rose city journal

the friend

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Fri, 29 Mar 2013 04:07:00 +0000

When I first met Neil, I was at a cocktail party at my parents’ house.

My parents have always been social. In the years since they started living full time at the coast, their parties have included even more of the rag-tag group they’ve always attracted: fellow retirees, commercial fishermen, builders, and just about anyone else they find interesting. Gatherings at their house are always fun, and although I still feel a bit like the little kid allowed to politely visit with the adults, these days, at least I have a drink in my hand, too.

It was at one of these get-togethers that I first noticed Neil. “Who is that?” I asked my dad, sotto voce, in the kitchen.

“He’s an old Swede that lives down the street. We don’t really know anything about him. Why don’t you go talk to him, and find out his story.”

A not unusual request. Over the years, I’m often asked to draw quiet people out at parties. I’m chatty, and I’m truly interested in people, so getting a conversation going with someone new has never been difficult.

I walked over to Neil and sat down. “So, you live down the street?”

“I’m retired,” he twinkled at me. Tall and ruddy-faced, he dominated the living room.

“What did you do before you retired?”

“I was a commercial photographer. I worked for Boeing, flying around the world taking photos of crash sites.”

Woah.

“I also used to write. I had a number of articles in Sunset when I was younger, with photos.”

Oh. He could have said “I was the CEO of Ford,” and I wouldn’t have been half as interested. A photographer? Crash sites? Sunset Magazine!

We talked for a long time that evening, as he told me the secret to getting published in Sunset (“Anything with kids. They love stories about family activities.”) and about his love of photography (I’m just one more idiot documenting everything with an iPhone, who also collects vintage cameras. He was experienced shooting with 8mm, 16mm and every lens you’ve never heard of).

We became fast friends.

Over the years, I would email Neil when I had something published, or with some bit of writing I thought he might enjoy. He sent me one or two-line responses, like “Good job, kiddo. Keep it up.”

And I’d see him now and then at my parents’ house. He’d been voted in as director of the neighborhood beach club and my dad said he was kept busy with the ongoing litany of complaints from residents. When I asked Neil about it, he just rolled his eyes. “It never ends.” We didn’t see him as much after that, but my parents regularly invited him to dinner when I was visiting.

One time, he said he would have made a pie, but was running late.

“Oh you don’t bake,” my mom and I laughed at him. “Please. A bachelor, living on his own? Baking pies?” He laughed with us, shaking his head.

The next morning, he showed up, pie in hand. “Just so you know I’m a man of my word,” he winked at me.

Another time, Neil brought me a vintage movie camera for my collection. “It’s my favorite.” A Bolex 155 Super 8mmm. “I know you like old cameras, so I wanted you to have this one. It works great. You should shoot a film.” We laughed, knowing it would join my other cameras, gathering dust on top of my old breakdown.

The last time I saw Neil, he was quiet. “He hasn’t been feeling well,” my dad explained. “We haven’t seen him much lately.”

We talked for only a few minutes, and he was definitely subdued. It was clear he was in pain. Before he left, he reached out and touched my face. “You sure are pretty.”

Six weeks later, he was in the hospital. He didn’t want anyone to visit him, my mom told me. He didn’t want anyone to see him when he was sick. I respected his wishes, but was grateful when one of my dad’s friends, who’d known him the longest, went anyway and reported back.

There wasn’t much to report. No good news, anyway. They said their good-byes privately. Neil was allowed to go home, but still didn’t want to see anyone. Because the directive from the hospital wasn’t “Go home, you’re all better,” it was “You can go home now, and prepare for what’s next.” My parents prepared me for that when I naively showed pleasure at his return.

Not long after, Neil passed. It’s been two years this month.

I wanted to write about Neil for a lot of reasons. To try to explain how a young woman and an old Swede became friends. To tell you that no matter the decades that separate us, there are interesting people out there with fascinating stories. Most of all, I wanted to tell you about him because I wanted you to know him, too. Neil. My friend.

Sometimes, I miss him.

the lecture

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Wed, 21 Nov 2012 23:40:00 +0000

Driving to Portland from Waldport is a significant investment in time. It's about three hours from end to end and that's assuming that a. there isn't a wreck on I-5 that shuts the whole thing down for an hour or two and b. there isn't a miserable, ungodly backup at the 205 or that c. you don't stop to get a diet coke, fill up your truck or visit your sister in Corvallis. Even if you don't dawdle at my sister's house saying things like "Woah! Those cookies sure smell good!" it's still going to be several hours' worth of driving.

So when I get pulled over for speeding while driving over the pass, I have to groan inwardly and mumble a few choice swear words. Because no matter what the outcome, my drive has now become three hours and 30 minutes. And now there probably will be a wreck on I-5. And I just missed the window when the 205 is still passable. Worst of all, my sister and her family have already pissed off to church and there won't be any fresh-baked goods anywhere.

The last time I got pulled over, it was in one of the three usual speedtraps on Highway 20. They are: 1. About 6 miles west of Philomath, just past where the passing lane ends at the bottom of the hill and 2. About a mile west of the Ellmaker rest area and 3. One or two miles in, heading east from Newport.

Now, let me just say, I mean no disrespect here. If you drive these roads more than a few times a year, you'll notice the speedtraps yourselves, without me clueing you in. And I am not anti-police, either. But like all of you, I get frustrated when I get bluelighted, and sometimes, I just have to have a little fun with the young bucks who pull me over. To wit:

The last time I was pulled over was just outside of Newport, at speedtrap #3 listed here. The officer, who looked to be about 22, told me that he while he could give me a citation, instead, he'd give me a long, boring lecture about racing around switchbacks (one of my all-time favorite pastimes) and oversized deer and basically the whole history of the pass.

(I'm paraphrasing).

Because, he went on to explain, I just want to make sure you're safe.

Mmmm-hmmm.

That's why I'm not going to give you the citation.

Uh-huh, I said. Well.

It's for your own good.

Yeah...I think I'll take the ticket.

What? Sputtering.

I'll take the ticket.

You will not take the ticket. You'll listen to the lecture.

I thought you were giving me a choice.

No. I'm not giving you a choice. Now, just listen.

Sigh. OK.

And I did.

Cheryl: Did they start giving tickets to women? When did that happen?

the laundry

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Tue, 30 Oct 2012 01:06:00 +0000

In order to do laundry, I have to walk outside and around the building to get into the basement. This presents a variety of different hazards, including a. not wanting to risk getting soaked, so never doing laundry when it rains and b. a testy sensor light that never seems to turn on when I need it to, then blinds me with a glaring light after I don't need it anymore and c. unforeseen events that could only occur when you have to trek any distance carrying more than your body weight (I have a tendency to let the laundry go for about six weeks at a time). To wit:

One day, I am scrambling up the steps carrying my clean laundry when I glance over into the neighbor's yard and happen to spy a pair of my underpants. There are several questions that you'd probably like to ask and I'll try to get to them in order of importance:

1. How did they get there? I'm assuming I dropped them on my previous trip to do laundry. It could have even happened the time before. But that's really the only explanation I can come up with.

2. How did I know they were my underpants? Well, they're these little lacy...never mind. They were mine, OK?

3. Why did the neighbors just leave them there, probably for several weeks? Your guess is as good as mine, but I never see them in their backyard and also, I think where my underpants landed was out of their line of sight from the inside of their home.

4. How did I get them back? This presented the biggest problem. Although it was apparently quite easy to drop them into my neighbor's yard, retrieving my underwear proved to be a bit of a challenge. Because I dropped them over a rail from the top of the steps, they were quite a distance away from anything I could grab by reaching over or under the railing.

This also presented a second problem. Just how badly did I want my underpants back? I mean, I have a lot of underwear. It's not like losing a pair is going to force me to stay home from school. Which presented an unusual conundrum, namely:

Is it in poor taste to drop a pair of underpants in your neighbor's yard, and then just leave them there?

I thought hard about that one, readers. Because although it seems rude, and probably not what you'd want to find in your yard, I worried so much about how I was going to get my underpants back that I quite honestly considered just leaving them where they were. I even took a vote, and had my friends weigh in. Although some friends were firmly on the side of "eh, just leave 'em there," several people piped up and told me I should plan a recon, to recover my underwear in the dead of night.

So that's what I did. Just past the stroke of midnight, a bit before my bedtime, I cautiously opened the back door. Easing the door closed, I padded softly down the stairs, never taking my eyes off my neighbors' windows. God, what if they wake up? What if they find me creeping around their yard in the middle of the night in my old plaid wool bathrobe and even worse, what if they happen to catch me right at the moment I pick up my underpants?

I worried and worried and stared at the yard, casing it as if I was a jewelry thief planning a Tiffany's heist. Finally, I took a deep breath and without breaking stride, ran around to the back alley and crept into their yard. Slowly...slowly...slowly...I can almost grab them. Oh! I didn't quite realize they were under that structure...It's going to take a bit of maneuvering...I got them! Whew. I straightened up, twirling the little scrap around my finger. Nothin' to it, I thought with no small amount of relief. Why, I could probably break into any store anywhere. In fact, I could...

Woof.

Woof-woof.

Peering up, I saw the neighbor's little dog looking back at me. Making that little noise that for many dogs, precedes a loud barkfest.

And then I ran.

the twin

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Sat, 27 Oct 2012 17:04:00 +0000

My writing partner and I finished up our book in August. Maybe one fine day you’ll read it. I hope so.

I won’t tell you what it’s about just yet. I could tell you it’s racy. Filled with deception. Sexy. And all of those things are true. But it wasn’t that- it wasn’t that exactly that made me want to write the book. It was something else. Something that’s intrigued me for a long time, and something that might appeal to you, too.

You might even recognize yourself in the context of this story.

Duality. The idea that all of us, somehow, someway, have two sides to ourselves.

We have the upstanding, dinner-on-the-table side, the side that the world sees, the side that our families see and the side of us that most people would use to describe us. “He’s a great dad.” “She’s a wonderful friend.”

But for some people, this side of their personalities just isn’t enough. They feel something.

Another side.

A darker side.

Some people (maybe me) call it the Pull.

If you feel the pull, there isn’t much that I can write here that you don’t already know. But if you don’t what I mean, I’ll try to explain. It’s the idea that all of us have a straight side, an upstanding side, and another side that’s just…different. Not so upstanding. It’s that feeling you get when you want to do something you know you shouldn’t be doing.

And then you have to decide what to do.

One of my psychic friends told me when she gets a message from the other side, it’s lit up like a neon sign across the person of interest. The pull works much the same way, but for me, the sign almost always spells T-R-O-U-B-L-E. If you see the sign, and you don’t want to risk everything for the sake of the pull, then you’d do best to slow down.

Back away quickly.

Turn right around and go back the way you came.

Unless…Unless. Unless.

You find something you need there. If you can’t deny the pull, maybe you’re not supposed to deny it. And many people don’t deny themselves.

Some people don’t deny themselves anything.

And isn’t strange, how the twins find each other? When you think of all the people in the world, and all the things we might otherwise be doing, it’s kind of amazing that you’d find your twin somewhere where you’d least expect it.

Although maybe it’s not so strange. If we do all have that duality.

And the people who can lose the most are the ones who haven’t fully realized their own duality. Who haven’t realized if they go down this path, they might lose everything.

I think it’s innate, this twinning. Some people were born with the pull. Others lead happy, sunny lives without ever once feeling a darker need. Or maybe they’re just fooling themselves. Denying that this thing exists inside of them, even as they coach little league, set the table or give a speech at a fundraiser. They feel the pull but they refuse to let it get in their way.

That’s smart.

That’s probably the best thing you can do for the sake of your livelihood, your family, for all of the things that matter to you the most. Ignore the pull.

If you can.

leaving things behind

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Sat, 20 Oct 2012 16:41:00 +0000

When I first decided to move back to Portland, I had nothing but resolve. There was no queasiness about leaving, no inhibitions about what waited for me on the other side of the door, just happiness, light, and a great excitement tumbling through me: I was going home.

Growing up in Eugene would be hard to define to anyone, most of all to someone who’s never lived in a small town. Not just any small town, mind you. A small town replete with a nuclear-free zone, attorneys who might be mistook for hippies, public marketplaces, community gardens, and a town full of adults who spoke to a 14-year old girl like she was an adult. And around us all was the green, green, green of that fair town. A small town, a University town, filled to bursting through the school months with lively, bustling young students. From football to basketball, the town moves and breathes with the school.

Moving away from all of that- that was the hard part. Getting plunked down in the middle of high school in a small town in the Midwest alternately infuriated me and puzzled me, leaving me saddened and confused. I didn’t understand the way the students in my town breathed or moved. I didn’t get their inside jokes, and I wasn’t included in their long-ago formed cliques. I often eschewed early morning or late afternoon classes in favor of driving around with my friends. (“Were you ever there?” my mom recently asked me. “As little as possible,” I replied.)

Because for the most part, the other students laughed at my designer jeans (“Guess?” Guess who?”), didn’t understand my sarcastic jokes and much of the time, I felt like an alien from a strange planet.

It was hard.

But over the years, I found my niche. With the exception of a few close friends, I hated high school, but I loved college, and my work after graduation intrigued me. I made friends, business contacts, moved an hour south and got to know the large city like the back of my hand. At some point, without even realizing it, I began to love my life.

Except…except.

Every so often I would remember that green city. That tiny microcosm of people, moving and breathing without me. I missed them.

I used to cry a lot. Without much reason and without much to-do, I’d find myself moved to tears by a cheerless story on the news, a tender moment in a movie, or in deep conversation with the friends of my heart. I tried to explain myself after one sobbing session to one heart friend, saying, I have no idea why I’m crying, really. I guess I’m just too sensitive. My emotions rest right on my skin you know, I said, laughing it off.

“You’re unhappy because you’re not where you’re supposed to be,” she told me sadly.

And she was right. I missed Oregon. I missed my family, long since relegated to annual visits. I missed seeing the little faces, now grown, shining up at me from the dinner table. I missed long walks on a deserted beach, wandering through art and crafts-filled stalls on a rainy Saturday, and fountains that gushed water every day of the year.

In the end, the decision to move back was easy. I set a deadline for myself, to become self-employed and to move back, this time to Portland, within three years. And in the 12th month of that third year, I packed up the last of my belongings and headed west.

Sometimes, I miss my friends. There aren’t many left in that small town in the Midwest- so many of the friends of my heart flew the coop as soon as they had the chance. Some never did leave. I think about them, moving and breathing without me, and I wish them well. I hope to see them again, one fine day.

In the four years since I returned to Oregon, I’ve had my share of ups and downs. There isn’t, I don’t think, ever a time where I’ll look around me and say “Yes, this is right. Yes, this is where I am meant to be and what I am meant to be doing.”

It isn’t always that easy.

But I don’t cry at the drop of a hat anymore. I think…I think I found myself again, here amongst the green, green trees and the gentle rain. The other day, someone even called out to me in a way I haven’t heard in a long, long time: “Hello, sunshine!” And it’s true: Despite the looming, gloomy rain of the winter season in the Pacific Northwest, I’m sunny again. My laugh bubbles over at every opportunity and I’ve even found myself laughing uncontrollably as of late. It’s a sign, I think. A sign that I made the right move.

It feels good.

It feels right.

I’ve written a lot about taking leaps. About being true to myself and following my muse. Taking steps to improve myself and my relationships. And I am still learning. I won’t try to fool myself about that. But one thing I have learned and I know to be true: When you are where you’re supposed to be, you’ll be happy.

It’s as simple as that.

Tips for NXNE First-Timers

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Tue, 04 Sep 2012 18:24:00 +0000

For first-timers, playing a large festival- especially outside of the U.S.- can seem like a daunting prospect. I attended the 2012 NXNE show in Toronto as a member of the media and was amazed to find how few U.S. writers and musicians were really aware of the Canadian festival and the impact it can have on a band's career- and their press kit. The festival had limited press in the U.S., something I hope changes for their 19th year. Along those lines, a guide to help answer some frequently asked questions for first-timers considering submissions to NXNE seemed in order. In a candid interview, indie band Animal Talk talks about playing North by Northeast, Toronto's largest music festival.

What was a high point of playing the festival?

Seeing how well the Toronto press and media covered us leading up to the festival. The NXNE PR team did a great job getting us into newspapers, magazines, blogs. By the time we hit the stage we had a packed house and people knew who we were. All of this happened in a city we had never played. It was a real treat.

Did you use any particular website to help with your application? What do you think it was about your application that got you into the festival?

NXNE took submissions through Sonicbids. I'm not sure how they've done it in the past but it was easy to do this year. We've played festivals like NXNE before. Having a little experience playing these kinds of shows goes a long way. Ultimately though, the music is what matters the most.

Were there any particular challenges with applying/traveling/playing at a festival in Canada?

We're from Boston, MA, so Toronto isn't too far for us to drive. All we needed to do was renew a couple passports and get in the car. The NXNE stage managers are top notch. We had a great backline. Since drums and amps were provided, we didn't even need to rent a van. The festival organizers made sure to send us the appropriate immigration papers to get into Canada as temporary workers. Be advised, on the way back into the US you'll have to declare any money you made from shows.

How does playing at a festival like NXNE impact your career?

It reflects well on a band that can organize and coordinate a show outside of its area. Festivals like NXNE are a perfect opportunity to test this out. It generated a lot of press for us and gave us another city to hit while we're on tour. That is so valuable. We met a lot of great bands from Canada and the US. Networking, gig swaps, finding new venues to play- all of these are indispensable when it comes to planning the next 6 months or year of your career.

What would you do differently next year?

We played every night that we were in Toronto. Next year we might take a night off and go to a few other NXNE events and parties. As an artist you're given a badge to attend the other shows. We probably should have hit the late night shows to network a little more. There is a lot happening during the week. We'll probably plan a little more next year.

What advice can you offer bands who want to apply to play at 2013 NXNE?

NXNE is highly organized. The crew of PR, stage managers, and organizers are beyond helpful. Don't let the size of the festival or the thought of heading out of the country to play a show intimidate you. If you haven't played smaller festivals, book a few before applying to NXNE and list those in your press kit or application.

2013 NXNE applications are now being accepted online. Bands, filmmakers, and comics can apply online through January 31, 2013. The 2013 NXNE Festival runs June 10-16, 2013 in Toronto. Read more tips for first-timers from bands online.

the break-up

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Tue, 15 May 2012 21:18:00 +0000

Several years ago I made some big changes to my life. Before I get to that, I’ll give you a bit of framework.

I’m a very loyal friend. I’m a “you-could-call-me-at-four-in-the-morning-and-say-you-need-bail-money-and-a-ride-home-and-p.s.-you-don’t-wanna-talk-about-it-and-I’d-say-where-do-I-pick-you-up” kind of friend. I’m fiercely loyal, especially when it comes to my heart friends. I would do anything for them. Anything.

When you foster these sorts of relationships, you stay friends for a long, long time. There’s no lying to each other, spilling their secrets to garner a few minutes’ worth of the spotlight, no grandstanding, and generally no drama. You just be. It’s a steady, calming thing to know that you have these kinds of relationships with people all over the place. It means a lot to me.

And from time to time, I try to express how much my heart friends mean to me. Several years ago I went through a phase where I felt intensely that I needed to tell all of my best friends that I was "grateful for you, and grateful for your friendship." I kept doing it over and over until my friend El held up a perfectly manicured hand, frowned and said “Lisa. You have to stop.” My friends are used to my emotions runnething over, but there are limits to how much they can take.

Although in an ideal world we’d all be best friends forever, sometimes things just…don’t work out. I have over the years had to distance myself from a few of my friends. Sometimes, it’s been due to a terrible miscalculation on my part- entrusting someone who wasn’t trustworthy or overlooking something that couldn’t be overlooked forever.

But for the most part, there were no horrible betrayals of trust. No big fallouts over money or men. Nothing like that. And I don’t think the friends I exorcised are bad people. I don’t hate them. It’s more, well, it’s more like this:

Friend: “So what have you been up to? How’s the big writing career?”

Me: “Pretty good! The book is going well, and I started work for a new client this week.”

Friend: “Really? I thought you’d be done with this by now. Aren’t you a little old to playing around like this? Don’t you think it’s time you got serious and did something meaningful with your life?!”

Or how about:

Friend: “You know, if you haven’t married by now, chances are, you’ll never be married.”

Me: “I’m OK with that, actually.”

Friend: “Doesn’t it bother you that you missed your chance and you’ll always be alone?!”

Do you see where I’m going with this? It’s not that Friend hates me. I don’t think Friend understands how difficult it is to be friends with someone who is so critical. I don’t think Friend thinks she is being critical. She is, in all seriousness, probably just worried about me. And she’s likely projecting and a whole lot of other stuff that I won’t get into here.

I did try to speak up about my feelings. I was met with responses like “Oh, Lisa. You’re too sensitive.” I also heard “Well, you have opinions about other people. Can’t I have an opinion?” (Of course, I’m not running around telling people how they should be living their lives, but I digress.)

So here’s what happened: After one too many conversations about the way I should be living my life, what I should be doing, how I should be handling my family, I just, sort of…dropped her. We’d been friends for years. I care about her very much. I’m just not really interested in defending myself or bracing myself every time there is a call. The amazing thing is, the people that I bounced for being too negative have been bounced by other friends, too. But they can’t acknowledge they’re negative and critical, so they write their ex-friends off as having “issues.”

Maybe I made a tactical mistake when I dropped out of these friendships. The people that I have let fall away likely have no idea why I stopped calling them or stopped answering their calls. Perhaps we should have had angry, tense conversations where I laid out every reason why I wouldn’t be speaking to them again.

But I’ve always been fairly low-key. In addition to not relishing the idea of some sort of battle royale along the lines of David and Goliath, I just don’t think those kinds of conversations would change anything. I don’t think those people can change. And in the end, the biggest reason I decided not to pursue some big tell-all discussion was pretty basic:

I just don’t care anymore.

unfounded and confounded

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Fri, 09 Mar 2012 17:27:00 +0000

One of the most disappointing situations we can ever find ourselves in is being on the wrong side of an unfounded accusation. It’s frustrating. An example of the unfounded accusation:

“I heard from so-and-so that you said this and that about me.”

“What do you think about that?”

“Well-l-l…It doesn’t really sound like something you’d say.”

“Exactly.”

Sound familiar? I can’t even be bothered with defending myself in this situation. Either you know me or you don’t. If you know me, you should give me the benefit of the doubt. If you don’t know me, you should know better than to randomly attack the character of someone you don't know.

I’m not a gossip. I don’t waste my time spreading stories about people that I know or that I don’t know. Frankly, if someone anywhere, at any time tells you I said something hurtful about you, instead of getting upset with me, you might instead consider why that person is giving you that information.

Say what?

Yes, I went there.

When a “friend” relays some piece of hurtful information, under the guise of “helping” you, or “just trying to be a good friend,” I have to wonder how “helpful” that “friend” is really trying to be. For the sake of argument, let’s say I wake up tomorrow and decide I love to spin stories about people I know. I start to burn up the phone lines with wild tales that are so bad, they’re good. Right. But even if I did do something like that, why would the person I am talking to run to you? Will the information help you in some way?

How?

Because as far as I can tell, spreading gossip is just as bad as making it up. The person gleefully dispensing the information may not have started the juicy rumor, but they sure are feeding the fire. If you find yourself on the wrong end of a rumor, instead of getting angry at the person who “started” the gossip, try exercising a bit of wisdom from an old friend of mine:

Consider the source.

When someone tells me something that doesn’t sound right to me, I don’t just think about what the person is saying to me. I wonder why they are telling me that bit of information. I wonder about the timing.

I wonder if they are telling the truth.

To drive the point home, I asked a good friend, a really good friend, what she would do if another one of our friends approached her with a story that was attributed to me.

“I don’t get it. What do you mean, if you said something about me? Why would you do that?”

“This is just for the sake of argument. Imagine so-and-so said that I said this-and-that about you.”

“Why would you do that?”

“It’s just for the sake of argument!”

“OK, but it seems pretty stupid.”

(Sigh) “I know. But just tell me, what would your very first reaction be?”

“I’d wonder why so-and-so was making it up. I know you’d never talk about me. You just...don't do that.”

Right.

consumable gifts: specialty foods offer a taste of the city

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 03:56:00 +0000

When trying to come up with the perfect gift for my mom and dad for Christmas, I had to face a couple of challenges:

*My parents have too much stuff, or so they tell me. I actually think they've done an admirable job of downsizing over the last few years.

*My parents expect a lot from me at Christmas. Past Christmas gifts included repairing an old Brownie photo of them, which, when blown up, turned out to be the only good photo of them together before they married. Last year, I ordered steak sandwiches from the half-century old restaurant in the town where they used to live. Hard to beat, in other words.

So the challenge every year is to give them something special, something that they'll really enjoy, and something they can actually use. I liked the idea of a gift basket, because since they live in a small town on the coast, they don't have the luxuries and niceties that we all take for granted, living in and around a larger city. In the end, I went to Wizer's in Lake Oswego and created my own gift basket. Without the basket. My parents actually have enough baskets, too.

If you haven't been to Wizer's, you're missing out. This fabulous gem of a specialty grocery store has, well, everything. At least the important stuff, including a very knowledgeable wine steward and a fabulous selection of craft soda pops. In addition to Wizer's, we also popped into Lady Di's British store for a couple of items to include a bit of Canadian influence. Lady Di's has all the good stuff especially if you're craving English shortbreads, toffee, or tea.

When you put together a gift basket, think about who you are buying for. My parents, like everyone in our family, are foodies. They both love to cook and they love to eat. However, they are somewhat limited by the options available to them on the coast. Although the central coast has a bounty of fresh seafood, you're hard-pressed to find gourmet food items.

I buy a spinach salad from New Seasons with a fantastic dressing made with champagne vinegar and I knew they'd love it, too. I'm trying to convince my parents to switch to homemade salad dressings. They're so much better than bottled dressings, and there's no waste- you just make as much as you need for the evening. So, champagne vinegar got added to the basket. For the other items in the gift basket (below), I just wandered around the stores and thought about what my parents would like the most. Putting it together was fun and watching them sift through the contents was even better. They loved the gift basket so I'm off the hook once again- until next year.

Champagne Vinaigrette
2 T Champagne vinegar
1/3 c Olive oil
1/2 t Dijon (mustard acts as an emulsifier- use more or less depending upon how thick you want the dressing to be)
1 T Chopped shallots
Salt, pepper, or other herbs to taste, if you like.
Quickly whisk all ingredients and serve. I use a small mustard bottle with a lid for a final shake-up.

Consumable Gift Basket
Champagne vinegar
Columbia Crest Cabernet Sauvignon
Gift certificate for restaurant in Seaside
Green olives hand-stuffed with garlic
HP sauce (The Canadian insisted upon this English steak sauce which supposedly puts A1 to shame. I can't really tell the difference.)
Old English hot mustard
Russian mustard (Beaverton Foods mustards are available along the coast, but they don't have all the flavors we have up here)
Sardines (Ick. Gross. Ick. However, this wasn't a basket for me, so in they went.)
Taveners Proper Sweets- English Liquorice Allsorts
Werther's (You can get Werther's everywhere, even in Waldport, but between the liquorice candy and the sardines, the basket was tipping in favor of my dad).

the saturday market

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Sat, 10 Dec 2011 21:19:00 +0000

When I was growing up in Eugene, our next door neighbor was Jim Brady. You might remember Jim. He had a booth at the Saturday Market, and later, the 5th Street Market, where he sold gorgeous handcrafted wood products for the home. He joined together different types of woods so the end effect looked like stripes. You see this kind of work everywhere now. I’ve even seen it in department stores. But in the late seventies, Jim was the pioneer, and his stunning craftsmanship was coveted by many.

Jim’s daughter was my best friend so inevitably, I was in and out of their home multiple times every day. If we stayed off the roof, and managed not to have an argument for more than a day or two (a nearly impossible task for two headstrong little girls), we got to accompany her dad to the Saturday Market.

Arriving early so Jim could set up his booth and set out his wares, we’d wander aimlessly around the grounds, watching the day unfold. The jester bounced his bells in our direction as he danced a sweet dance, surrounded by even sweeter-smelling smoke. Peanuts’ Lucy nodded and smiled as she set up her booth, ready to dispense her advice, for a price. And everywhere, the market was coming alive, as vendors unpacked and placed their goods on display, hoping for a bustling day at the Market.

In the gooey, garlicky pizza by the slice, in the sweet, sharp tang of lemons in the lemonade, and in bicycle grease and essential oils; as the day unfolded, the good smells of summer and Eugene were everywhere in the Saturday Market.

When my mother got a new Jenn-Air stove, a novelty in those days, she ruminated about the uncovered grill sitting in the middle of the kitchen countertop. Soon after, Jim showed up with a custom striped wood cover made just for my mom. It perched perfectly on top of the grill for all the years we lived in Eugene, whenever the grill wasn’t in use.

We lost touch with the Bradys when we moved to the Midwest when I was in high school. I finally reconnected with the family some years ago, when I was planning my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary. Sadly, we found, Jim had passed away in 2004. But his touch is everywhere in my parent’s kitchen, and in my kitchen, too. They have the wooden knife block and a cutting board and I have the Jenn Air grill cover. Yep, it’s mine now. I don’t have the built in stove-top grill, but it fits nicely on top of two of the burners. And it’s still in excellent condition. It’s a beautiful piece handcrafted by a wonderful man- and a wonderful neighbor.

And that’s what the Saturday Market is. It’s your neighbors. Your friends. Members of your community creating something that’s meaningful to them, and selling it at the Saturday Market because they know it will be valuable to you, too. The Market remains unique because all of the artisans and artists have to handcraft their wares, and be approved by a board. Whether you want a handmade leather cuff, a piece of thrown pottery, or a painting, you can find it at the Market. The Saturday Market also has world-class people watching. Even if you just want to window-shop and have lunch, you can hardly go wrong with choices ranging from Lebanese to Guatemalan to Polish to Southern barbecue, and gorgeous dark chocolate caramels.

The artisans at the Portland Saturday Market welcome visitors throughout the year on Saturdays and Sundays and from December 19-23 you can visit from 11-5 each day for the Festival of the Last Minute. The Eugene Saturday Market has already shut down, taking its annual hiatus until April, but the Holiday Market is open every weekend from 10-6 daily through Christmas Eve, when they shut down at 4 pm.

Portland Saturday Market
108 West Burnside, Portland, OR 97209

Eugene Holiday Market
@ the Lane County Fairgrounds, 13th & Jefferson, in Eugene, Oregon

2011 Christmas Craft Shows, Art Fairs and Holiday Bazaars in Portland

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 20:11:00 +0000

Christmas craft shows, art fairs and bazaars offer Portland residents the chance to buy unique gifts for the holidays this year. The items you’ll find at these sales go beyond basic crafts- you’ll find everything from charming ornaments to elegant wreaths and hand-knitted scarves at Christmas craft shows in Portland. When you shop for gifts at a holiday bazaar you support local artisans and you find one-of-a-kind gifts that you won’t find in any mall. Christmas craft shows in Portland to visit this year include:

America's Largest Christmas Bazaar
November 25-27 and December 2-4
Fridays and Saturdays 10-6, Sundays 10-5
Expo Center, 2060 N Marine Drive, Portland
Child Price: $3.25 Ages 12-17
Adult Price: $7, Seniors 65 and over, $3 children under 12 free.
Parking at the Expo $8 or ride the MAX Yellow Line right to the parking lot.

Oregon College of Art and Craft (OCAC) Student and Alumni Holiday Sale
Friday, November 25th 7-9; Saturday, November 26th 10-5; Sunday, November 27th 10-4
Oregon College of Art & Craft, Jean Vollum Drawing, Painting and Photography Building
8245 SW Barnes Road, Portland
$3 admission on Friday, free Saturday and Sunday

A Gift Bag and a Pear Tree
Sunday, November 27th 10:30-5:00
Mississippi Studios
3939 N Mississippi Ave, Portland

OHSU Heart Research and Holiday Bazaar 2011
November 28th - 29th 10-5:30
Center for Health and Healing Atrium
3303 SW Bond Ave, Portland (located at the bottom of the OHSU tram)

Portland Art Collective "Open Doors" Art Show and Sale
Friday, December 2nd - 3rd 10:00-5:00
Multnomah Arts Center- Gymnasium
7688 SW Capitol Hwy, Portland

Hip Happening Bazaar
Saturday, December 3rd 11-5
Sellwood Masonic Lodge
7126 SE Milwaukie Avenue, Portland

Crafty Wonderland
December 10th - 11th 11-6
Oregon Convention Center (Hall C)
777 NE Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd., Portland

Formal Holiday Artisans Fair 2011
Sunday, December 18th 11-5
The Acadian Ballroom
1829 Northeast Alberta Street
Portland

Kringle's Kraft Bazaar
December 18 - 19, 9-4 each day
Adventist Medical Center (Lower level, in Conference Rooms A & B)
10123 SE Market Street, Portland

*Admission to Portland holiday craft shows should be free unless noted otherwise. Feel free to post information about your organization's Christmas craft show or holiday art fair in the comments section.

the end-beginning

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Thu, 29 Sep 2011 04:33:00 +0000

“Hey, you.” I looked up, and there he was. My high school sweetheart. Hanging out, like he was always hanging out, not in any kind of rush. Just hangin’. It seems like a million years ago when he was the love of my life.

And it was a sweet, sweet love.

We chatted and smiled, standing outside the convenience store while my mind whirred through a thousand images at lightning speed:

We are holding hands and laughing, leaning up against my locker.

He is picking me up and taking me to a movie, and I am in my teenaged bedroom, dithering about what to wear.

I see him, standing with a group of friends and laughing; I see him the moment he sees me.

I am reading the letter he wrote me during chemistry class for the hundredth time, because it just keeps getting better.

He gently holds my head, and runs the brush along my hair, patiently, quietly, combing out the tangles.

He is screaming at me about betrayal, and I am crying, hysterically.

I am in the back of the police car, convincing the officer not to drop me off in front of my house.

He is putting his life back together and needs me, and suddenly I don’t see him in my future.

The phone rings and I practically break my neck to answer it because I know it’s him and I’ll die if I miss his call, and-

“Hey,” I smiled, up at him. “It’s good to see you.”

The Bomber Restaurant- a Portland Tradition

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Wed, 04 May 2011 19:21:00 +0000

The most surprising thing about the iconic Bomber Restaurant isn’t the World War II B-17G Bomber in the parking lot. It isn’t the display of shells, surrounded by crayon renderings of the Easter Bunny. No, the best thing about the Bomber Restaurant is the service- and the food.

Art Lacey originally purchased the Bomber in 1947 in an attempt to draw in visitors to his gas station, originally located beneath the plane. Lacey crashed the first B-17 he purchased after trying to learn how to fly the plane using a manual. He successfully brought home the second B-17 he purchased, landing in Troutdale. With no permit to transport the bomber, he dismantled the plane and brought it piece by piece to its current location in Milwaukie. The gas station closed in 1991, but the restaurant remains open and is still run by Lacey’s descendants today.

The Bomber Restaurant has been a family-owned business since 1947. If you’re an aviation nerd (like me), or if you have kids, the diner is a no-brainer for breakfast, lunch or dinner. But even if you’ve never been to an aviation museum or flown a plane, the food is worth the trip. Standard fare like burgers is overflowing with fresh veggies. Fries are sparked up with sour cream and onion flavoring. The long-standing specials include Liver and Onions on Wednesdays, Surf and Turf Fridays and thick-cut prime rib on Saturday night. The service is attentive, polite and good-natured, with the servers casually chatting and swapping stories with customers.

The Interpretive Center, PX and Gift Shop shuts down at about 2pm each day, so make sure to arrive early if you want to do the tour. Breakfast is served until 1:45pm. Visit the website and navigate to the Restaurant page to find a printable coupon, good for $2 off your meal after 4pm. The Birthday Club Coupon offers discounts off group orders (15% off 2-6 meals or 20% for 7 or more people) and a free birthday dessert.

The Bomber Restaurant and Catering
3515 Southeast McLoughlin Boulevard
Milwaukie, OR 97222
(503) 659-9306

Weekend Trips from Portland- Waldport, Oregon

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Mon, 25 Apr 2011 18:58:00 +0000

When my parents first moved to Waldport, Oregon, I wasn’t too impressed. I wanted the bright lights of Lincoln City, the art-y district in Newport, or the sand dunes in Florence. A tiny fishing village with a population of 2,000? Er, no. Over time, Waldport won me over. The tiny town bustles in the summer season, and is lovely and quiet during the long winters, after the tourists leave. And the people are what make Waldport really special. Sparkling in the light of the chandelier, with the rain whipping the windows, we’ve enjoyed many a bowl of Cioppino, crab bisque or clam chowder and local beers, surrounded by my parent’s unique group of friends- a builder, a commercial fisherman and a photographer, to name a few.

Where to Stay in Waldport, Oregon

I wanted to focus on weekend trips to Waldport because with a three-hour drive from Portland, it’s unlikely that you’ll turn around and go back to Portland on the same day. There are several options for places to stay in Waldport. Your best bet is to find a house to rent on Bayshore (the oceanfront peninsula that rests across the bay from town) or in town. Look online and on craigslist to find these deals. The hotel on Bayshore has gone through several iterations and owners over the last couple of decades and we hear it will next be turned into a conference center. But it was never terribly impressive and not something I’d recommend to anyone. There are a couple of other motels and cottages for rent in town that have positive reviews online. If you visit one, let me know about your experience there.

Which Route to Take to Waldport from Portland? Pros and Cons of Routes 20 and 34

The drive from Portland to Waldport, which rests on the central Oregon Coast, takes about three hours. I recommend taking I-5 to Corvallis, then cutting across Corvallis to jump on one of the highways to the coast. You have a choice outside Philomath- you can take Route 20 and end up in Newport, then cruise down 101 via Seal Rock to Waldport. Or, you can take Route 34 and you’ll wind up right in Waldport.

The two roads have a couple of pros and cons. Route 34 is full of switchbacks as you cross over the pass, and the beautiful road is exhilarating to drive. You pass through tiny Alsea on the way and the general store is a must-stop for the locally made goat cheese. However, you’ll likely be without cell phone service for most of the drive. In addition, it isn’t at all uncommon to be stopped- and turned around- midway through your route due to flooding or a downed tree on Route 34. That happened to me so often in the early years (“You mean I have to drive all the way back to Philomath?!”) that for a long time, I avoided the road altogether.

Route 20 ensures you’ll have cell phone service for most of your drive, has lots of passing lanes, and even features a rest area about 20 miles outside of Philomath. The Waldport road doesn’t have a rest area. There might be a couple of working outhouses along the way but they look sketchy. Also, Route 34 doesn’t provide much in the way of passing lanes. If you get stuck behind some slowpokes, you’ll likely amble behind them for most of your drive.

Route 20 through Newport takes a few minutes longer, but the difference is negligible and the amenities (cell phone service and a rest area) might make it preferable for older travelers and families. Route 34 is just wickedly fun and wildly beautiful, so it’s a tough choice. Ideally, you’ll take one road out there, and another road home- that way you can experience both drives.

2011- Waldport's 100th Anniversary

In 2011, Waldport, Oregon celebrates its centennial. As with any town on the Oregon Coast, summer is the time to go. The 4th of July fireworks on the peninsula in the Bayshore neighborhood actually take place on July 3rd and if you go out for the week, you’ll find other fireworks displays in the neighboring towns on the days leading up to and after the Waldport fireworks. Waldport will likely have a couple of tricks up its sleeves for the town’s birthday, but really, there’s plenty of fun to be had in this tiny town (crabbing, fishing, beachcombing the vast beach, building driftwood homes) without any special reason to go.

the emergency key

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Fri, 08 Apr 2011 00:33:00 +0000

I am hanging at the local when my lovely scarlet-haired neighbor pokes her head into the restaurant. Hailing from the Deep South, Lana has a tendency to sweep into rooms and descend on people rather than affecting the boring, slinking-in entrances that I always seem to do. As usual, she’s sparkling.

Amid hello hugs and you-look-wonderfuls, I step back and take in her ensemble. “You look so cute,” I said, thinking: I have a blouse that’s similar to that.

“This is yours,” Lana said, noting my confusion. “I borrowed it from you.”

“Oh, ha,” I murmured, still puzzling: When did that transaction occur?

“You didn’t loan it to me,” she explained, checking out who was doing what in the tavern. “I used my key one day and went in and took it.”

Key, key, what key? The…You don’t mean…The emergency key?

“Lana, I gave you that key to use in case of a flood, or something,” I said, racking my brain for potential catastrophes. “A flood or a tornado or…something. An emergency.”

“It was an emergency,” she firmly explained. “I had a date and I didn’t have anything to wear.”

Emergency: A sudden, unexpected catastrophe (sometimes involving peril) that demands urgent action.

KMHD Portland Celebrates Count Basie

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Wed, 16 Mar 2011 02:00:00 +0000

KMHD Portland is one of the few remaining independent jazz stations in the country. Listen to them online (or download their app), and you won't be disappointed. This week, Count Basie is in the spotlight. Since it's public broadcasting, you won't just hear the music- you'll hear stories like I heard today, about how Basie was discovered.

My favorite show, hands down, is Lynn Darroch's Bright Moments on Friday afternoons. Lynn interviews jazz greats and plays his favorite picks and best of all, does his own spoken word, accompanied by visiting artists. Spoken word, you might scoff, I've heard that before and wasn't unduly impressed.

But Lynn Darroch's spoken word is different- it transports us back to another time and place, derived from Lynn's own memories about growing up in Portland. My only complaint? He isn't on the air enough and when he is on, he doesn't do enough of his own work.

Learn more at the website: KMHD 89.1 FM Jazz Radio in Portland.

An open letter to hotels about handicapped accessibility

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Fri, 28 Jan 2011 21:29:00 +0000

Another night in a handicapped accessible room at the Hilton and I’m still disappointed- and frustrated- at how inaccessible these “accessible” rooms really are. To wit:

Unless someone is in a wheelchair because they have a sprained ankle, it’s highly unlikely that they’ll be able to get in and out of a bathtub. Imagine that- you’ve come into the city for a relaxing weekend and arrive in your room only to find you won’t be bathing for a few days. Demo the bathtubs, and install a roll-in shower instead. The shower shouldn’t have a lip at the bottom, but should have a chair, and the shower should have a handheld sprayer, with easy to reach off and on and hot and cold knobs.

Sinks should be low enough for someone with a wheelchair to roll up and wash their hands. Toiletries and Kleenex should be at the front of the counter, within grabbing distance.

In a room with double beds, the area between the two beds should be wide enough to accommodate a wheelchair and a person standing next to the wheelchair. For all sleeping areas, easy to access bars should be alongside the bed on the wall. Even better? Install a pole from ceiling to floor about one-third of the way down from the headboard, with handgrips. This allows someone in a wheelchair to grab a handhold, lift themselves out of the chair, and pivot onto the bed. It doesn’t have to be fancy- PVC will work fine. Genius.

Beds should be low enough for someone in a wheelchair to roll up and easily get on-and off- the bed. A rubber floormat with sturdy grips is ideal next to the bed. This allows someone in a wheelchair to get their not-always-stable footing in a way that they are unable to do on your slippery carpets.

A desk chair isn’t really necessary. A desk a wheelchair can easily roll under, and a phone placed at the front of the desk works fine.

A small end table on rollers somewhere in the room gives handicapped visitors a place to easily access their cell phone, the newspaper and the television remote.

For your lobby bathrooms, your handicapped stalls are great. The towel dispenser placed 5 feet off the ground? Not so great, and not easily accessible to anyone in a wheelchair.

Dear hotel owners and operators, I don’t know if you’ve made the error of assuming that everyone in a wheelchair has someone to help them. You’ve definitely made it a requirement. I’d like to think you’ve just never tried accessing one of your handicapped rooms while in a wheelchair. Try it once. You’ll likely be flummoxed. And, you’ll probably find a dozen more ways that handicapped accessibility could be elevated in your hotel.

Beekeeper Classes in Portland

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Thu, 27 Jan 2011 20:16:00 +0000

If you've always wondered about beekeeping, and you'd like to learn more about the craft, LiveHoneyBees has come to the rescue. Throughout February and March, LiveHoneyBees will offer a series of classes designed for the urban and the suburban beekeeper.

Beekeeper Classes in Portland

The class will go on a swarm-catching adventure, and LiveHoneyBees will provide ongoing assistance as you learn how to become a beekeeper. You'll learn about hive types, site location, tools and equipment, year ‘round management, how to harvest honey—and much more.

Learn How to Become a Beekeeper

The beekeeper classes will be held in February and March in Portland. The classes consist of three Wednesdays, from 6-9 pm, catching a swarm, and 1 on 1 help for tending your bees.

1st Session Feb 16 includes hive siting, equipment and good neighbor coaching
2nd Session Mar 2 focuses on spring and summer bee tasks
3rd Session Mar 16 prepares you for fall and winter bee tasks
4th Session TBA covers swarm catching and start up support

Alternate dates also available. For more information, visit LiveHoneyBees, email Brian, master beekeeper or call 503.975.2391.

Oh…Canada. The longest kilometer part deux

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Fri, 21 Jan 2011 01:33:00 +0000

The Patriot Race is one of many challenges you’ll face when dating a Canadian. A skillful battle of wits (thrust, parry, stab and duck), the game is a true test of wills, with no boundaries or limitations. The rules of the Patriot Race are simple. No matter what aspect of the entertainment industry we’re discussing- music, art or film, suddenly, it turns out all of the superstars are from Canada:

Me: “Well, what about _________?”

“Canadian.”

“Well, I think…”

“Canadian.”

But don’t you think he…?

“Lived in Canada during his undergraduate years.”

“I’m quite sure that she…”

“Wants to be Canadian.”

Canada always thinks they’re in competition with the US. The US always forgets they’re up there.

the trip

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Thu, 02 Dec 2010 18:25:00 +0000

It would be hard to miss the look that passed over my significant other’s face, since he was looking right at me at the time…and mumbling. Mumbling about something that suspiciously sounded like a criticism of my oversized suitcase, my two tote bags and the extra plastic bag of shoes.

“What?”

“This just seems like…a lot.”

“Well, I’m going to be gone for a long time.”

“Right,” he agreed, huffing a little while dragging the bag up the sidewalk.

“Why? What are you bringing?”

“Couple of sweaters. A few t-shirts. Jeans.”

“That’s it? That’s all you’re bringing? For two weeks?”

“Yes,” he replied. “You know we can do laundry while we’re there.”

Right. Because that’s exactly what I want to do when I am traveling. Laundry.

And I don’t know if it’s men in general, or my guy in particular, but there’s a reason why we buy new clothes. And let me just point out here: I don’t really care for shopping. I hate the mall, and generally try to avoid any situation that ends up with me queuing up for long lines at cash registers, especially around the holidays.

But I love the end result.

My furtive online ordering, darting in and out of vintage stores and assorted “finds” over the years have somehow resulted in my being referred to, in some quarters, as, well, a clothes horse.

I admit it. I love pretty things. I don’t understand why things in the store, the catalog or on the web look better than what I already have in my closet. They just do.

And there’s something else about buying new clothes that any woman- and many men- can relate to. I’m not just buying a new outfit. When I shop for new clothes, I’m trying on a whole new me for size, too.
I’m imagining a whole new life for myself- in my new clothes. I don’t see the wan light of the fluorescent bulb in the dressing room at Macy’s.

I see soft candlelight, instead. No barren gray dressing room carpet or horribly unflattering mirrors are anywhere in my line of vision. Instead, I see soft sand and lightly tanned skin. Hands held across an ivory tablecloth, dotted with silver and crystal.

Khaki shorts and an ivory peasant top? I bought them for a romantic afternoon on the beach.

The glittery black jacket? Why, that’s for spur of the moment trips to New York or London.

Silver shoes? Gold heels? Also a necessity for the never-ending formal possibilities in my indistinct future.

But I got sand in my shorts. Haven’t left this time zone in more than a year. And I haven’t attended an opera or danced a waltz in more years than I can remember.

But when I’m trying on clothes, still, I can dream.

Meanwhile, the re-packing continues.

“Where are you going to wear this?” Puzzled, he holds a sequined black jacket aloft.

“That one stays,” I firmly tell him. “That one stays.”

suicide hill

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 18:22:00 +0000

The sentinels stood in a row, facing out over the city. The last one wheeled into place, gravel dust puffs spinning into the air. The tiny rocks scattered loudly and then settled. We stood there, silently, as an eternity passed. One of us might have been thinking about the girl he’d left behind. Another, silently contemplating his dog and the chores that needed doing at home. Elbow to elbow, we stared off into the distance. Leaning forward I rested my chin on my hand.

“It’s time,” I told my faithful sentries.

“No…”replied one of them. “It’s just too dangerous. We’ll never make it.”

The others were nodding. Shying away from destiny. Ducking responsibility. Embarrassed to look me in the eye.

“Look,” I patiently explained. “We have to do this. If we don’t…we’ll always regret it. We have to try, at least.”

They looked at me, waiting. Knowing that no one would go unless I went first, I took a deep breath and dug my toe into the ground.

“Wait!” yelled a member of my patrol. “I don’t know. I just…don’t think we should do it today. We can do it tomorrow.” The group smiled, relieved, and as one, started to turn.

I stood there, mourning the loss. Of the hot, dry afternoon and of the risk I thought we’d never take. Resigning myself to the inevitable, I flipped back the pedal on my bike and started to turn too, taking one last look over my shoulder.

Suddenly, I stopped. “No,” I said, my voice strangely loud in my ears. “It has to be done today.” Of an accord, the patrol nodded. Looking around, we took a collective deep breath and turned back around.

Suicide Hill. Of all the most dangerous stunts and hills we tore down on our fifth grade bicycles, Suicide Hill was by far the scariest. By far the most dangerous. The road was so steep, cars weren’t allowed to drive down it. The top of the road was closed off by guardrail. On the other side of the guardrail, the top of the hill was bisected by a narrow path, not wide enough to park a bike. The street shot straight down from the path.

Even as an adult, I’ve driven by Suicide Hill and it still looked scary.

And there were so many other, little, deaths happening that summer, too. As a group, we were changing. Growing up. Moving away from each other. Moving on. In another year, we’d be in junior high. Some of us would be in other junior highs across town. Even the upcoming year, the last year of elementary school, loomed large on the horizon. We didn’t know it yet, but by the end of sixth grade…Very few of us would still be friends.

And none of us would ever be the same, after that year.

But for this last summer, these final days of girls and boys, we were still the gang. And I was still the leader. And Suicide Hill, well, it was just one more set of monkey bars, a big climbing tree or a homemade raft to conquer. One more in my string of conquests, and the one that would be the jewel in my daredevil crown.

We had other hills we favored for bicycling. Big Jump Hill, Cherry Drop Hill and Lemon Drop Hill all gave us a taste of what we needed. But none of them quenched the thirst we had for Suicide.

And on that day, that day of days, we’d finally talked it to death. The only way I wasn’t going to ride my bike down Suicide Hill on that day was if someone committed suicide- or murder.

It was do or die time.

We were glorious that day. After so many stops at the top of the hill, it was no wonder that the final release, that final letting go- felt wonderful. There were moments in that high-speed seconds-long ride where we came close to tumbling, head over handlebars, in what would have surely been ugly, bloody, horrific accidents.

But not on that day. On that day, we flew, on battered bicycle wings, from the top of Suicide Hill to the bottom and beyond. On that day, we were beautiful.

the old lady

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Tue, 28 Sep 2010 19:59:00 +0000

Due to a variety of circumstances, my niece moved in with my parents a few months ago. That’s not such an unusual state of affairs; for as long as I can remember, my parents have taken in kids who needed some sort of respite. For years, when we were growing up, a variety of family friends with “bad situations” at home stayed at our house, sometimes for months on end. Comforting and warm, my parents always offered our friends stability and safety without judgment- it’s a quality that I aspire to and admire.

So when my niece packed in her own bad situation and decided to move forward with her life, it was a natural that she would phone my parents for help. And it was even more natural that they would invite her to stay. In addition to the healing and warm environment provided by my parents, it was also meant to be a time of reflection for my niece. Of looking behind, and beginning to look forward towards a new life, bright and full with promise.

However. In the midst of all of these life-altering moments, self-actualization and self evaluation, something else happened this summer.

Slowly but surely.

My niece is turning into her grandparents.

It’s inevitable, really. Everyone knows that when people spend time together, they often begin taking on each others’ personality characteristics. It’s just not something you’d expect, or could prepare for really, when your 19 year-old niece begins affecting mannerisms and habits of a couple well into their 70s.

And vice versa.

The transition started slowly, communing around the television. Lying around on the couch watching Iron Chef, and commenting on the judges.

“We think she’s sleeping with the chef!” piped my niece.

“Word!” my dad’s emphatic response.

My dad’s habit of repeatedly pausing movies, movies we are all watching, in order to provide an ongoing commentary of sorts, often renders me almost convulsive with impotent frustration. In my niece, he’s finally found a staunch ally.

“You know,” (pauses movie) “I thought that young fella, Heath Ledger, was quite an actor. He really knew what he was doing. Such a shame.”

“I really liked him in Batman, Grandpa. But I’m not sure about this movie.”

(pause)

“I love his tatts."

“Me too, grandpa.”

(pause)

“Applebee’s is a fine restaurant. You know you can always count on a good meal at Applebee’s.”

“I like their cheese sticks, grandpa.”

My health-conscious niece has even changed her eating patterns to match those of my septuagenarian parents. This started with eating seconds at dinner (“to get rid of leftovers”), and quickly morphed into eating dessert a fast 15 minutes later.

“I don’t mean to do it,” explained my niece. “But then grandma says ‘Bananas Foster’ and I start feeling hungry again.”

Mornings are as likely to begin with clouds over the coast as they are with Dutch pancakes and whipped cream. Lunch is also an extraordinary affair, as my father, sandwich-maker extraordinaire, artfully builds teetering reubens garnished with mom’s peanut butter cookies (now deftly made by my niece).

An enormous lunch means yawning faces everywhere, as my parents and my niece mumble “I’m just going to lie down for a minute,” not to resurface from their bedrooms for a couple of hours, when they stumble back out onto the assorted couches, interest piqued.

Because at 2pm in the afternoon, it’s time for my niece to reassess priorities and plan accordingly for the future, as much as anyone can.

“When’s dinner?”

Oh…Canada. (alternate title: the longest kilometer)

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Tue, 14 Sep 2010 01:17:00 +0000

Being in a long distance relationship has many challenges. And when your significant other lives in another country, the challenges are magnified. Especially when that country has a different way of measuring things.

Me: “How many miles is it to the store?”

Him: “Miles?”

Me: “Well, just tell me how many minutes it will take to get there.”

Him: “Minutes?”

Even trying to decide what to wear quickly becomes a struggle, when you’re dating someone who lives in Canada.

Me: “How hot is it going to be today?”

Him: “About 25.”

Me: “Should I bring a sweater?”

Him: “No. But tomorrow the temperature’s going to drop. So you’ll want to have your toque.”

Me: “What?”

Language barriers and metric systems aside, there’s something to long distance relationships. Something sweet and not yet explored by this writer. If you're considering a long distance relationship, or think you may come across any Canadians, stay tuned for more insights.

the uneasy A

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Wed, 08 Sep 2010 00:29:00 +0000

When I was in college, one of my favorite classes at Miami University was my Political Ideologies course. We read books like There Are No Children Here and Robert Reich and held heated classroom debates about Locke and Rousseau. My professor made the class special. His easygoing nature and insightful comments left us feeling wiser and well-informed- ready to conquer the many political landscapes laid out before us.

Ah, youth.

The professor had one policy that I disagreed with, however. If you were late to class on a day when a paper was due, your paper would automatically be docked 5 points. At this point in my college career, the classes for my majors (English and Political Science) all relied on papers, and they were usually a minimum of 7 pages long. Not something to be trifled with, especially by something so small as disrespecting your professor and your other classmates.

Right?

Inevitably, I was late on the day a paper was due. It wasn’t my fault, I explained to professor in his office after class. I was a.) out of gas b.) had to work and c.) confronted with a lot of traffic and a lack of parking spaces near the building.

“Piffle,” was his understated response. “You know my policy. You knew that the paper was due today, and that a late penalty applied. And you know, Lisa, when you begin your professional career, you can’t just show up late to meetings or presentations. Punctuality is important.”

But I had never had a “real” job at that point. And I certainly had no idea that one day, I’d be racing off to work an hour early to get to a meeting on time…all the while, remembering his sage words of advice.

So I argued.

I hotly debated.

And I stomped around his office, waving my arms.

My professor watched me with a puzzled look on his face, waiting until the end of my diatribe to calmly raise a hand. “You know, Lisa…it’s still an A.”

Perhaps. But as I explained to him then- and I still believe today- it’s the principle of the thing.

And isn’t that worth fighting for?

the conspiracy theory

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa) — Wed, 01 Sep 2010 17:49:00 +0000

A while ago I wrote about conspiracies. Laughed about them really, in a half-hearted way. Because on the whole, I think most of them are pretty silly. Hangar 18. Lake monsters. Fake moon landings. I mean, come on.

But lately, I’ve been a little more worried about information dissemination. I’m the first one to admit that I’ve looked up information on people I’m interested in. I’m amazed at how much information is available for free online. In a matter of minutes, you can find out someone’s current address, businesses they own or are employed by and of course, their criminal record. When I lived in Kentucky, I told potential suitors that if we’re going to go on date, you might as well disclose all of your speeding tickets- Because I will look you up on the clerk of courts website. And I did.

I dated someone who was pretty scrupulous about removing his name from the web. In fact, I only found one or two mentions of him online, on an association website. After I told him, I think he called them and asked that his name be removed. I’m not sure why, really. But like a friendly ghost, he prefers to hover behind the scenes, instead of accepting the inevitable Internet disclosure.

I find myself trying to be more cautious about what I say these days. I don’t know why. It’s not like anyone cares. But like that dealer in Pulp Fiction (“Cell phone! This is a Cell Phone!”), I’ve been loathe to disclose too many details over the phone- or over email.

Because although it probably sounds silly, lately, I’ve been worried that someone may be listening in. And I can’t help but wonder, in the age of information overload, if someday I’ll be sitting in a courtroom while my many transgressions, from phone calls to emails (I can’t even get into what I’ve written here) are read back to me.

Start thinking about who might be listening in and it never stops. In fact, it only gets a lot worse. I have an odd habit, when I meet someone who seems familiar, of asking them if they know me. As opposed to the more traditional “Do I know you?” And I’m loathe to expose someone that I think may know me but for some reason or another, may not want other people to know that they know me.

That’s some screwed-up logic, I know.