You can hear that lonesome whistle blow

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For some reason, humans love the idea of travel. The Germans named it wanderlust.

Perhaps it fits with the philosophy that life is a journey. There can be no journey without travel.

Thousands of stories, poems and songs have been devoted to the topic. Many focus on loneliness and a desire to return home, but others are a celebration of simply being in motion

Though trains proved important in all parts of the world, the American experience was more intense than others.
Trains allowed western expansion to move ahead much more rapidly. Able to transport anything necessary to make life comfortable tamed the frontier and brought all of the comforts of civilization to the wilderness.

My grandfather was a railroad man. He served as a dispatcher in Columbus, Ohio during the first half of the 20th century.

Railroads ruled in those days. The nation was completely criss-crossed by tracks. Millions of tons of cargo, plus millions of passengers, moved freely between the states from coast to coast.

As the wife of a railroad man, my grandmother was allowed free passage on trains. She was permitted to bring children under five along for free, so my two sisters and I each had a trip just before our fifth birthdays.

I was rather frightened of my grandmother, and don’t remember much about my trip – if it scarred me for life, the wounds are all beneath the surface and relegated to my subconscious.

I do recall my younger sister’s arrival back at the station after her turn. She was in braids – and in tears. Apparently, grandma spent most of the trip weaving those tight braids, ruining any chance for my sister to enjoy the ride.

All of our family trips were by car, so the only train rides I had for the succeeding 20 years or so were at Disneyland.
I finally had the opportunity to go cross-country by rail in about 1979. I rode the Southwest Chief from Albuquerque to Chicago.

I was impressed by the large seats and had no trouble sleeping in the reclined position. I grew used to the rhythms of motion and sound and walked from one end of the train to the other many times.

I made some acquaintances, usually in the observation car. We talked about travel, mostly, and often just sat and looked out at the passing landscape. It was less intimate than air travel where one can be seated, shoulder-to-shoulder, with strangers throughout the trip.

I enjoyed watching the Great Plains drift by, but was disappointed that there was nothing to see during the dark of night. The periodic stops held little appeal and I lost interest in the routine of passengers getting off and on.
My greatest disappointment was discovering that the tracks are usually located in rather dingy and nondescript parts of towns and cities.

There was no way, other than by disembarking, to get a look at the beauty, culture or history of a city – each looked about the same as the others from a seat in the train.

I felt somewhat voyeuristic, looking into the back yards of people who lived by the tracks. I wondered how well they could adjust to the passing of trains several times each day.

I live a mile or so from railroad crossings today and enjoy the distant sound of horns signaling trains’ approach. But I don’t believe I’d find it so romantic if the engine were only a few hundred feet from my house.

In the end, my trip became rather boring. I started to resent the fairly frequent stops and increasingly looked forward to my arrival. It was a one-way trip and I was glad I didn’t have to take the train back.

Though trains remain an important part of commerce and are still the choice for thousands of travelers, I can’t help but feel a bit sad about their diminished status.

Once considered a miracle for their speed and comfort, trains are now viewed as slow and inconvenient.
Even in our valley, where many destinations lie along the Santa Fe, most of us give no thought to the notion of traveling by rail.

And, of course, on my year-long trip, I'm among millions of others who travel the highways of North America in private vehicles. It would be possible to use trains, busses and taxis; but i gave no serious thought to doing so. I cherish the freedom provided by having ones own wheels.

I’ll blame it on my grandmother. Maybe I do have an aversion to rail travel because of that first train ride, when I was four.

A trip takes you

One of the first caveats put forth by John Steinbeck in “Travels with Charley” goes like this:

"A trip…has a personality, temperament, individuality, uniqueness. A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike.
And all plans, safeguards, policing and coercion are fruitless.
We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us."

I hoped that yesterday’s side-trip to the top of the Olympic Peninsula would be a case in point. The five-day weather forecast indicated a weather front was moving in and that I should act immediately or deal with rainy weather later in the week. I was eager to avoid stormy weather; and I was looking for some magic that would transform a lovely drive into adventure.

I have, from time to time, attempted to detect my current trip’s temperament, to become familiar with its personality, even to adapt to or accommodate its individuality.

When something catches my eye, I’ve entertained the notion that my road muse might be trying to tell me something. On occasion, I’ve responded to these observations as if they were directives and have changed course abruptly in hopes of being led somewhere unexpected and wonderful.

Some of these trip-induced decisions have resulted in interesting discoveries; but others have seemed more like wild goose chases (see below).

Yesterday’s trip north was pleasant enough, but the weather never broke. As morning turned into afternoon, it became evident that this was not going to be a great day for bright colors and warm temperatures.

I toured Bremerton and then Port Townsend by car, taking short walks near the docks, by the point, and a shorter one by the county courthouse; but I never ventured too far from the shelter of my Saturn.

I shot plenty of photos; but the gloomy skies precluded the kind of images that would do justice to the landscape.

It was too cold for shirtsleeves and too warm for my light jacket – one of those can’t-get-comfortable afternoons punctuated, despite the forecast, by sprinkles and light showers.

Refusing to give up hope that this little day-trip would somehow lead me to unforeseen adventure, I turned homeward, still scanning the countryside for some clue that would signal opportunity.

It wasn’t long before I arrived at the Jefferson County Airport where, I noted, the pilot’s café was named “The Spruce Goose.”

Having been in the belly of Howard Hughes’ original “Goose” less than two weeks ago at the air museum in McMinnville, Oregon, I considered the possibility that this newfound “Goose” might put food in my own belly and lead to something more than just a late lunch.

Safely parked near the café, I grabbed my camera and PDA. I was ready for some food and a respite from driving and I had high hopes. Who knew what adventure might await me inside the Spruce Goose?

Well, I enjoyed a tasty burger and a frosty glass of root beer, all the while straining my ears to overhear something of particular interest from the half-dozen other patrons.

I kept one eye on the runway, hoping to see Bill Gates arrive in a jet or helicopter from his digs on the other side of the Puget Sound; and I scanned my surroundings for the next clue – trusting that my trip would deliver something of interest.

Then, it began to rain for earnest. The temperature dropped and the road home began to look longer and longer. Having not found adventure at the Spruce Goose Café, I raced to the shelter of my car, tucked my camera away and put my PDA back in GPS mode.

No longer interested in suggestions from the trip, I focused on taking the shortest possible path between Jefferson County and the Tacoma Narrows.

Sometimes, it seems, a trip is just a trip – enjoyable, but not magical.

Be in it

About a quarter of a century ago, the National Recreation and Park Association adopted a marketing strategy that had become popular in South Australia.

The goals were simple: to engender interest in recreation. The strategy was based on four, one-syllable words: Life. Be in it.

That was the golden age of public recreation. Civil unrest that began in the '50s led politicians to seek ways to appease segments of the population that had previously been overlooked.

In addition to education, nutrition, jobs and health programs, many communities upgraded and expanded leisure services.

Playground programs were opened on thousands of school grounds; community centers were built; and tens of thousands of college students found part-time and seasonal employment. I was among those ranks of idealistic young people.

Several years later when it appeared on the scene, I confess that I wasn't very excited by the slogan: Life. Be in it. It seemed reminiscent of Madison Avenue sales campaigns - - catchy, but not really substantive, selling the sizzle rather than the steak.

By the time the idea migrated from Down Under to the U.S., I was director of my city's recreation program and was in a position to ignore the campaign. And I did.

But as the years have passed, that silly slogan has done exactly what it was designed to do: it has resonated in my mind and caused me to think about leisure and leisure activities.

As a student and as a practitioner, I learned to make a distinction between "leisure activities" and "recreation activities."

My training and experience leads me to believe that benefits result from wholesome and productive pursuits; conversely, I'm convinced that negative, unhealthy and destructive activities can not only degrade one's quality of life, but can be harmful to communities and society as a whole.

Considered a bit of a prude by some, I've spoken out against such leisure activities as gambling, drug use and a host of other pursuits (including a significant percentage of television viewing) that lack redeeming qualities.

Even the short and general list offered above has no doubt polarized some readers, so I won't press the negatives any further.

But I will mention an uplifting experience I had this past weekend while dining at a Portland-area retirement complex.

An entertainer named David Harris performed during the meal, playing guitar and singing favorites mostly from the '50s and '60s. He was well-received and played for a full hour.

Later, as he began packing his equipment, Frances Gustafsson, who is one of the residents, sat down at a nearby piano and played a reprise of one of Harris' numbers.

Obviously delighted by the tribute, Harris moved to the piano and added his voice to the mix. A few audience members gathered around the pair with broad smiles brought forth by the collaboration.

In my mind's ear, I could hear a clarinet, trumpet or saxophone chime in, and envisioned other musicians adding their voices and instruments to a jam session.

This brought that phrase to mind. Life. Be in it.

A singer created the moment and a pianist responded; the two of them created something greater than the sum of the parts and an opportunity opened for more of us to get involved.

Those with limited performance skills contributed to the experience by smiling, tapping our toes and displaying our appreciation between numbers.

Since other performers did not come forward, the duo collaborated in just three or four numbers before Harris returned to his packing and Ms. Gustafsson stepped down from the keyboard.

But, it was a special ten minutes. An added attraction made possible because two kindred spirits refused to let the opportunity pass and followed a simple command: Life. Be in it.

Travels with Sue

My younger sister is a character.

Like all of us Burkes, of course, Sue is very bright. During her early childhood, this genius was manifested by an amazing imagination.

She always comes to mind when one particular design of electrical transmission tower comes into view.

Yesterday, I saw a whole gallery of power lines connected to generating stations along the Columbia River. And they reminded me of Sue.

What’s a whole gallery? Well, more on that later…

One day, during a family vacation in the western United States, my little sister took note of the power lines and standards that stretched from horizon to horizon and shouted, “Cats!”

The structures unarguably resembled felines; and, thus, a connection between travel, towers and memories of Sue was forever implanted in my mind.

She had an invisible friend, named “Blue-Tee”. The name was assigned, I suspect, because Sue’s favorite color was blue.

Blue-Tee had a way of making her – or his – presence known at opportune moments that often broke the monotony of otherwise dull hours.

The English language is rich and pretty comprehensive; but Sue was constantly engaged in expanding and improving upon it.

She was aware of “standard” pronunciations but felt compelled to restructure words more to her taste – or maybe she did it just to amuse Blue-Tee…

For example, she enjoyed reading Life “MAZ-a-geen” and reported that Robin Hood fought with a “BARE-in-oh.”

But my favorite “Sue-ism” was actually based on real life experience. That’s real life as portrayed on television, of course.

TV was a fairly new phenomenon when we were kids and a favorite program was “The Howdy Doody Show.”

A studio audience of children attended each show and was housed in bleachers that Buffalo Bob called “the Peanut Gallery.”

After watching the program, Sue began to refer to any collection of items that reached a certain critical mass as “a whole gallery.”

Had I the level of interest in word usage that grew in me later, I might have asked her just how many … er … crows on a phone line, for example … it would take to constitute a “WHOLE gallery” or I might have posed the simpler question, “Sue, is there ever a number that would comprise PART of a gallery – as in, “Look! There’s about a HALF GALLERY of unread mazagines.”

I have other fond recollections of travel Chevy Suburban we used for family vacations.

Not only was there a large back seat, but also ample room behind that seat. And one of us could opt to join our parents on the wide bench up front.

I remember riding shotgun one day on a country road. The windows were open and my attention was drawn to what sounded like singing.

It was singing – Sue was leaning out the backseat window behind me, making up lyrics to describe the passing landscape.

I’d love to be able to play a tape of the little concert she performed into the onrushing wind, but you’ll have to settle for the following approximation:

“….and we’re passing by some cows
and a long wooden fence.
“…and a telephone pole
and another and another.
“Now we’re coming to a hill”

You get the idea.

This very literal, but timely tune should have been recorded. As should Sue’s pièce de résistance: another original song –well, the melody may be familiar to some of you.

The lyrics were obviously inspired by climate control levers on the dashboard of the Chevy.

During her performance, Sue was located between our parents, so I had to lean over the seat to make out the words, which went like this:

“Fan, defroster, heat and air…
“Fan, defroster, heat and air…
“Fan, defroster, heat and air…
“Fan, defroster, heat and air…”

It was a classic that resonates for me today just as it did 45 or so years ago.

It occurs to me that anyone who is searching for meaning in life may need only to explore the multiplicity – and simplicity – of solutions offered by the fan, defroster, heat and air.

Such is the genius of my little sister.

Do you want more examples? I have lots more… In fact, I have a whole gallery!

Me and John Steinbeck

Oregon still has plenty of storefront booksellers with current hits on display out front and shelves of used books in the back that emit a wonderful musty odor and create inviting labyrinths in which literature lovers can become lost.

The second such store I visited last week had a pristine paperback copy of John Steinbeck’s “Travels with Charley” that was mine for around six bucks. No sales tax in Oregon.

I had been more than a little disappointed late last year when I checked a copy of the book out of the Merced County Library. After skimming and scanning the contents, I concluded that by the time he wrote this book, the great writer was at least a borderline alcoholic.

As has apparently been the case with other novelists who have suffered from the curse, liquor didn’t keep Steinbeck from creating prose at levels this poor writer will never reach; but, when it came to “Charley,” I suspected that booze affected the writer’s judgment a bit and his objectivity more than a bit.

I thought I also detected a slant in the message – it seemed to me that Steinbeck took a load of biases and preconceptions on the road with him and that his writing provides pretty clear evidence that those lenses distorted his observations and conclusions.

Mostly, however, I was saddened by the fact that getting out among the people failed to bring the author out of his funk. He was not, as Labor Day and the start of his trip approached in 1960, a very optimistic student of the human condition. In fact, much of the optimism reflected in earlier works of fiction seemed to be missing; he displayed strong and uncomplimentary opinions about changes that had taken place over the intervening two or three decades. He seemed to me to be more than a little disgruntled, even at the outset of his trip.

By the end of his journey, an ending he rushed through as if he had given up all hope of finding the true-blue American spirit that he sought, it seemed to me that Steinbeck was more cynical and pessimistic than ever.

I repeat that I rushed through the book – particularly the last chapters. I felt as eager to be done with it as the author seemed to be. And, in my haste, I no doubt missed all nuance and any subtext that may have offered avenues for a brighter interpretation than the broad strokes seemed to be describing.

Now, with a personal copy in hand, and time available to do it more justice, I’ve begun a new study of the popular, but not highly acclaimed little book that isn’t really a travelogue nor is it purely a social commentary, nor an autobiography.

At the beginning of this re-evaluation, I can already conclude that the work offers much more to me than I initially believed; it is a font of ideas. Steinbeck sees a wide landscape and often packs an enormous amount of content into very few words; a more deliberate reading is giving me a lot to think about.

Whether he managed to find meaning from his search or not, the master has identified many interesting questions. Within and between the lines are listed dozens of topics and even whole areas of inquiry; Steinbeck seems to be inviting me to take my own look, in my own time – through my own lenses.

As a fellow writer, albeit of far less skill and accomplishment, I feel challenged to use my own journey and my own context and my own little voice, to share what I find with any who are willing to give me a read.

Six weeks ago, I decided that Wandering Dave is not a new invention, that my job was not to portray a character; but rather that the man portrayed in the cartoon is the same person also known as David Burke.

Today, I’m committing myself to accept the challenge that seems to me to have been laid down by John Steinbeck when he was my age and arrived at the following conclusion:

I did not know my own country. . . I had not heard the speech of America, smelled the grass and trees and sewage, seen its hills and water, its color and quality of light. I knew the changes only from books and newspapers. But, more than this, I had not felt the country for twenty-five years. In short, I was writing of something I did not know about, and it seems to me that in a so-called writer this is criminal.

I believe that Steinbeck knew, but didn’t say that a big part of the pulse he wanted to take at age 58 was his own. By understanding where and from whom he came, he thought he would gain valuable insight into whom and what he was as a person. I know my own search is at least as much a search for myself as for what I’ll see along the road.

Speaking of the road, I don’t believe this sharpened focus represents any kind of detour from the path set forth at the beginning. As I see it, we’ve just picked up another Travel Partner, admittedly without his agreeing to serve in that capacity.

Those of us who put words on paper (or in cyberspace) risk creating followers, emulators and others who hopefully carry our ideas to higher levels. With no delusions about the likelihood of anyone concluding that I may be able to build on John Steinbeck, I still claim the right to try.

And I hope you’ll ride along and be part of that attempt.

If you are interested and willing, you can play an active part in developing the “Steinbeck Connection.” Participate in a discussion thread set up for that purpose on the Wandering Dave Forum: http://daveburke.proboards89.com/index.cgi?action=display&board=blog&thread=1174537898

Cards and letters

For a few glorious months, back in 1974, the man you know as Wandering Dave remained in one place long enough to become slightly famous.

He was in Colorado, where country was king – in the great San Luis Valley and on the air at radio station KGIW. It was “Dave Burke’s KGIW Country Fan Club” and from 6 to 11 p.m. I ruled the air waves.

Now, during evening hours, the audience count was low – but that’s not to say non-existent. Advertisers preferred daytime hours when radios were left on all day in kitchens, vehicles and businesses all over the valley – so I had very few “spots” during my show. Competing with prime-time television, I had few illusions that I could do much to grow an audience; so I decided to make the best of the one I had.

I correctly suspected that on-air personalities at KGIW rarely received what could be termed “fan mail.” Their names were known around the valley, but they didn’t attract autograph hounds or groupies.

So, I decided to employ a strategy that might generate some attention. Since my talent, knowledge of music, skill as a broadcaster and other measures of “star quality” were rather low, I employed the only avenue to fame that remained available to me: I sought my audiences’ pity.

Surprisingly, it worked!

The second night I was on the air I announced that I had arrived at the studio a half hour early so I could read and respond to my fan mail.

“I guess the mailman skipped the station today,” I whimpered into the microphone. “Because I didn’t get a single letter.”

Each succeeding night I explained my strategy for managing what I predicted would be a flood of mail – once problems with the post office were cleared up. I described in detail how the poor mail carrier would have to bring several of those huge mail sacks into the studio.

After a few days of this, I allowed a hint of foreboding into the mix. I added a tone of anxiety to my discussion of the fan mail situation. I repeated the station’s mailing address often enough that I must have sounded desperate.

I was on the air six days a week. When I showed up for work after my first Sunday off, I was handed THREE letters. That’s right THREE.

They were addressed to me: Dave Burke’s KGIW Country Fan Club. And though I could tell that others in the station were very curious, the letters had not been opened.

Thank goodness.

The messages – largely from children, it seemed – continued to come in for several days. They typically included language resembling the following:

• Here is your fan letter…
• Don’t worry, it probably took a while before the other KGIW
announcers began receiving letters…
• I am your fan…
• You sound so sad…
• You are my favorite radio star…

OK, many of you are probably thinking, “how pathetic.”

But I’ll take it. For a week or so back in 1974 I was the only radio personality in the San Luis Valley receiving fan mail every day.

I was slightly famous.

In the presence of greatness

Not all of Oregon’s pioneers arrived during the 19th century. Saturday afternoon, I shook hands with a real-live 20th century aviation pioneer in the city of McMinnville. It was an interesting few seconds that I’ll remember.

I’ve met a lot of “can-do” people. They have drive, energy, a sense of purpose and an intensity that inspires, awes, intimidates or angers others. The room changes when a member of this club— the “movers and shakers”— enters.

Delford Smith, founder of Evergreen Aviation is in a different category. No, he possesses all of the above and more. In his late 70s he still can “do” with the best of them.

But Smith is also a longtime member of the “could-do, and did” club. That’s a considerably smaller group. While in the presence of this man I felt a sense of history, a feeling that a man’s destiny had been achieved.

Admittedly, that’s my reaction after only about 12 seconds of relatively uninterrupted interaction with this man who has overcome adversity from birth forward and has created positive change on a worldwide scale.

Those seconds passed by in a flash, from my friend Jim Ray saying, “Del, I’d like you to meet...” to my rather forced, “It’s an honor to have met you, sir.” Just around 12 seconds.

That kind of statement, including words like “honor” and “sir” doesn’t usually come to my mind. I’m an egalitarian and though I do follow protocol and will defer to the aristocrats among us in order to avoid controversy or conflict, I tend to balk when called upon to pay homage to the notion that not all of us truly are created equal.

I knew very little about Delford M. Smith before we met two days ago. And he said nothing that could have revealed the man inside his expensive black suit. But the way those around him seemed to be energized by being in his presence indicated to me that this was a very different kind of encounter.

Now, I’m not easily star-struck. I’ve been in the presence of greatness before— and I won’t say that I’d blindly follow Smith, or any one else for that matter. But that 12-second contact has left me with a growing desire to get a little more of the same.

Yep, I’d like to hang out with this guy for a while. No doubt I’d discover plenty that I don’t like about him; but I’m just as sure that time spent in his company would benefit me.

Placed in an orphanage shortly after his birth, Smith has made his way along a rocky road.

He was adopted before his second birthday; but his new father was killed just three months later.

Though penniless, his mother refused to give up her child. She worked in a glove factory and took laundry into their one-room house that ironically had no running water and was heated only by a wood stove.

As his mother’s health began to fail, Smith took on more and more responsibility. He gathered coal that fell from trains and sold it for pennies; and he maintained three newspaper routes, sold ice, worked in a kennel and caddied on weekends.

At seven, he managed to obtain a bank loan and to start his first business. The loan amount was $2.50; that purchased a lawn mower. By working hard he managed not only to pay back the loan but also to save money for the down payment on a home for his mother and to fund his college tuition.

You get the idea.

This man went on to serve his country in the Air Force and later to found aircraft companies that changed— and continue to change— the world.

Through it all, he maintained a commitment to doing good. His partner, Dean Johnson was killed in a plane accident. But Smith carried on, dedicating himself to helping others both inside and outside of the context of his companies.

His young son, Air Force Captain Michael King Smith, died before age 30 in an auto accident, and the father managed to channel his grief into a project that will enrich the lives of millions and, no doubt, inspire hundreds of young Americans to serve their country.

He built the Evergreen Aviation Museum and Captain Michael King Smith Educational Institute, a project his son had been instrumental in developing and one near to the hearts of both men.

To ensure that the world would come to McMinnville, Oregon to honor his son, Smith acquired Howard Hughes’ Spruce Goose and transported it from Long Beach California.

This historic aircraft, which flew just once shortly after the end of World War II, shares space with a half-hundred other aircraft in a huge building near the city airport.

Next to this building, another giant structure is about to open. Here, visitors will celebrate aviation and space exploration in an I-Max theater. And beyond the beautiful theater, which is slated for opening later this month, is the foundation for yet another great building which will house artifacts from the space program.

I learned nearly all of this after I looked Smith in the eye for a few seconds, grasped his hand and heard words approaching idolization flow from my mouth.

After some research and reflection on the adoration visible in the eyes of those surrounding this remarkable man, I’ll stand by my words. It was an honor to share a little time and space with Delford M. Smith.

My bark is worse than my bite

I met a pit bull in the shadow of the state capitol today. He was a friendly looking “good boy,” perhaps in part because of his coloring – he looked a bit like a palomino pony.

His body was rock hard, though, as is always the case. That tightly coiled musculature always seems to me to be a clear warning of the potential for mahem.
But, I put on a happy face and pretended not to fear this creature. I called him names like, “Sport,” and “Fella” and hoped that he couldn’t smell my fear.

Apparently, he didn’t as I’m here to tell the tale. And while I’m at it, let me share another dog tail – this is the account of an encounter with another dangerous canine - - a meeting at the crossroads that took place in Kensington (my neighborhood in San Diego) in 1959.

I crossed Adams Avenue, the only intersection likely to offer any kind of traffic, without incident and made my way north on Marlborough Drive. I only had to make two right turns, though Middlesex does veer to the left just before becoming a long cul-de-sac in the 4300 block.

I was about halfway home – maybe a bit farther – walking on the east side of the street. I stepped off the curb and began crossing Lymer Drive or Norfolk Terrace – two of three streets that form a sort of pitchfork shape with the points intersecting Marlborough.

When on my bike, I often took a lazy detour east on Lymer, passing Norfolk at the midpoint and then slipping back toward Marlborough on Rochester Road. Taking that "scenic route" at least doubled the distance I had to travel to cover those two blocks, but, on my bike, such matters were of little consequence – a few extra strokes of the pedal, nothing more.

My gaze, that night, was probably focused on the pavement, having been cast downward to negotiate the curb. Suddenly, an unexpected movement caught my eye.

Startled, I froze in place – perhaps a quarter of the way across the street.

It was a dog! He was padding along next to the curb, approaching the intersection from my right.

Had I continued walking, our paths would have crossed just before I could ascend to the sidewalk on the other side of the street.

My having stopped short, facing the animal caught his attention and he, too, put on the brakes.

We each stood our ground for what must have been just a few seconds, but seemed to be a long time. Both of us, no doubt, were processing the situation.

My risk assessment was fairly straightforward: this was a dog and just about any dog is a threat to people. They all can run faster than we can and can bite us and make us bleed.

The dog was probably operating on a higher level. He no doubt understood that I was a human and was probably confused by my behavior.

Most humans display affection or anger toward dogs. They either call out – something along the lines of "here boy!" or "Whatcha doin'?" – or they bend over and grab a real or imagined rock and threaten to hurl it at the dog.

I imagine this dog would have advanced in a friendly fashion if I had offered my current favorite canine salutation: "Hi, Pooch! Are you a good dog?"

I've been told that a friendly tone and an extended hand – with fingers curled – will usually get the tail a-waggin'; and that's a sure sign that the dog isn't looking for a fight.

But on that autumn evening I lacked the skills and experience to take control of the situation – and the dog no doubt became nervous, suspicious – worried.

He finally took the initiative. Hoping, I imagine, to back me down, he began to growl and show his teeth.

Already frozen in place, I then became further immobilized with fear. I assumed that the growling was a precursor to an attack; but I couldn't find a way to communicate the message to my feet that I wanted to back up – to yield the street to my increasingly belligerent adversary.

Familiar only with two options in similar circumstances: fight or flight, the dog must have become even more confused by my inaction. He certainly couldn't have understood the term: "scared stiff."

Finally, perhaps in frustration, the dog decided to escalate the situation; he issued a snarling, threatening, barking challenge and took a tiny step toward me.

As a sixth grader, I was about half way through the 13-year process some refer to as socialization. The mission of public schools, at least in part, is to create good citizens who are able to co-exist with others in harmony.

When confronted by one who didn't have the advantages evolution had provided to me, I discovered that neither my advanced human brain, my years of education nor my opposable thumbs were of any use in direct combat at the intersection of Marlborough and Lymer (or possibly Norfolk Terrace).

No, when confronted by that little dog, all of my human abilities shut down completely. In the final seconds of our battle, I acted without thought, without reason, without intention – I acted on pure instinct.

When that dog barked at me. I – involuntarily, but apparently convincingly – barked right back.

And MY bark carried the day. The dog retreated and left the field of battle – with his tail between his legs.

That night, in a small clearing near the center of Kensington, I became king of the forest…the top dog!

Hey, Dude! What’s up?

At the south end of downtown Corvallis, the Willamette River curves into a lazy and quite asymmetrical “S.” The midpoint is near the junction of highways 20 and 34 - - an intersection that features bridges and ramps.

In the shadow of those elevated auto-paths, right at the south end of 2nd Street, is a skate park. It’s located on Shawala Point, a small peninsula formed by the Marys River as it joins the Willamette.

Before surrendering its identity and becoming part of the larger Willamette, the Marys River forms a floodplain wetland riparian setting along the river with a boardwalk trail leading west from the skate park. The trail connects the two areas, or the Mary’s River Natural Area can be accessed from the other side of highway 20.

The same trail continues northward into downtown and other developed parklands along the river.

As I approached the skate area, my eyes were attracted to the upper body of a teenager gliding silently and smoothly from right to left; he was visible above the rim of what turned out to be a big concrete bowl filled with playthings.

The young man was moving across the bottom of the depression, arms hanging motionless to his sides and with a rather stoic expression on his face.

I parked and as I approached on foot I discovered about a dozen youngsters, all male, most on skateboards, but a few on low bicycles. They were performing stunts by using the flat surface and various inclines, ledges, rims, walls, rails and other strata that were obviously intended to replicate architectural and construction elements found in and around streets and buildings.

There was a complete absence of safety equipment among participants and the site was unsupervised; and as I watched, it occurred to me that the chances for injury were significant. But, other than head injuries, I suppose few of the scrapes, strains and breaks that must take place there are life threatening – and at least these folks don’t have to contend with traffic.

A 20-something admitted to being one of the “old-timers” and to having been involved with planning the park. He also confessed that the greatest personal lesson gained from that experience was that it’s probably wise to trust professionals who offer advice – even when they are grown-ups.

Though my new old-timer young friend pointed out a half dozen things he now wishes could have been designed differently, he and his colleagues seemed very capable of making the most of the imperfect layout.

Perhaps its imperfections only add to the appeal, as the goal was to replicate conditions that exist in the “real world” where none of the design process considers the interests of skateboarders.

The park is owned and operated by the city of Corvallis. Park workers handle trash and do a good job keeping ahead of graffiti, pigeon droppings and the constant accumulation of fallen leaves and branches from nearby trees.

Please take a look at some photos I took at the skate park.

From sea to steaming seafood

I enjoyed a delicious crab - - er, half a crab, actually - - in Newport, Oregon. My guy was a good-sized Dungeness, featuring a rugged and resistant “exoskeleton” that blocked easy access to the tender flesh that resides inside.

I was provided a sort of crab-cracker along the lines of nutcrackers I’ve used in the past and a small, but mighty fork with offset tines that were effective for twisting, tearing and then probing and extracting.

Every morsel was precious and tasty. I worked hard to push, pull, pry, suck, lick or slide even the tiniest chunks of white flesh out of its casement and into my ready maw - - by way of a little cup of drawn butter.

I intend to make a similar foray onto eastern docks - - perhaps in Newport Rhode Island - - and to sample Atlantic crab. Perhaps I’ll get lucky and score some soft-shell crab made to seem so desirable by Jack Nicholson in “As good as it gets.”

Though the tourist season has clearly not yet arrived, I found the people of Newport to be friendly and forthcoming. As is my style, I engaged several in conversation - - including a pair of crab-boat owners who told me that it’s still possible to make a living on the sea, but not easy.

One of the pair admitted that without his wife’s income - - she’s a nurse - - and fringe benefits, he might not be able to afford to continue. He also admitted that his boat is for sale.

Residents of this once-isolated community seem proud of their town and didn’t display the “I-got-to-get-outa-this-place” attitude I’ve found to be prevalent in small cities this far away from the nearest big one.

A good road - - currently under repair - - links Newport to Corvallis; it’s about an hour’s drive. But when the town was founded, it was nearly inaccessible by land. An unwillingness to raise funds to extend the railroad further delayed the establishment of a land-link, though ships were able to navigate to the railhead.

Today, Newport is one of a number of scenic and memorable seaside stops along highway 101 – the Pacific Coast Highway (or “Pea See Aitch,” as it’s known in southern California). Tourism may be the biggest industry, but the mountains of crab traps parked near the docks and dozens of boats in the harbor indicate that fishing remains an important part of the culture and economy of this picturesque seaport.

Having heard that the oceans are being emptied of their bounty and are in danger of serving only as the site for “farming” domesticated seafood, I wondered whether crabs might be an endangered species.

I didn’t find any specific facts regarding changes in the crustacean’s population; but then I learned that mama crabs produce about two and a half million eggs at a time and I’m guessing that we’ll have crabs around for a while longer.

Half a Dungeness was plenty for me; but I’m already looking forward to repeating the exercise on the other coast. I also ingested a raw oyster “shooter” which, to be frank, I found unsatisfying and a glass of root beer. The total bill, including a tip, was $13.

It might be nice to get out on one of those boats; but, to be honest, I got a little queasy from the rolling motion of the dock. Those folks who are able to actually perform hard work while being rocked and rolled around on the open sea are certainly a breed apart.

The two I spoke with were a bit crabby at first, but they warmed up after a few minutes and their love for the sea and their work was evident.

I’m tempted to make one more dash to the coast while I’m still in Oregon. I’m hearing good reports on Tillamook, which is famous for cheese. I’m thinking that a crab Po’ Boy smothered in fresh cheese might be worth the trip…

Where ever I wander, there's no place like home

        “Home” is at 4345 Middlesex Drive.
        In my memory, that place remains as solid and tangible as it was for nearly four decades of real time when our family owned it.
        It is a two-story Spanish-style house on a cul-de-sac in east San Diego.
        There are three bedrooms upstairs and a large living room, family room, dining room, fourth bedroom, kitchen and two hallways or entry rooms downstairs.
        We referred to the family room as the “TV Room,” the dining room was our “Breakfast Room” and the downstairs bedroom was my father’s “Den”.
        From the back door stairs led down to a brick-floored, patio, complete with a fireplace and built-in seating.
        In front, a small porch perched two steps above a walkway that curved through the large front yard. Most of that yard was covered with ivy and fruit trees, but along the side there was a strip of desert plants that my mother calls “succulents”.
        I recall every inch of that house, of the yard and of the section of canyon that was part of our property.
        I know the neighborhood and am familiar with dozens of routes leading from our house to Adams Avenue, which was “Main Street” for Kensington, the center of my universe for the decade during which I passed from age eight to eighteen.
        I left Middlesex Drive by foot, bicycle, bus or automobile several thousand times over those years only to return within a few hours after school or church or other events.
        I lived in that house, occupying the same room, sleeping in the same bed for those ten years; and I have never since stayed so long in place – any place.
        I finally moved away from home in the summer of 1967.
        Through two marriages and the raising of two children, that house continued to be the dominant landmark in my life, though I never lived there again full-time.
        I probably wouldn’t have done so, but the idea of buying or inheriting that property and ending up back on Middlesex Drive for my golden years did cross my mind many times.
        When my father died in 1994, I urged my mother to give up the house, but I had mixed feelings about seeing it sold.
        And, after she finally did let the property go, I never went back – somehow the thought of seeing it under new ownership makes me uneasy. Perhaps I’m troubled by the fact that others can now make changes and that this place with so much historic significance – to me at least – may be remodeled or altered in ways that make it no longer seem like … like home, I guess.
        Looking back, I recognize that the house and its environs were very positive for me. I had my own room – a large space with windows on two walls, a huge closet and very few restrictions on how I ornamented and utilized it. I felt safe inside that room – I had privacy and freedom there. I spent a lot of time in my room and it was happy time.
        My love for reading and interest in writing blossomed in my room on Middlesex Drive, I discovered music by way of an old radio that I endlessly took apart and put back together (I always managed to make it play again, but each time I reassembled the thing, I found homes for fewer parts).
        I know there are 15 steps in the staircase; I’ve counted them hundreds of times. I know that tobogganing down those stairs works far better on an inflated air mattress than on cushions from the couch. I know you can spy on the occupants of my sisters’ room from the sunroof outside my parent’s room by looking through a small closet window – if the closet door is left open.
        I’ve crawled under the house through a small opening in the patio and I’ve been in the “attic” – which is only a crawl space itself, accessible through an opening in the ceiling of that same sisters’ closet.
        I’ve been up way before sunlight, folding newspapers for my route; and I’ve heard birds and seen nocturnal animals that roam Middlesex and surrounding streets in the pre-dawn darkness.
        I fired my father’s pistol into the canyon from that sunroof and I snuck into a neighbor’s rec room five or six houses down from us and looked at pictures of naked ladies behind his bar.
        And when I was 14, I snuck high school cheerleaders into my room late at night for orgies.
        The neighborhood was great. I would have loved…
        …Ok, I never snuck any cheerleaders into my room.
        I would have loved to have a lake in my back yard; but living on the edge of a canyon is also pretty cool. The canyon was a place for discovery. My little sister and I, with a couple of neighbor kids, formed the “Canyon Club” and frequently slipped below the lip of the mesa, looking for adventure.
        We circumnavigated the cul-de-sac at the end of Middlesex on a trail we blazed ourselves a hundred or so feet down into the canyon.
        We discovered artifacts, built forts, snuck up on homeowners who were oblivious to our presence below them, and generally engaged in rock-throwing, bug catching, climbing, jumping and goofing around that only kids consider to be fun.
        The center of the cul-de-sac, of course, was the street, Middlesex Drive itself. Our street was made of huge concrete slabs that were welded together with flat strips of tar, laid down in a regular pattern that created excellent, though a bit oversized, foursquare courts.
        Other, disorganized, seemingly random black tar-lines created jagged and irregular stripes that patched breaks in the concrete.
        Traffic was light and we played endlessly in the street, only occasionally shouting, “Car!” and yielding to oncoming traffic.
        I could tell a hundred more stories of childhood and adult adventures in that house, along Middlesex Drive and in the canyon surrounding our cul-de-sac…
        Though I accept the truth in the statement, “You can never go home again,” I know that, in many ways I’ve never left Middlesex Drive and that I never will.
        Even if I do finally “settle down” and actually spend twenty or thirty years in one place, the word “home” will still evoke memories of the cul-de-sac, the canyon and that two-story house numbered 4345.

Have we met?

Never able to remember names and faces (somebody has to be the world’s worst at everything and this may be my category), I’ve already become more than confused about whom I’ve met and where I met them.

It’s day 26 and I imagine I’ve introduced myself to at least 300 people among the six facilities I’ve visited. Now, even before I sit down for the first meal some of the folks are looking familiar and I have that feeling of UN-déjà vu.

It’s not at all pleasant. I understand and agree with the statement that one of the sweetest and more welcome sounds is someone saying our name. I know that people notice when one doesn’t remember a name. I wish I weren’t so deficient.

Believe me, I’ve tried memory techniques. Given enough time and a relatively small number of items to remember, I can commit a dozen facts, objects, titles or about anything to memory – for a few hours or days.

But these neat people are coming at me two or three at a time and there could be 15 or 20 in less than an hour. There’s just no way I can carry on a conversation AND remember names.

I’ve decided that the greater benefit (to ME) is to absorb some wisdom and insight. I wish I could do both, but my wiring seems to make it nearly impossible to catalog mugs and monikers.

Oh, do I wish it were otherwise, my friend.

By the way, I didn’t catch your name the first three times you reminded me; let’s try one more time. . .

Pretty Darned Fantastic

Ask Adobe, the company that invented the Portable Document Format (PDF), why the world needed another computer file format and their answer is simple, yet profound: it “maintains information integrity.”

The company that brought us Photoshop and PageMaker— using a new language called PostScript that describes the way images, including type, are displayed on paper, computer screens or any other surface – has made it possible to transfer such images across time, space and computer platforms.

A Mac user can send a file to a PC user with full confidence that columns will line up, type faces will be retained and that photos and other images will appear just where they are supposed to be and at the right size.

It’s wonderful.
Better, yet, PDF files can be displayed over the internet.

When you post a message using HTML (hypertext markup language), each computer that downloads your file applies its own settings when displaying that message. Often, messages don’t fit, typefaces can’t be matched, images end up misaligned and parts of the message extends off the screen— either vertically or horizontally . . . or both.

Not so with PDF. Users may have to scale documents up or down to match the resolution of their individual monitors, but the integrity of documents is retained.

This is particularly beneficial to those who prefer to print out information they find online. A properly formatted PDF page will fit perfectly on the size sheet of paper it has been designed for. Documents can look just great, including color, multiple type faces and even sophisticated design features for printing front-and-back, booklets, folded documents and more.

The travel industry has caught on to PDF technology and the use of what some call “e-brochures” is growing rapidly. These documents look great on the screen and are also formatted to print out perfect 3-panel brochures.

The e-brochure has three amazing benefits:

1. it saves money— information providers need only create a digital version of each brochure; online visitors can decide to print out one or more copies for their own purposes, using their own paper and ink; and there are no mailing costs


2. it saves time— information seekers get immediate information online and can print a copy in a matter of seconds to use for whatever purposes desired; information providers are out of the distribution loop as downloading PDF files requires no overt action from the sender’s end


3. and it allows easy and inexpensive updating— there need be no more casting of uncalculated hundreds of brochures into the trash as digital updates now replace ink-on-paper; new and updated information can be incorporated at any time and the changes are instantly available to visitors to the web site.

While printing out e-brochures may go against the notion of paperless offices, being able to take an up-to-date document along to meetings or for reference purposes is often helpful. PDF files make it possible to create top-notch documents that, as the name states, are completely portable.

I can carry hundreds of pages of PDF files in my flash storage device, or data stick. This object is smaller than a butane cigarette lighter and mine hangs from my neck. With that data in hand, I can print out (or download) files wherever I go— using other people’s computers and printers.

For more information about PDF, visit Adobe. Ironically, it’s an html file, but the information is clear and there are many links to more detailed sites.

The sun did not shine...

No doubt long-term Eugene residents consider this morning’s drizzle to be no more than a common nuisance, but Wandering Dave hails from the southwest, where rain is as rare as jackalope sightings and rain “gear” is limited to an umbrella or two that are usually relegated to the floor of a closet and can’t be found when there actually is precipitation.

“Normal” rainfall in San Diego is about 10 inches. While I was growing up and forming my weather expectations, we received less than 10 inches most years – rain just wasn’t a factor.

Here in Eugene, the average precipitation expectation is just over 50 inches. The record is more than 75 and even the driest years see totals three or more times greater than those in Southern California.

Just as the Tule fog which can be very perseverant in the Central Valley and the June Gloom that tends to obscure southern California mornings can tend to bring one down, they and the Oregon rain can also have a calming effect.

Taken in the proper spirit, rainy, foggy and otherwise gloomy weather can actually be considered a respite (though many look at things the opposite way as in: “respite from the storm.”)

Sitting in a warm room (a fire can add even more to the experience) in a comfortable seat and looking up from time to time from a book or nap to see that the storm is continuing while all remains well here inside where we are safe and sound creates a good feeling – perhaps it’s a celebration of human beings’ conquest of the elements.

A fireplace awaits me downstairs; so I’ll go enjoy the rest of this rainy Oregon morning with a book in front of a blazing fire.

Born again...again

And The Rhythm Of Life is a powerful beat,
Puts a tingle in your fingers and a tingle in your feet.
    —Sweet Charity, 1969

It’s the Circle of Life
And it moves us all
Through despair and hope
Through faith and love
Till we find our place
On the path unwinding
    —The Lion King, 1994

Yakima was hit hard by the eruption Of Mount St. Helens in the spring of 1980. The city was in the path of nearly two and one-half cubic kilometers of debris projected from the mountain and high into the air; moret than a quarter-century later, some remnants continue to circulate in the stratosphere.

At the end of that day, the mountain was more than a thousand feet shorter and 57 people were dead. It was the most destructive event of its kind in U.S. history.

The biggest and heaviest chunks of matter fell to earth before reaching Yakima and the lightest particles passed above and beyond the city. Gravity acted as a filter, delivering tons of ash the consistency of sand down to this town— some 90 miles east-northeast of the mountain.

This ash, which coated the community to the depth of four or five inches, arrived in the form of a huge, dark cloud about an hour and a half after the explosion— having traveled about a mile a minute.

People who lived through that day tend to speak about it rather quietly. When the earth sends such dramatic messages from its very core, one can’t help but take notice— and to accept the reality of the event.

Memories of the aftermath include sweeping, shoveling and washing individual portions of the aerial effluent from roofs, walks, yards and vehicles.

Ash was hauled to formerly low areas, including gullies and canyons, in quantities that erased topography and created new flatlands for later development.

Every witness was also a participant as particles of silicon and other detritus dropped earthward, feeling at first like rainfall, but soon filling the skies and transforming day into night.

At the time, it must have felt that the world was ending, that everything beautiful was being engulfed in grey, ashen death.

But after it was over— and as always— the people and the earth recovered.

Perhaps it was because of the contrast between desolation and life, but most of those who survived Mount St. Helens recall that spring flowers and fall crops were more bountiful for years after the eruption.

Death and rebirth. The eternal cycle of life.

We are reminded of this repeating pattern every year as the seasons change. We are reminded of it in our personal lives when we encounter loss and recovery. And, from time to time when wind, water or fire reveal the awesome power of nature, we are reminded that the cycle of life is universal.

California Dreaming . . . NOT!

Growing up in San Diego in the ’50s and ’60s, I developed a pretty significant level of contempt for Los Angeles.

We San Diegans viewed California’s largest city as a vast wasteland comprised of hundreds of neighborhoods, suburbs and connected cities that, as the song goes, “are all made out of ticky-tack and all look just the same.”

Los Angeles had gangs and ghettos; it had gridlock and crowded… everything; it had big government and big business; and it had smog.

When you looked up “urban sprawl” in the dictionary you found a map of “the Southland.”

From our vantage point 120 miles to the south— the land of blue skies, open roads, diverse neighborhoods and friendly people— our communities and our lifestyles were as different from Los Angeles as night and day.

Fast-forward a half-century.

Today, distinctions between San Diego and Los Angeles are rather subtle. Camp Pendleton continues to provide a buffer, at least along the coast, but it now separates very similar landscapes.

From San Ysidro to Oceanside and then from San Clemente to Ventura, we now see a repeating urban pattern reflecting little or no creative planning for commercial or residential development. And this makes up just the southern third of what has been projected to become a solid block of communities stamped out of the L.A. mold— a block extending from the Bay Area to the Mexican border: “San-San.”

Today, I’m 850 miles north of the City of Angels— in the heart of a state that has gone so far as to warn their neighbors to the south, “Don’t Californicate Oregon.”

Strong sentiments. Perhaps the author of this crude admonition took note of what has happened to San Diego over the past half-century.

Now, don’t get me wrong. The world outside of Southern California has not been unaffected. The inevitable collection of name-brand eateries and other places of commerce have invaded intersections throughout the nation— and evidence indicates that the impact is worldwide.

And the huge homebuilding corporations that have made so many billions of dollars along California’s south coast are applying the same design and building techniques to the far corners of the nation – perhaps of the world.

The mall wasn’t invented in California, nor were other elements of city planning (perhaps more properly labeled “non-planning”) that have created that “been-there, done-that” feeling that seems to repeat every 20 blocks or so.

No doubt many of the influences that have transformed the landscape have origins outside the Golden State and simply multiplied more quickly in that consumer-rich Petri dish.

This point can be supported by mentioning a single company: Starbuck’s. Query to Oregon: How’d you let that little rascal slip through to California?

Well, if I’m sounding a bit defensive for my home state, don’t be deceived. I’m on the side of the traditionalists. When towns and cities look different from one another, they’re more interesting— and it’s easier to tell them apart.

I’m hoping that the farther I travel from La-La Land the more different things will seem. By the time I get to Montreal the transformation may be complete.

So, hooray for Central Oregon! Though inroads have been made by the MacWhosits and the Bed, Bath and Whatevers, here differences are still more common than are similarities.

Vive les différences.

Address unknown

Walking to the post office was a highlight of each day back in the winter of 1967.

I was 800 miles from home, trying to adapt to a roommate from east of the Mississippi, and making necessary adjustments to a place with a population about the same as my elementary school and with real-life, white, frozen SNOW on the ground.

The anticipation grew each morning as I hiked the quarter-mile or so down Main Street. My tiny post office box was the only private space in my life at the time. Anything in that box was mine and mine alone. Well, it was mine at least in theory.

I was a Vista Volunteer -- part of President Johnson's War on Poverty -- and managing mail was one of many topics we had covered during a six-week training program back in the fall.

"You can be sure that anything written on a post card delivered to your mailbox will be common knowledge all over town before you ever see it," we were told.

So, I wrote a glowing postcard to a buddy back in San Diego raving about the wonderful people I was meeting and their having welcomed us "Vistas" with open arms. I was certain that I detected a bit of a smile on the face of the post office clerk the next time I saw her...

Anyway, since those days of literally hiking through the snow to get my mail, the arrival of every day's postings has continued to be a significant event in my life. When I have been in a situation where I can hear the mail drop into my box, I've responded as if the phone were ringing by jumping up and going "to see what I got."

I've camped out by the mailbox many times when I could see the carrier coming. I would rather stand around doing nothing for five or ten minutes so I could get my mail at the earliest possible instant than to retain my dignity by going inside and returning after the carrier had left.

Now that I'm on the road, I have nowhere to check for my mail. Oh, it's being forwarded to Jesse in the Wandering Dave headquarters; but I don't give mail a thought. When talking with my son, I haven't asked once about the mail. For the first time in 40 years it's out of sight and out of mind.

Interestingly, life goes on. My entire world, to some extent, now fits in the back seat and trunk of my 1995 Saturn. I am disconnected from the ton or so of personal possessions that have burdened me for years and I am disconnected from the dedicated lines of communication that once seemed to be lifelines.

The Internet and my wireless connections have replaced landlines and home delivery. Being away from my base doesn't seem to have created a communications crisis.

I don't even miss that daily surge of anticipation before the mail carrier's appointed round. I look at others who may ask, "has the mail come yet?" or who may gather in the lobby and watch with interest as pieces are sorted into individual boxes.

Mesmerized, they take note of the shape, color and thickness of each item, wondering before they are slid into place, whether one interesting missive or the other might be theirs.

Ah, yes. I feel pity for those who are still under the spell of the Postal Service.

True, I've lost the potential that today or tomorrow I may get that letter of letters -- perhaps announcing that I've inherited a fortune or won a prize or am being offered an unbelievable opportunity. I'm no longer in the game. I won't be able to enter the Publisher's Sweepstakes, meaning it's certain that I haven't already won 17 million dollars.

But I'm OK with that. Because I no longer check daily for potentially great news, I also no longer suffer the disappointment that previously struck me nearly every day: disappointment that no notice has arrived of my ship coming in; and disappointment because after sifting through the ads and offers and solicitations and notices and bulletins and other baloney I usually didn't receive a single item of real interest or value.

I've only been off the stuff for a few weeks. But there have been no withdrawal symptoms and my days are no longer divided in two. For me there no longer is a "before the mail arrives" and "after the mail has arrived."

There is no more "postage due," no more "to John Doe or current resident," no more "important message, open immediately," no more "please forward" and no more "we need your help."

I wonder if I could become a man without a mailing address. Could I abandon all zip codes? Is it possible for an American to opt out of the USPS entirely?

I'm considering the possibility of never going postal again.

One hot little city

Redding resonates within me. In fact, if every day in Redding could be just like today, I might just have to put down roots and become a permanent resident.

The people are small-town friendly. The local government appears to be progressive and to have a sense of style that's missing in too many towns these days. Redding's points of interest include plenty of 20th and 21st century attractions - including a new state-of-the-art public library opening this weekend.

Situated at a crossroads for northern California, this community seems destined for growth - which isn't always such a good thing - and for an ongoing role as a hub for commerce, culture and whatever other areas of interest for which it might attempt to assert leadership.

Politics makes it impossible to predict such things, but believe the next University of California should be located in Redding. The slow start experienced by UC Merced may delay further expansion, but northern California deserves a turn and, to me, Redding is the hands-down favorite pick to click.

So, why the qualifier? Why did I begin by saying "if every day in Redding could be just like today..."?

Well, even though this is a hot, happening place, it also happens - - during summer months - - to be just plain hot.

Despite being ringed by snow-capped mountains, it doesn't snow or freeze in Redding. And apparently because those same mountains form kind of bowl that results in an inversion, hot air remains trapped near the ground. The result is long, hot summers.

A set of statistics that I was told to take with a grain of salt admits to average high temperatures above 90 degrees in June, July, August and September of 2006. Record highs have been measured above 100 as early as May and as late as October.

All time high temperatures are: 94 degrees for April; 104 for May, 111 for June; 118 for July; and 115 for August; 116 for September; and 105 for October.

That's way too hot for this kid. I grew up in San Diego and anything above 80 is outside my comfort range.

Redding looks like a great place to visit and prime real estate for a new UC; but my advice is to visit during spring or fall months. And if you decide to attend UC Redding, avoid summer school.

I've been to town

You ask me do I know the Milky Way?
I do, and furthermore I'd like to say
it isn't milky white it's dirty gray.
Especially when your world breaks down
I know because I've been to town...
     —Rod McKuen

Because I don’t swear, spit, tell dirty jokes or get drunk, a lot of folks seem to think I’m a prude.

I once told an off-color joke to a group of coworkers who were so startled by the fact that I had lowered myself to that level of humor that they paid no attention to the punch line; they just walked away shaking their heads.

But, make no mistake about it. I am a man of the world. I have, as Rod McKuen put it so poetically, “been to town.”

OK, I haven’t been there in the sense that I’ve lived there for any length of time. I’ve just been a visitor and much more a vicarious participant than an active one when it came to the dark and dirty deeds performed there.

All of that said, and again risking being considered puritanical, I believe that society actually does have a filthy underbelly. There are activities and interests that properly can be labeled prurient. There are patterns of behavior that are unproductive at best and self-destructive at worst.

Despite their protestations and their otherwise upstanding lifestyle, I’m inclined to argue that the growing legions of so-called “recreational gamblers” are being (or have already been) captured by the dark side of The Force.

After two days of unrestricted affection for the city of Reno - - based largely on its beauty under a layer of clean, white snow - - I plunged into an abyss occupied by pathetic participants in the something-for-nothing, winning-is-everything, what’s-yours-is-mine, gimme-gimme-gimme crowd that spends hours in dimly lit, foul-smelling dens of ill repute and iniquity.

These venues have no real reason for existing other than to separate the masses from their money and to line the pockets of those who are morally corrupt enough to benefit from the misery of others.

To assign adjectives like “fun” and “exciting” to gambling halls is an insult to the kind of wholesome and productive activities that they have replaced.

Families that might have otherwise been gathered around the fireplace roasting marshmallows, singing and telling stories are divided: Dad in the poker room; Mom playing slots and the kids in a video game room permeated with overflow smoke and inundated by the same clanging, clinking, ringing and beeping background noise only casinos can generate.

The kids may be tired, they may even be bored on many levels, but they’ve never been able to talk their folks out of so much cash - - handed over as the result of guilt and an unrealistic hope that the kids are having “exciting fun” in that tiny corner of the room outside of which state law commands that they not venture.

All right, I admit that the tide is against me. I’ve enjoyed watching Texas Hold ‘Em players who appear regularly on television; and I’ve always been intrigued by the mathematics underlying games of “chance.”

I’m not sure that there’s anything inherently wrong or evil about experimenting with gambling. But it doesn’t take much investigating to uncover the fact that many people aren’t able to stop the experiment. Things go out of control and lives are sometimes ruined.

Doesn’t that sound like fun?

States are sponsoring games of chance; economies depend on ill-gotten gains for their very survival. Senior Citizens are making the rounds of casinos and bingo parlors and star students are leaving school to seek their fortune at the poker tables.

If it seems a bit like the beginning of the end - - as in the rise and fall of an empire - - then maybe it is. Maybe this is part of a decline that will end badly for a nation of individuals that became successful by gambling that hard work and fair play would win the day.

It once did. And that was exciting.