonder if I could hear your back story?"
Him: "What are you, some kind of creepy weirdo?
Me: "No, no. I'm a student of faces and yours fascinates me and challenges me to find out all about you."
Him: "SECURITY, SECURITY."
It's not easy being a wannabe famous story teller.
Thursday, September 19, 2019
To Buy Or Not To Buy
Georgann was the Albert Einstein of shopping. To watch her move through a store, feeling and touching, was like watching Picasso paint. Beyond the limits of most mortals.
I would never presume to match the girl in her God-given talent for bringing price and quality together at their most advantageous point, but I'm attempting to learn some of the basics: Never purchase the first option.
One year we went to find the perfect Christmas tree and in the first lot we entered I spotted a prospect, which I stood up and slowly rotated. Perfect configuration and balance. "No," she said, "there may be a better one." After cruising the entire lot we agreed to go back for the first one and, of course, it was gone. One minor loss must not corrupt a master plan, she explained. Do you want to tell Picasso his lady has two eyes on one side of her face?
So I'm doing my morning walk and this salon has a sign proclaiming a huge saving on eye lash extensions: Three days only, $100, normally $175. Wow! I could save $75. But what if later I see some place that is offering them for, like, $50 and I'm stuck with these $100 jobs? I don't know what to do and I've only got two more days to decide. What would Georgann do?
Help!
I would never presume to match the girl in her God-given talent for bringing price and quality together at their most advantageous point, but I'm attempting to learn some of the basics: Never purchase the first option.
One year we went to find the perfect Christmas tree and in the first lot we entered I spotted a prospect, which I stood up and slowly rotated. Perfect configuration and balance. "No," she said, "there may be a better one." After cruising the entire lot we agreed to go back for the first one and, of course, it was gone. One minor loss must not corrupt a master plan, she explained. Do you want to tell Picasso his lady has two eyes on one side of her face?
So I'm doing my morning walk and this salon has a sign proclaiming a huge saving on eye lash extensions: Three days only, $100, normally $175. Wow! I could save $75. But what if later I see some place that is offering them for, like, $50 and I'm stuck with these $100 jobs? I don't know what to do and I've only got two more days to decide. What would Georgann do?
Help!
Monday, September 16, 2019
Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow
Sadly, John Bolton has no redeeming qualities that might offset the horrors of that hideous growth of hair that commands the incredulous attention of anyone seeing him live or in pictures. It makes one think of hiring thugs to pin him down to eradicate that offense to a humane society. And it pains me to admit that John Bolton's unfortunate facial affectation has made an intrusion into my personal life.
He has made it necessary for me to change the way I shave.
I was probably 17 or 18 before I had to deal with the issue of facial hair and dealing with it established a life-long routine that, year after year, became a set-in-stone ritual: Soak face with hot wash cloth. Apply shaving cream to whiskers (in early days with a brush and soap). Starting next to the right ear, down stroke to jaw line (rinse razor) and continue under jaw to base of neck. Back to top and repeat down strokes until reaching nose. Then go to left side of face and repeat down strokes at left ear.
OHMIGOD! What's that foamy white blob above my top lip? I'M JOHN BOLTON.
At my age I'm vulnerable to anything that plays tricks on my mind and so I changed a deeply ingrained ritual. I now start at the foam mustache. Whack, whack. Mustache gone (along with anything that might call up a thought about what'shisname). Continue with old system.
When life throws you a curve ball, bunt.
He has made it necessary for me to change the way I shave.
I was probably 17 or 18 before I had to deal with the issue of facial hair and dealing with it established a life-long routine that, year after year, became a set-in-stone ritual: Soak face with hot wash cloth. Apply shaving cream to whiskers (in early days with a brush and soap). Starting next to the right ear, down stroke to jaw line (rinse razor) and continue under jaw to base of neck. Back to top and repeat down strokes until reaching nose. Then go to left side of face and repeat down strokes at left ear.
OHMIGOD! What's that foamy white blob above my top lip? I'M JOHN BOLTON.
At my age I'm vulnerable to anything that plays tricks on my mind and so I changed a deeply ingrained ritual. I now start at the foam mustache. Whack, whack. Mustache gone (along with anything that might call up a thought about what'shisname). Continue with old system.
When life throws you a curve ball, bunt.
Thursday, September 12, 2019
All's Well That Ends Well
Our home in Jerome Prairie where I grew up depended on a dug well for water. It was just outside the house and was about six feet in diameter and a little over 35 feet deep. A rickety old wooden ladder gave access to the water below for whatever maintenance was needed. And one day it was apparent some maintenance was needed because the water coming from the faucet was dirty. Sister Virginia's husband, Carl, would supervise the operation while little Billy (that's me) would be the ladder descender (Carl was a big guy and that ladder would never support his weight).
What could go wrong?
First step was to get what water was in the well out so the additional dirt removal could proceed. Carl's and my knowledge of air pressure and gravity as it relates to moving water vertically was zero. I would later learn that at sea level the weight of pressure from the air will move water up a pipe just short of 34 feet while the weight of the water in the pipe will be pulled down by gravity.
Carl lowered a fiber hose with about a two inch diameter into the well and connected it to a pump activated by a gas motor, The pump started, sucking air out of the hose which caused it to collapse and seal shut so no water could enter. Head scratching by the well cleaners.
OK, Carl said, what we got to do is push the water up the hose instead of trying to suck it up. So we will build a little platform and put the motor on it and lower the pump down next to the water and Billy can go down the ladder and run the pump. Doesn't that make perfect sense?
So we build the platform. We rig a tripod over the well with a wheel to guide the support rope that is attached to the platform holding the pump (reviewing this operation years later I knew at this point we should have arranged for music to start playing, "Send in the clowns"). Down went the platform. Down went Billy (who learns where the expression, "colder than a well digger's ass" came from). Billy pulled the rope to start the motor and the operation began.
Another scientific calculation the well restoration crew failed to consider: how long does it take a small gas motor to fill a thirty-five foot deep, six-foot-diameter well with carbon-monoxide fumes? Answer: Not very damn long. I started getting dizzy and knew I had to get out of there. Without shutting off the motor I started up the ladder and kept feeling worse and worse. Just short of the top I passed out and Carl caught the back of my shirt and pulled me out of the well. (Where was Lassie?)
Close call. I was very sick and spent the rest of the day stretched out breathing fresh air. Later, a few days of rain cleared the well water and we all lived happily ever after. Not sure we ever got smarter.
What could go wrong?
First step was to get what water was in the well out so the additional dirt removal could proceed. Carl's and my knowledge of air pressure and gravity as it relates to moving water vertically was zero. I would later learn that at sea level the weight of pressure from the air will move water up a pipe just short of 34 feet while the weight of the water in the pipe will be pulled down by gravity.
Carl lowered a fiber hose with about a two inch diameter into the well and connected it to a pump activated by a gas motor, The pump started, sucking air out of the hose which caused it to collapse and seal shut so no water could enter. Head scratching by the well cleaners.
OK, Carl said, what we got to do is push the water up the hose instead of trying to suck it up. So we will build a little platform and put the motor on it and lower the pump down next to the water and Billy can go down the ladder and run the pump. Doesn't that make perfect sense?
So we build the platform. We rig a tripod over the well with a wheel to guide the support rope that is attached to the platform holding the pump (reviewing this operation years later I knew at this point we should have arranged for music to start playing, "Send in the clowns"). Down went the platform. Down went Billy (who learns where the expression, "colder than a well digger's ass" came from). Billy pulled the rope to start the motor and the operation began.
Another scientific calculation the well restoration crew failed to consider: how long does it take a small gas motor to fill a thirty-five foot deep, six-foot-diameter well with carbon-monoxide fumes? Answer: Not very damn long. I started getting dizzy and knew I had to get out of there. Without shutting off the motor I started up the ladder and kept feeling worse and worse. Just short of the top I passed out and Carl caught the back of my shirt and pulled me out of the well. (Where was Lassie?)
Close call. I was very sick and spent the rest of the day stretched out breathing fresh air. Later, a few days of rain cleared the well water and we all lived happily ever after. Not sure we ever got smarter.
Thursday, September 5, 2019
Clean Sheets Every Monday
Editorial note: This blog and all others to follow, will be published in a new type face: "Georgia", from the Time Roman family. My friend Roy Paul Nelson, Professor of Journalism at the University of Oregon back in the day, taught his students that it is important to choose a type face that is appropriate to the subject of the narrative. Since my blogs are written to give the reader my take on whatever it is I'm writing about, Georgia just seemed a perfect fit for my views.
Late last evening after the TV pontificators had called it a night, I was reflecting on the change that has come to my life as a lone ranger. The culture change is shocking. From
living with your life's companion in a big house with wonderful neighbors and a terrific shower, to living in a commune with many nice people connected to you by long hallways and occasional group gatherings, it shivers your timbers. It is not what you would prefer but it is what you've got and if you can slip by that boogey-man then you can deal with it.
The people who run this place do a nice job of providing a variety of activities to appeal to different interests. They run excursions to everything from shopping tours to destination travels to particular road side attractions. Fortunately, we are never required to hold hands and sing as we side-step around tables.
Conversations tend to focus on: Ailments. Weather. Food. Everyone avoids politics and religion in group settings, and that is good. If I was to be slammed against the wall by some truth-seeking vigilante and forced to confess my favorite part of my new situation, it would be this: It's when, from time to time, I grab my rail pass and haul ass.
Get on the bus, Gus; make a new plan, Stan...
Late last evening after the TV pontificators had called it a night, I was reflecting on the change that has come to my life as a lone ranger. The culture change is shocking. From
living with your life's companion in a big house with wonderful neighbors and a terrific shower, to living in a commune with many nice people connected to you by long hallways and occasional group gatherings, it shivers your timbers. It is not what you would prefer but it is what you've got and if you can slip by that boogey-man then you can deal with it.
The people who run this place do a nice job of providing a variety of activities to appeal to different interests. They run excursions to everything from shopping tours to destination travels to particular road side attractions. Fortunately, we are never required to hold hands and sing as we side-step around tables.
Conversations tend to focus on: Ailments. Weather. Food. Everyone avoids politics and religion in group settings, and that is good. If I was to be slammed against the wall by some truth-seeking vigilante and forced to confess my favorite part of my new situation, it would be this: It's when, from time to time, I grab my rail pass and haul ass.
Get on the bus, Gus; make a new plan, Stan...
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