Requiem for a Routine

On Wednesday, my final copy of The Oregonian was delivered. I will miss reading the newspaper.

Even though it has dwindled down to nearly nothing over the past four or five years. Even though the quality of the writing has suffered and the editorial choices gotten worse. The dying of print has saddened and irritated me, and yet in my codependent way I have continued reading it because I could not pull myself away. The occasional tasty crumb was better than doing without.

I have read the newspaper daily, or on as many days as it has been delivered, for the better part of four decades. I love the exposure to a wider world and the stimulation of being informed about current events - both locally and in the greater community. I love the simple ritual of sitting in my soft sofa nest, feet up on the leather ottoman, coffee cup at my side, settling in for a good read.

The landscape is familiar. The Internet is a vast, roiling, living tessellation of knowledge, splitting like cancer cells faster than we can know. It has captivated society's open-mouthed stare. Why sit and read a stodgy old newsprint when you can google what you need to know? There are limitless websites catering to every taste and concern. You can read until your eyes shutter. Or better yet, listen to podcasts, watch YouTube. What could print media offer that would begin to compare?

The old fashioned print newspaper, delivered right to a person's front door, has served as a concierge. A boutique service, local and unique as the DNA of a region's soil.  It has been a curated blend of writing that is refreshed daily, spilling out a new combination of news, opinion, analysis, entertainment and learning day after day after day.

I remember when the Los Angeles Times was a journalistic feast. Every. Single. Day. I remember when The Oregonian had actual meat and muscle on its bones.

Nevermind, there's a good film showing tonight where they hang everybody who can read or write. Oh that could never happen here! But then again it might...

Yesterday I heard a woman call in to a radio talk show. She said, "And I turned on the news to see if we're still alive..." I like it. Well, the TV news might tell you if you're still alive. But the daily newspaper reassures you that you still have a brain. And a working one at that. I will miss that regular check-in.

It's the college costs of course. Canceling the $48 we pay every eight weeks for The Oregonian delivery is just another nickel in the stack meant to add up so we can send that fat check to Pacific Lutheran University several times a year. It is a painful little sacrifice. A symbol of our resolve. And the pathway has been well paved by The Oregon Media Group. It has weaned us well.

Disappearing news. Almost no commentary. Features AWOL. In depth stories? *crickets* The physical publication is a shadow of its former health and heft. The 2013 formatting change is awkward, rendering the publication difficult to read. Both the size and the bizarro nesting of sections make for constant distraction. Did I mention that now the paper is only delivered four of seven days? While the delivery price has increased? They could not have shown me the door any more expertly, now could they have?

So I bid adieu to the front page assault on public schools. To head-scratching decisions to hide a fascinating crime story on the innermost page and reduce its human interest and pathos to one or two tell-nothing paragraphs. Goodbye to endless drama about marijuana's legalization and the sweep of gay marriage across the country and world. To a school shooting here and a beheading there. Adios to the tattling on political wrangling and chicanery, tawdry wickedness in high places. To the stories about the police, who it appears can do nothing right. And the coverage of movies and television fare that has never made sense to me. (Reading the news to find out what I am choosing not to watch on TV?)

But that's just the bitterness talking. I will dearly miss Joseph Rose, Carolyn Hax, the Beaverton Leader. The poor, now emaciated Home and Garden Section, the Food Day recipes that still shine despite their rare appearance. I grieve the loss of the People's Pharmacy and Ask Amy's wisdom. My beloved Comics page. I long ago cried my tears over the layoffs and goodbyes to Margie Boule, Dylan Rivera, Chelsea Cain, Dulcy Maher, David Biespiel and other fine writers.

The Oregonian's Travel features have propelled me to visit Crater Lake, the Wallowas, Oahu and the Oregon Coast. How many restaurants did we come to love after reading about them first in A&E? How will I know know when Death Cab for Cutie is in town? Or which Oregon Symphony concert is a must-attend? Which of the best-sellers is the one to read next? I will not be the same for missing out on local news. I love the political commentary spanning the length of the spectrum, and always read most or all of the letters to the editor. A pulse upon the world. One I don't want to do away with.

So boo hoo!

When the most thorough news is produced by the Daily Mail UK, the degeneration is clear. The quotidian standard of literacy has diminished in an alarming slide. The societal attention span shrunk to the length and content of a TV soundbite or a Twitter dispatch. Even since turning our collective back on paper, the erosion of verbiage continues online. We are abandoning online articles, blogs and email for Instagram, Snapchat, Pinterest and Twitter. Words? Not necessary!

The literary air is getting thin and I just threw away my busted oxygen tank. Evolution is moving too fast for me.

First to fall over when the atmosphere is less than perfect. Your sensibilities are shaken by the slightest defect. You live your life like a canary in a coal mine. You get so dizzy even walking in a straight line.

Mexiquito

Friend Raqui planned and hosted an amazing girls' week in Mexico, on the appropriately named island of Isla Mujeres, to celebrate her mid-century mark. She chose four close friends to invite on the adventure.

So on Saturday, June 27, I arose before dawn to start the odyssey of international travel. I had packed carefully and determined what would be carried on the plane and what checked. The curb-side dispatch went off mostly without a hitch. Oh, I was running off into the glass revolving door without my precious carry-on, yes. But Hubby's shouts from the drop-off lane called me back to retrieve that essential bag. At PDX I waited in an anxious herd of fellow travelers to check in at automated kiosks braced for the new hidden cost du-jour.

I had researched the Boeing 737-900. The general consensus online was that I was in for a long distance shot in a plastic human-cattle-car. I had sprung for the extra fee for more legroom. But that would be cold comfort as the seat-width promised to make intimates of the strangers with whom I would share the experience. No remedy for that.

I read Into Thin Air on the iPad, perused the Hemispheres magazine, drank my tonic water in a plastic cup with my elbows tucked in, and presently we landed in Denver. The tchotchkes have different geographic names, but the basic formula is the same airport to airport. I wandered around, happy to be "seeing" Colorado. Eventually we reboarded for the next leg of the flight to Austin. In Texas the gift store scene had the cowboy Texas twang. I ate a great sandwich with a gluten-free bun from Thundercloud Subs, and presently was back on trajectory to Mexico.

Upon exiting the plane you know you are in Mexico. Instantly. A wall of humidity pushed its way into the enclosed jetway... a jetway that is somehow flimsier and more rinky-dink than stateside passages. As we rolled our luggage up the ramp and into the Cancun airport, the noises were another giveaway. Shouting, music, loud talking in Spanish.

Oh we North Americans live sheltered antiseptic lives!

My arrival was flooded with emotion. It evoked other places, moments and landings in my life. The early adventures, starting when I was young. My quiet, strong, intrepid way of wading into epic situations with mostly bravery and the occasional flash thought of "What have I gotten myself into?" And, why?

A key change this time, full more than a decade since my last visit to Mexico, was my sense of calm. Gravitas. You don't reach your fifth decade without gaining a little bit of Who-wants-a-piece-of-me?-presence. I felt a tad more in control. More able to handle whatever came my way. Knowing Spanish is far from necessary in Cancun, but it helps a person feel as if she will be less likely to be taken advantage of.

I bought my taxi to and from the airport for what seemed like an exorbitant $630 pesos (about $50). Actually, the taxi would have been crazy expensive - I purchased the colectivo for that.

The interesting mishaps began right off the bat. I was sent to the end of the line of vans. As the driver hefted my suitcase into the back luggage hold, I said, "Va a Puerto Juarez, no?" He looked up at me, surprised. "No ma'am.  This is a private party charter." Oops. There I was, cluelessly horning in on some American family's 50th anniversary vacation trip.

The next van I tried was full. I went back to start. Eventually I found myself squeezed into the front seat in too-close quarters with an Asian guy from Toronto whose luggage had been lost. The AC was on fire hose mode. The music on full blast as well: obnoxious dance music with thudding bass sung by some pop princess with a bubblegum voice screaming vapid lyrics. Yep. Mexico.

As I pulled the door closed to seal myself in I thought, "How am I going to get the seatbelt on without accosting this guy's private space? Oh wait. It's Mexico. I don't have to put on the seatbelt. Actually there probably isn't even a seatbelt to put on at all. And with any luck at all, Toronto guy will take this reality in stride." And he did.

The driver took just about everyone else to their destinations in the Hotel Zone first. I enjoyed every moment of the "tour". I had a front row seat, cool air blowing into my face and the understood silence of strangers. The kids in the back exclaimed every time they caught a glimpse of the ocean or a pool. But that just added to the fun. By then even the music was okay with me.

At some point in my van tour, Raqui texted me. "Where are you?" I told her the ferry dock to Isla was our next stop. I bought my ticket as the 7:30 ferry was pulling up to the pier.

By the time we were on board the heaving, bobbing two-story behemoth, the sky had darkened to steel and a strong warm wind whipped my hair into an airborne cork-screw. The ferry's powerful engines shook the undulating floor. I stashed my luggage in the hold and ascended to the top deck, texting Hubby about the impending hurricane that was surely bearing down.

It was on the ferry that being in Mexico sunk in even further. There was an enterprising street musician who had set up his portable amplifier and electric guitar. He serenaded our twenty minute passage with popular Spanish rock ballads sung at top volume. His voice was rich and resonant. The ferry seats and audio equipment were faded, worn and tattered by the daily beating of the salt air and sun.

I thought of a conversation I had overheard on the plane between a Texan guy and another norteamericano. They discussed the merits of different high end ear buds. Bose earphones work best to reproduce the clarity and dynamics of classical music. Some other brand captures the bass of more upbeat music like country or hip-hop.

Music, you see, at top volume, had been my companion for the whole of the trip. It's just that we private solitary individualists tunnel into our own private spaces as we listen. So while my plane-mates rocked out, I was surrounded only with the buzz and whine of the Boeing's engines and my faraway thoughts. We like our space. Our choices. Our taste. Our unique capsule of personhood and all the sensory input that goes with it. Love it.

But Mexico! Glorious Mexico is collective, communal, extroverted, crowded, ingenious, sensory, rigged together and affectionate. There is nothing private about it.

So I listened to this street kid in his shabby clothes as he filled the air with the thrill of a throbbing beat. The world became his smooth voice, the wind, the waves, the boat's vibration, an endless horizon, bands of turquoise below us, the smell of salt, the little Mexican girl in the seat in front of me taking selfies from every direction... and I breathed in love for the whole scene.

Oh Mexico... sounds so sweet with the sun sinking low. Moon's so bright like to light up the night. Make everything all right.

First Gig

Today's post is one of those accountings that had to mellow and age before I thought about posting it here.

April 12, 2015

Son performed his first paid concert yesterday. He played for an hour at the Rock Creek Retirement home on an amplified grand piano perched on an elevated stage in the dining room.

At first there were only one or two residents listening. As the hour progressed, the parade of slow walkers shuffled by and the dining room slowly filled with old folks – tall, short, fat, thin, male female, each a character of his or her own. Our friend Marita (who is a resident, and was key in getting Brett there) sat and gave us the running commentary. “He’s gay.” “That lady is 93 years old and sharper than sharp.” “She’s the village gossip.” “That one is never happy with anything.  She can’t find a thing she can’t complain about.” “This one is my best friend.” “He supposedly has a girlfriend.  I can’t imagine how lonely that lady must be to put up with him.”

You could tell that even the first one or two audience members were attentive and mesmerized. Their feeble hands clapping after every piece. Their faces warm and alive. Eyes sparkling with approval.

We sat on a sofa in the hallway where we could see the full scale of the scene. A tall thin old guy did slow circles in his walker. He had a permanent scowl – an expression of deep umbrage – etched upon his face. Tall, lean, bald and permanently peeved, Mr. Grumpy shuffled in and out of view in a regular orbit. His young Filipino nurse followed a few feet behind him, trying without much success to guide him to his room or some other place where he was supposed to be.

Marita said, “Mr. Grumpy likes the music.  That’s why he keeps coming back here.”

About 45 minutes into the playing, Mr. Grumpy detoured from his circuit to approach me. His eyebrows and eyes were still frozen into an expression of outrage, but in response to my smile, his mouth briefly flashed a grimace – a clear Mr. Grumpy show of friendliness.

He said, “There’s not a one in here has more than a third grade education.” Then he stared at me.

“Oh?  That’s too bad,” I smiled and nodded sympathetically.

“Not a one. You won’t find anyone here with more than a third grade education.”

“Oh, I’m sorry about that.”

“Well, except for the pianist. You can tell that pianist is educated. Not a single other one here has any education at tall.”

“The pianist is my son.”

“You should be proud. You can tell he has an education.”

At this point Marita was telling me to tell Mr. Grumpy what I do for a living.

“I’m a school administrator.”

“A principal? Then you can tell – no one here has more than a third grade education.”

“Well, you seem like an educated person.”

His scowl turned more pronounced.  “If I were educated, I wouldn’t be here!”

Oh my.

As the time moved on, the dining room filled. Among the later arrivers was a man who sat near the front and was so animated by the music he nodded his head and moved his hands to the beat. When Son’s fingers would play a complicated run, this man would look at his table mates and mouth, “Wow!”
  

One of the earlier audience members had to leave the room. (Probably a bathroom call.) As he passed us by in his walker, he said, “He’s good.  This one’s good.”

When the concert ended, Son stood up to descend the stage stairs. The room exploded in applause. One sweet little lady came up to him. She clasped her hands in his and said, “You are a star. You are a star.”

I said, “This is his first concert.”

She said, “He is going to be a star and I just know it. Honey, where did you study?”

“Sunset High School. I’m a senior.”

She said, “I thought surely you were from Julliard. You are a star. Please come back. We love you.”

Son was sweaty and tired. He had had a few stumbles on notes – which captivated his thoughts. The most eventful thing for him was that he experienced the thing all performers do sooner or later. He had a moment of, for lack of any better term, “stage fright”. His brain completely gave out on him. Playing one of the most complex Beethoven pieces, which is also one he knows the very best back to front, his mind suddenly went blank in the middle of the third movement. He simply lost it. Since he plays completely without a written score, he had no external scaffold. No way to access the melody. He tried, fumbling around, but it was gone. Eventually he went on to another piece. 

In the car on the way home, I told him the stage fright thing happens. He was lucky it happened with this wonderful audience of adoring older people whose hearing is far from great. Also, most non-musical people would not really notice if a piece fell apart like that.

He asked how to handle it. I told him that if he is performing in a formal concert he will usually have to play one piece which he will know so well it won’t disappear on him. Part of what happened here was that he had been playing for a while under the pressure of live performance and each piece is incredibly complex.  His brain was on overload.

I told him that pianists who are playing many pieces to fill an hour or more are expected to fill the air with music – not play any one piece perfectly as written.  In this case, he can find a way to resolve the chord progression musically and exit the piece – something he well understands how to do. It was a good experience for him to have that happen. I recounted the time that stage fright happened to me. I was playing the piano for the production of Godspell at the Metropolitan Theatre in downtown Medellin, Colombia.  It happened during the piece I knew by far the best. Suddenly I lost the connection. The piano went silent. Dancers, electric guitar, drums played on…. but the piano stopped. It was mortifying. You never forget it.

When we got home, Marita called. “Rave reviews!  Rave reviews!  The manager told all the people who were asking about that pianist that they could thank Marita for bringing him here.  They asked me, ‘Who were they?  Are they your relatives?’.  I wanted to tell them, ‘Yeah.  They are my brothers and sister in Christ.  But I just said they are my friends.’  Rave reviews.  Tell that boy he got rave reviews.  They want him back.”

So there you have it.  Son earned his first pay yesterday.  He’s official. 

Big Sky

Road trip to Ronan, Montana.

We piled the whole bunch into the RDX. All five adult-sized humans. Grandpa, Son, Hubby, Nephew and me. I drove. Grandpa got to ride shotgun. And the backseat was filled with Sardine One, Sardine Two and Sardine Three.

Driving east into the Columbia River Gorge the morning sun gave the cliffs on our right a luminous glow. On our left the river's surface twinkled, pushing ever tirelessly to the sea.

We passed the dry farmland of Hermiston with its fruit stands and painted "watermelons" signs. Into the Tri-Cities and across the Snake River. Stopped at Ritzville for gas. Then through Spokane, its skyline dated like a heyday past. We motored into Idaho, hugging the long curve of Lake Coeur d'Alene's verdant shore. Then past the old mining towns of Wallace and Mullan. Finally we scaled the Fourth of July Pass, then Lookout Pass and crossed into Montana.

Where suddenly everything was different. The road less traveled. The folks friendly. The pace unhurried. Montana, a land of sandy fertile soil, bright blue rivers, rolling gentle hills and steep mountains with carved facets and crevices of snow. We followed the Clark Fork, then the Flathead River to Dixon, to Moiese, Charlo and Ronan. Breathed in the smell of hay. The wide pastel sky. Cows. Lots of cows. The flat mirror of Ninepipe with its ornament of birds. The Mission Mountains rising like priests to the east.

We came to rest in Polson across from the wide cerulean expanse of Flathead Lake.

Then to Ronan each day for convention. Communion with God. A settling peace. Messages of hope. Inspiration. And cheer. We scaled the mountain and saw again an uncompromising view.

Commencement

June 9, 2015

Electricity filled the air outside the Chiles Center at the University of Portland. The air was warm. Families bunched together in a fat snaking line, clumping wherever there was shade. Graduates in royal purple robes and mortarboard posed for snaps with brothers, sisters, proud parents, grandparents. Bouquets in the crook of an arm. Balloons bobbing in the movement of the crowd. When the doors opened the throng pressed into the huge auditorium and slowly filled the seats to the rafters.

Graduation. Commencement. Not the end, but the beginning.

A friend texted that she spied the Mister and me from her seat across the vast hall. "You are beaming."

Pride, love, excitement, astonishment, the emotions pressing out beyond measure. My mind spinning pinwheels of memories. The proud preschooler leading the Halloween parade. A small boy stepping over the threshold into kindergarten, a watchful eye on daddy close by. Elementary school speeches (I Have a Dream), reports (state report on Indiana with the Indy 500 replica Dad and I stayed up all night to perfect), performances (the musical Annie). The best friends who formed his Battle of the Books team in fourth grade: the Quad Squad. The four are still besties today. Just taller now with facial hair, drivers' licenses and college dreams.

So many hours at soccer games, despairing over the impossibly close score and yet another crushing loss. Swimming lessons. Basketball practice. Choir performances. Piano lessons. Vacations at Sunriver. Camping at Silver Falls, Skiing at Bachelor. Family trips to Hawaii, Disneyland, Washington DC, California, Mexico. Last year's summer as a ZooTeen. Last fall's wobbly driving practice on the rural roads of Washington County.

College applications. The acceptance letters. The merit scholarships. The talent awards. And all culminating in this moment, this explosion of feeling, this pride in the man he has become.

The back door burst open and the graduates took their seats in formation. Two by two, feet bouncing with excitement, serenaded by Pomp and Circumstance. The crowd's zeal was palpable as iPhones and flashbulbs recorded the moment. Speeches were given. Awards noted. The moment serenaded by the Jazz Band's fizz, adorned with the Madrigal's song. And one by one they took their place on the stage to receive that diploma, to shake hands with the officials, and to bound down the steps changed, made perfect, set free.

To commence the first day of the rest of their lives.