Ask most people who have lived here longer than their college years, and they will either shrug off the weather and suggest a raincoat or curse the rain with spitting invectives. (Just before they mention they have been here for 20 years.)

The truth is that most of us live here in spite of the rain. It’s annoying, persistent and depressing, but we endure because once the sun arrives, the pay off is worth it.

Well, that and there is a damn good chance we made the decision to move here in the summer when the weather is perfect. Unfortunately, the price of perfection isn’t revealed until the following March: To get to a magical Eugene summer, you need to get through spring. Eugene spring: the season of taunts and teases, yanking us from breathtaking adoration to crushing rejection.

It is sunny in Eugene right now, but when the rain returns — and it will — here is a reminder.

I had the opportunity to have grown up in a family with a deep faith. And although my view of God and the Divine has expanded to include concepts and ideas outside of traditional Christianity,  I am grateful for having experienced very early what it means to believe in something larger and more important than myself. It is that sense of being part of a larger purpose that continues to inform my days — if only to pull me back closer to sanity when I become shallow, self-absorbed and judgmental.

Over the last month, in a time of what feels like global darkness, I have taken up the challenge of actively looking for the Divine in my daily life. Forcing myself to take notice and absorb lightness and beauty.

At one point, I considered posting some of those moments to this blog. They are, after all, in Eugene. But it didn’t take me many days to realize that — at least for the time being — the Divine is spring and spring is DIVINE. Which, in practical terms means discovering beauty in bloom upon bloom upon bloom. Not exactly a narrative arc

I will post the collection here some day, but for the moment, I am sticking closer to the original intent of this photo blog: capturing the Eugene vibe. For me, nothing says Eugene quite like re-opening of Saturday Market and the accompanying bounty of the Farmer’s Market.

As far as embracing the Divine? I think I got it today.

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Thirty-five years back, there was a narrow gravel road a couple miles long heading up the mountain from Highway 138 outside of Ruch in southern Oregon. It led to an old logging road, which ran along the ridge above the place we called “the Homestead,” the pioneer stake of my aunt’s family. When I was a kid, I picked my way through the ruins of their long ago burned cabin and happily carried away the remnants of settlers’ lives—brown and blue glass bottles, rusted food tins, pieces of broken tools, and, best of all, the hand-forged square nails that poked out of the ashes, links to a mysterious past. Ultimately though, the cabin’s treasures were an amusement, an add-on to the true adventure. We—my three siblings and our parents—came to the Homestead in search of morel mushrooms.

While there is no small amount of disagreement among mushroom experts as to what is or isn’t a true morel, people who care about such things generally agree that at least two major groups exist in the Pacific Northwest: those with ribs that darken to gray or black with age and those whose ribs are cream to tan at maturity. At the Homestead in early March, we were on the hunt for the tan variety: “Naturals” as they are known in current hunting circles. These morels didn’t get more than a couple of inches tall and ranged in color from toasty, sawdust brown to pale gray. The ridges were lighter than the pits and like all morels, the cap was hollow, the bottom fully attached to the stem, which was usually colored like the cap but much lighter. But most importantly for us, among the more than 190 species and subspecific taxa of the genus Morchella, the cone-shaped treasure of my childhood, Morchella Esculenta, is arguably the most delicious of all wild mushrooms that grow in the U.S.

Barring a major change in environment, morels come back. In Oregon and Washington, they come back to logging skids and stands of oak and forest fire burn sites. But they don’t stay long. Each year after the first warm rains, my father would begin to check his indicator spots and eventually come home to announce, “I found mushrooms today.” The hunt was on. From that first sighting until the last dark, dry caps of the high mountains shriveled away, we went from hillside to forest in search of morels. The Homestead was always first.

As soon as we made the turn off the old highway, one of us was put in charge of leaning out of the car window to listen for the logging trucks that came barreling fully loaded down the hillside. As soon as we arrived, my two brothers and I would scatter into the woods—my little sister sticking closer to my mom. Our knowledge of the landscape precluded any fear of being alone. Moving with my head down, I looked for devil’s puffballs, shooting stars, lambs ears, bleeding hearts—all evidence that this spring’s mix of sun and rain and temperature, warm and wet but not too much of either, was perfect. All of us were looking for the same thing: the mother lode of mushrooms, and with it bragging rights for the day.

I’ve discovered morels sprinkled under giant oaks, snuggled under tick-laden manzanita, perched along the edge of logging roads, squished under the branches of fallen trees, in droves, in patches and alone.  I’ve seen morels, for example, stretching down an entire hillside. I have gathered them in handfuls and armloads, filled bread sacks, hauled garbage bags, stuffed metal-framed backpacks. I’ve been loaded down with so many that the weight of the haul threatened to topple me as I skidded down steep hillsides. When the mushroom gods were smiling, we would carry out 30 or 40 pounds of mushrooms.

I have also walked for miles and come away with one sad reward, battered and disintegrating at the bottom of a plastic bag.

No matter the number, once home sliced them in half lengthwise and soaked them in salted water, we spread them on towels and patted them dry. My mother dredged them in salt and pepper spiced flour, fried them in butter in a cast iron skillet, and dropped them onto a paper towel to drain. We ate them standing at the stove, sucking air to cool them as we shifted them around on our tongues. There was no such thing as full

When I was in junior high, the logging road became a paved road that led to the driveway of a new house. When the gouges in the land from the new construction were left to winter over, we would walk along the churned up dirt, knowing that some morels thrive in such upheaval. More houses were built. It was difficult to find an inconspicuous place to park. Dogs announced our arrival. One time to many, we came back to notes on the windshield from California transplants warning us of legal action if we continued to encroach on their property. We moved our efforts up the old highway a mile or so to the O’Brien’s place. Their farm was the easiest access point to the federal land beyond it.

For as long as they lasted, morels made their way into our meals: sauteéd with onions and venison; floating in creamy soups; stuffed in peppers. When there were too many to eat in a couple of days, my mom dried them and put them in gallon jars in the pantry to add to soups and stews, no longer a centerpiece but a sly addition. To my way of thinking, it’s best to reject dried morels. They are no closer to the real thing than raisins are to grapes. Better to live without than to suffer the reconstituted version in heavy wine sauces and gourmet soups, waiting in vain for the flavors of the mountain to come forth.

When the O’Brien’s got too old and sold their property, permission to cross their land went with them. “Those new owners don’t know what a mushroom is,” my father grumbled, “but they know they don’t want us to have them.” He tried to make arrangements with other people whose land butted up against the hunting grounds. A few were okay with hikers, but none would agree to people taking “their” mushrooms. Eventually, we parked on the old highway just out of sight of the old O’ Brien place and, as soon the coast seemed clear, sprinted across the road, over the barbed wire fence and up the hill to the BLM land.

At some point, the meals of my childhood became four-star menu descriptions: “Tonight we are serving wild venison with morels in a blackberry reduction sauce.” Commercial harvesting of wild edible mushrooms, in particular matsutake, hit its stride and from hundreds of miles away, I read of thousand dollar harvests and murders over hunting grounds.

My father still kept track of the season, now watching the hillsides of his own land, waiting for the smell of the dirt and the oak leaves warming. He and my sister head out each spring. This past Easter, I was lucky enough to be there when the mushrooms gods were smiling. Two hours after we spotted the first gem, we were gathered around the stove snagging the crisp-fried morsels with little pockets dripping with butter just as fast as they came out of the skillet. When I got back to Eugene (with my split of the remaining mushrooms) I saw morels at Market of Choice for $49.00 lb. My sister and I figured that our Easter feast had topped $200 without ever leaving the stove and we each went home with about the same. I didn’t even consider selling them.

It’s the perfect blend of whimsy and gambling. Enough to get me out of the house in the rain even when nobody else wanted to go with me.

Really though, how can you not love those goofy yellow ducks bobbing down the rapids. Somehow they always look like they are so thrilled to be released from the confines of the bathtub, living the Oregon outdoor life. Whoo Hooooo!

Ok. Enough silliness. It’s a great cause. It’s great visual entertainment. And you just might win a car.

FYI: I am pretty sure the lone duck seemingly unclear about the RACE aspect of the event was mine.

If anyone has any info on RawKrew, featured here as ambient performers at the Eugene Celebration, send it along.

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If you were in the right place at the right time on Sunday morning, you could have added your own, “So Eugene, I love it!” to the chorus of drivers, runners and pedestrians who stopped to gape at (and cheer for) the 20 or so intrepid bicyclists, hauling an entire household along the paths and streets of Eugene.

The bicycle devotees  — who came on their bikes with trailers or cargo hauling capacity — began their journey at what appeared to be a moving sale in the front yard of Steve and Annette Leibhardt and their two children. But this was no moving sale. This was Bike Move, the Eugene equivalent of an Amish Barn Raising. Tons of work, and tons of fun.

The starting point: West Amazon. The destination: Marion Dr. off of River Road. A total of 6.5 miles across four zip codes.

Together they hauled everything from mattresses to furniture, to appliances, to electronics, to packing boxes. Everything that usually gets dragged onto a truck and driven.

Kids and adults alike carried giant loads, and every conceivable bicycle hauling method was represented. The only thing bigger than the loads were the smiles as the crew rolled north along the Amazon Path to High St. and traversed westward on 11th through the Fair traffic to Monroe, one of Eugene’s Bicycle Boulevards. The group headed north into the heart of Eugene, the Whiteaker Neighborhood, and connected with the River Path system.

The band of Bike Movers made two trips over the course of the day. Roughly 400 bike miles were logged (with no injuries). Local Oakshire beer and Mezza Luna pizza were waiting as the final group rolled in weary from the road.

Many of the onlookers offered their help for the next Bike Move in Eugene. If you’re interested contact Paul Adkins at paul@eugenegears.org.

When a friend of the Groove began singing the praises of the Summer in the City program on Broadway, she was met with no small amount of cynicism. Here we go again with another ill-fated attempt to solve DOWNTOWN. (The word forever doomed to be accompanied by the Law & Order Dun Dun).

Ah, the bittersweet taste of crow. To be so wrong yet have so much fun doing it.

We’ve been to three different downtown events this year — Dodgeball for the Cure, Circus Circus and now Open Studio — and each has been a delightful amalgam of Eugeneness — which means, of course, accompanied by great music. This week it was Jazz Station/Willamette Jazz Society with SoulJazz

Open Studio offered the opportunity for visitors to both watch art being created and take part in their own versions. From paint by number murals to collage postcards to linoleum block printing to sheep’s wool felting, artists brought their talent and their teaching skills to share and from one table to another the experience was free flowing and magical.

If you missed it, take a moment for a pang of regret and make a note to get there next year, which I certainly hope there will be.

But just in case you can’t join the Groove and get past that “Downtown Sucks” mentality, Summer in the City be found scattered about town each week. Music. Movies. Breakfast at Bridges. River Festivals. (FYI: The Sunday evening concerts in Washburne Park are a step back in time, in a good way!)

Do yourself a favor, get out and celebrate Summer in the City. Check here for upcoming events.

If you get a chance, thank these local folks for making a difference in Eugene.

DIVA
MECCA
Jerry Ross
Betsy Wolfston
Imagine Gallery
New Zone Gallery
Vistra Framing & Gallery
City of Eugene Art A La Cart
Jordan Schnitzer Museum of Art
Eugene Storefront Art Project
12th Ave Collaborative
Oregon Art Supply
Brian Walker
Dean Slatsky

What can I say about the Whiteaker Block Party? You were either there for some part of the nine-hour extravaganza or you are looking at the photos and wondering whether you should have braved the heat and crowds and open containers to take a walk on the wild side.

Hard to say. The scene was not for everyone — explaining some of the art to kids is definitely not for the weak at heart — but if you wanted three blocks full of four (or was it five?) stages of great local music, stellar cart food and more tats per square foot than any other neighborhood in Eugene, it was the place to be.

The things worth the trip, for the record:

1. Devour Roast Beef Sandwich.
2. SeaBell.
3. Eddo Vegan Ice Cream Sandwich.
4. Beat Crunchers.
5. Eugene Storefront Art Project
6. Great chocolate chip cookies from an old school hippie
7. That dinosaur RV thingy with the roof deck.
8. Every damned utili-kilt on every guy with kickass boots.
9. Every crazy ass hat that got sported up and down the ‘hood.
10. The tats.

One additional location of awesomeness: Izakaya Meiji Company, the new Japanese restaurant next to Red Barn. (An Izakaya serves the Japanese version of tapas.) Meiji opened at 6 p.m. in the middle of the Block Party. HUGE RISK, but the food was good. The service was good. Wonderful addition.

Publication on the Internet is permanent and endless and people out enjoying Eugene, no matter how public the event, don’t do so expecting to end up on a blog.

Okay, so back to the delay excuses. The other barrier is the circus. The real circus, I mean. The one where they parade animals around in circles and fly through the air with the greatest of insanity and dress up like clowns. Clowns. Yuck. I see the word “circus,” and ptttth. Nothing.

But, the truth is, the delightful, family-friendly Summer in the City event was about as far from the Big Top as it could get. In a good way. Fun, interactive, community building, animal-free. And the balloon-making clown was delightful.

Maybe next year they could call it a carnival.