Sympathy for a foolish young man

Yesterday, when I was out walking, I saw a shrine at the intersection of SE 43rd Avenue and Hawthorne Boulevard.

A teenage pedestrian was hit and killed last Friday afternoon by a car speeding down the center turn lane, westbound, on Hawthorne. Eyewitnesses estimate that the vehicle was traveling upwards of 60 miles per hour in an area rife with pedestrians. The driver of the car, Abdulrahman Noorah, faces manslaughter and other charges. (You can read about it here.)

A young life ended and a grieving family left to pick up the pieces of their shattered existence. A terrible tragedy that will leave the survivors, including the victim's mother who saw the event firsthand, forever scarred.

The shrine, decked with flowers and placards posing impossible questions ("Is your convenience worth a death?"), reminded me of the fragility of life, of how everything can change in the blink of an eye.

And while we all grieve for the victimized family, is it impertinent of me to suggest that there might be another party deserving of sympathy?

I mean the perpetrator.

I mean Abdulrahman Noorah.

Almost certainly, he will go to prison.  He is forever cast a villain and outcast.

If he is human enough to care (and the sight of him on the local news, weeping at his arraignment, convinces me that he is), he faces an impossible karmic debt. Even were he to dedicate his life to winning redemption, the odds are long. He can never redress the hurt he has inflicted on his victims. One moment of impetuousness and impatience (Hawthorne Boulevard is interminably congested on Friday afternoons) invoked his doom.

It's a terrible fate, made all the more terrible by the fact that it is utterly just. By our human reckoning, Noorah deserves opprobrium.

But here's the thing. I don't believe he meant to harm anyone with his reckless behavior. Rather, I see him as a foolish young man who made an astoundingly bad decision. When I recall my own youth, enraptured, as I was, with myself, with my priorities, with my desires, I can see how easily I might have shared his fate.

At 20 years of age, Noorah is saddled with a debt for which he must atone. Years from now, he will undoubtedly remember his foolish decision last Friday, and wish with all his being that he had had more wisdom in that fateful moment. To live one's life like that would be an unspeakable horror.

I hope my words won't be interpreted as lacking in sympathy for the victim and her family. But I can't help but remember those times in my life where my own bad decisions have earned me the condemnation of the people around me. It's a lonely and terrible place to be. And it is where Noorah has placed himself, irretrievably, for the rest of his days.

Sunday breakfast at Mickey Dee's

At McDonald's this morning for Sunday breakfast. Maty is working today, so I'm on my own and I really want to write. I need to start writing regularly again.

I've found, believe it or not, that sitting in this environment, taking advantage of the Mickey Dee's wifi, drinking coffee is helpful. The clientele at McDonald's is my community. There is much inspiration in sitting amid one's community, watching and listening.

At the table next to mine, a happy family sits and plans their day. The mother sits with her back to me. She's wearing her jacket. Feeling chilly, apparently. I can see that she is a proud woman, content with her lot in life. I can see this by the set of her shoulders and the neat cut of her well-combed hair. It is pretty hair and it is the color of carrots fresh from the ground. As I watch her she gets up from the table and turns and our eyes meet. She smiles and I smile back. Across from where she was sitting is her husband. A man about my age, maybe a few years younger. He's dressed in a gray hoodie and sports three-day salt-and-pepper stubble. His face has not known a razor this weekend. He sits back against the bench cushion, amiable and relaxed. His arm is draped across the back of the bench. Next to him sits the boy. He's about thirteen and he's a good-looking kid. Tall and thin, with an open face and a full rack of braces on his teeth. All the bloom of youth is about him and it is apparent that he is the source of the joy, the good vibes that emanate from their table. When Mom returns they joke with each other and talk about plans for the day to come, the month to come, the year to come.

A Mexican family, a father and two sons, sit at the small table near the window. The father is in his thirties, dressed in workman's jeans and sweater. A key ring jangles from his belt. His older son is paraplegic, in a motorized wheel chair. Maybe 12 years old. He has a big awkward head and a skinny body. He smiles and laughs. Beside him is his little brother, about 7 years old, with wide dark eyes, and a solemn expression. The young one seems wise, as if, at this tender age, he is aware that there is much to learn. All three of them have cocoa skin and a shocks of unruly black hair . The father's moustache is also black. They munch their food and chatter in Spanish, the boys asking questions of their father and he answering around mouthfuls.

These two families make a pleasing and beautiful sight. As I watch them, discreetly and without revealing myself, I realize that I want things to turn out well for them. Overcome by a sudden rush of brotherly affection, I realize that I love them.

Signs of a good neighborhood

This is how you know you live in a good neighborhood.

My path home from Mount Tabor's summit takes me past Benjamin Franklin High School where today I beheld a pleasing sight.

English

An organization called Oregon's Kitchen Table is conducting an online survey on public schools as a means, I think, of initiating a public discussion. A worthy endeavor. You can view the web site here. I encourage any Oregonians who might be interested in contributing to public discussion of issues to take a look. Even (or perhaps especially) right-wingers. The idea of a public forum to discuss real issues with a diversity of Oregonians appeals. I plan on signing up as soon as I finish this blog post.

But the reason I learned of the organization at all is because I saw the signs posted in front of Franklin and noticed something. They were written in 6 different languages!

One would naturally expect that there would be signs in both English and Spanish, of course. Spanish is the de facto second language of this country.

Spanish

And no Portlander would be surprised to see signs in Mandarin or Vietnamese. Chinese people have been in Portland since the city was founded. Downtown Portland has a Chinatown section, with Chinese and Taiwanese consulates, but many Chinese people live in Southeast, as well. There are many Chinese restaurateurs and grocers. And the sheer number of pho kitchens (even within walking distance of my home!) attests to the city's ample Vietnamese population.

Mandarin and Vietnamese

And I wasn't too surprised to see the Cyrillic characters of the Russian language on one of the signs. Inner Southeast Portland has a significant Slavic demographic. I think most of the Slavs in Portland are Russian, but there are also many Ukrainians. 

Somali and Russian

But there was one language that I couldn't readily identify. So, when I got home I did a Google Translate language identification. 

The language turned out to be Somali. Apparently, there are enough Somalis in the area that the Kitchen Table folks felt it justified to have a sign printed up in their language.

Well, when it comes to diversity, Portland may not be San Fransisco or Vancouver (BC), but we're getting better. And I find it very cool to live in a neighborhood where there is a need for signs in a half dozen different languages.

Last day of staycation

Adieu, 2014. Bienvenue, 2015.

Last day of winter staycation. It's been good. A time of rejuvenation. A reprieve from nagging, hateful anxiety.

The Year of our Lord 2014 passed with but a whisper last week and I can't say I'll miss it. It was an emotionally bruising year --a year of change, a year of turmoil. And just as the newborn passes through the birth canal battered and bruised but alive to a world of possibilities and wonder, so too for me and my beloved African woman as we face the new year.

Prescience is beyond us despite the claims of the soothsayers. None of us may know what is to come. Reassurance is mere intellectual placebo, whether it be the solace afforded by mystical entities entreated with incensed rituals or ardent prayer, or the pseudo-certainty of mathematical equations derived from discipline and rationality. No guarantees, folks. It could all end in cold entropy.

But I believe we'll be alright. Me, Maty, family, friends. I think things will work out fine for us. And I know for dead cold certain that it will all be as it must, as it is ordained.

Today, anyway, the last day of staycation, that's enough.

Peace out.

Urban lifestyle double-down

Living room

If anyone (including we) had any doubts, our recent change of residence ought to about kill them off: Maty and I are city folk.

Our new residence, an ultramodern, wired-in, and energy-efficient condominium situated on SE 50th Avenue between Division and Powell, is even more urban than was our old vintage house in the Hawthorne district. It's a brand new construction; we and our neighbors in the other eleven units that together comprise the Richmond Heights condominims, are the first residents.

It feels great to live in a place where everything is modern and works correctly.

Kitchen. The doorway on the right leads to a half-bath.

We're not fully setup yet. We still lack blinds. So there's a certain fishbowl quality to our current state of existence. We're still awaiting the weeks-out delivery of some of our furniture. The AC unit has not yet been installed (quite a burden in these dog days of summer) and the garage situation is a long term project. But the kitchen is fully functional, the new "smart" teevees are on the wifi, and our new gas grill is assembled and functioning from its place on the balcony.

Master bedroom

We've condensed from about 2300 square feet in the old house to 1450 square feet in our new unit. In making the transition, we had to shed a lot of stuff. Books, lamps, old furniture, and various other household items found their way to the Good Will, the recycling center, or as a last resort, the landfill. And what a pleasant catharsis to rid ourselves of so much! 

But despite the smaller size, we have three bedrooms and three-and-a-half bathrooms. It's a townhouse layout, with garage, bedroom and bathroom on the bottom floor, kitchen/living area/balcony on the main floor, and two bedrooms, two bathrooms, walk-in closets and laundry facility on the top floor.

Master bathroom. Note the stand-up shower, jacuzzi bath, and dual sinks!

Downstairs bedroom

Downstairs bathroom

Garage

Office

Office bathroom

To add to the good news: our financial situation is moderately better as a result of the move. And since we're living in a brand new place rather than a 103-year-old house, less of our income will be spent maintaining our residence, freeing up resources for travel and other interests.

All the stress and anxiety we suffered over the past several months seems to have paid off.

Our new place already feels like home. And we both love it.

Blessings to all!

Early spring calls forth the buskers

Impromptu busker band

We're still a few days from the equinox, but don't tell the Rose City. The recent stretch of warm, sunny days had Portland folks shedding their parkas and slickers in favor of shorts, skirts, and sandals. And, just as it always does, the good weather brought forth the buskers.

Last Wednesday, when Maty and I took a stroll down to Fred Meyer to pick up some groceries, we encountered a busker band playing blue-grass outside Powell's Books. They were so good I had to stop and give a listen.

I listened to them run through a couple tunes. The dobro and bass held things down while the mando and fiddle traded solos. It was an impressive display of musicianship, made all the more wondrous when I learned that the session was completely impromptu. Indeed, the musicians had never before played together! It happened that they were all on Hawthorne busking and decided on the spur of the moment to collaborate.

I captured a little smidgen of the jam they were laying down. Give a listen at the link below:

"The Impromptu Busker Band"

• Mandolin: Rich Landar
• Dobro/Harmonica/Voice: Joe Derby
• Bass: Mike Cheddarschmit
• Fiddle: Deedee

Buskers from New York

Meanwhile, just a half-block up the street, another busker band, hailing all the way from New York, was laying down another jam. This was a three-piece: guitar, stand-up bass, and snare. The guitarist and bass player sang and played kazoo solos as well. This band was more polished than the impromptu band. (They were, after all, a traveling act). Alas, I wasn't able to capture their sound.

Life on Hawthorne Boulevard. I do so love it.

The State of Oregon versus Joseph Toland

Judge Karin Immergut

"I have a high tolerance for scotch," said Mr. Sharp --a ruddy, grizzled man, about 10 years my senior. His round, watery eyes were magnified by the lenses of his spectacles, giving him a myopic appearance. The patch at the front of his black baseball cap read "Once a Marine, always a Marine. Semper Fi." "After I got out of the military for a while there, I was putting away a fifth a day." He held a paperback spy novel in his hand, closed around a cracked and grimy finger.

"You're lucky you didn't pickle your liver," I remarked.

"Not my liver," he said. "But everything else."

We sat on the bench in the corridor outside Judge Karin Immergut's court room on the fourth floor of Multnomah County Courthouse. Potential jurors were strewn up and down the marbled corridor, absorbed in their electronic devices and their books and magazines, some seated on benches, others sitting cross-legged on the floor or leaning against the walls. There wasn't much talking.

I didn't feel like talking much, either. So although Mr. Sharp waited, I didn't reply.

We each returned to our books.

Soon enough, the court assistant, an eager, clean-cut young man in jacket and tie, emerged and asked the potential jurors to come in and be seated. Twenty-nine of us filed in and filled the plastic chairs at the rear of the courtroom.

Judge Immergut sat at the bench. She was a woman about my age, with a wise and kindly face. She wore her hair parted on the side. She projected a down-to-earth sensibility that gentled the authority afforded by her judge's robes. This was a woman  temperamentally suited to be a judge. My impulse was to admire her.

The attorney from the DA's office was a tall, square-shouldered young man with a thin strip of carrot-colored beard running along his jaw. He sat at the right side of the long table before the bench. To his left sat the counsel for the defense, a studious-looking young man, clean-shaven with dark hair, an open face, and an erect posture. He looked as if he might spring from his seat at any moment. He wore Clark Kent glasses and a dark blue suit jacket.

Next to defense, sat the accused Mr. Toland.

Mr. Toland wore slacks and sneakers and a brown suit jacket that was a size too big. His head was shaved on top, but a well-trimmed beard  and moustaches grew thick on his chin and jaw. The orange-red of his beard stood in stark contrast with his gray eyes. He had a long head and a doleful expression. He kept his eyes on the table surface when we came in, his shoulders pulled inward, as if he were trying to draw into himself, to hide. I thought of an abused dog.

The case was simple. Mr. Toland was charged with possession of a Schedule I drug. Specifically black tar heroin.

Black tar heroin

The defendant was arrested in February, 2013, when a Portland City police officer responded to an emergency call about an incident in Waterfront Park, near the Salmon Street fountain. The officer found Toland unconscious and laying on a park bench. While awaiting the arrival of emergency medical technicians, the officer performed an assessment of Mr. Toland and discovered a plastic baggie containing about a half-gram of black tar heroin.

The generalities of the case thus explained, jury selection began.

Counsel for defense rose. "I'd like to hear from everyone. Now that you know the allegations, is there anyone here who has strong feelings about heroin that he or she feels might preclude his ability to judge this case fairly?"

Mr. Sharp, the scotch drinker, raised his hand. "I was an MP in Vietnam. I saw a 14 year old girl die from heroin use. I'm biased toward drug-users and I think my opinions would cloud my judgement." Defense thanked Mr. Sharp for his comment.

Behind me, a young woman with hair cut close around her ears, raised her hand. She wore wool leggings and a loose sweater and seemed casual and unconcerned with her own beauty. She spoke. "I think drugs should be decriminalized and I don't think people should be prosecuted for drug use. I don't think I could be objective on a case like this." She wore an expression of sullen defiance.

Several others nodded their heads in agreement. Judge Immergut interjected. "As jurors, you should not give any consideration to sentencing. You job is to determine the defendant's guilt or innocence." She turned to the idealistic young woman, addressing her by name. "Ms. Carter, you don't feel you can judge the case fairly?"

Ms. Carter shook her head. I thought I caught a glint of pride in her unhappy expression. God bless her, she had a flag to wave and she'd found the courage to wave it in court. It was brave of her and it made me like her.

Alas, her cause wasn't the issue at hand.

Counsel for defense asked me how I felt about it. I tried to speak carefully. "I don't think incarceration is an effective way to discourage drug use. But I think I can judge the facts of this case without bias."

(Last time I served jury duty, I took a different approach.)

Twelve of us were selected for the jury. Ms. Carter and Mr. Sharp were not among us.

State's case was straight-forward. He reasserted the allegations we'd heard earlier. We saw video and listened to the testimony of the arresting officer. He was tall and thin, with an angular face and a dark complexion. He reminded me of the actor, Jeff Goldblum. He was self-assured and credible.

Defense did not cross-examine the officer.

Scene of the crime

Defense then presented its case. In his opening statement, counsel emphasized the exact wording of the charge against Mr. Toland. Specifically, counsel informed, the charge included the word "knowingly." That is, Mr. Toland knowingly possessed the drug. That word, counsel insisted, was the difference between guilt and innocence.

Counsel called the defendant as its sole witness. Mr. Toland claimed he did not know how he had come into possession of the heroin. He was a recent arrival in Portland at the time of his arrest. He'd come from North Dakota and was staying with a friend. On the night of his arrest, he testified that he had gone out that evening by himself. He'd gone to a bar, the name of which he could not remember, and had proceeded to become inebriated. His last memory of the evening, he claimed, was leaving the bar when his money ran out.

That was it. That was his story. Too drunk to remember what happened.

The State cross-examined. Had Mr. Toland ever used heroin? Yes. Did Mr. Toland remember telling the police that he had used morphine the evening of his arrest? No. Did Mr. Toland remember telling the police that he had injected morphine that he had bought on the street? No.

This continued for about 10 minutes. Defense raised two objections. Judge Immergut overruled one and sustained the other. At the end of the defendant's testimony it was obvious that the sandwich had no meat.

Defense rested.

State recalled the arresting officer who testified that he had not smelled alcohol on the defendant at the time of the incident. The State rested.

Closing arguments ensued and then we, the jury, sequestered in the jury room.

It was over in about twenty minutes. Out of fairness to Mr. Toland, we tried to imagine some credible scenario in which he might have unknowingly come into possession of heroin. "What if one of the bystanders slipped it into his pocket before the police arrived?" someone suggested, doubtfully. Nobody felt like making a stand on that hill.

"He probably bought it when he was drunk," someone said.

"Being drunk isn't an excuse," someone else said.

We informed the bailiff that we'd reached a verdict.

When we were back at our seats in the courtroom, I handed the verdict form to the bailiff, who passed it to Judge Immergut. When she read it, no one betrayed a hint of surprise. Least of all, Mr. Toland. I watched his face. His expression fell ever so slightly, in a kind of facial shrug. Resignation. But no surprise.

"Okay, now I just have one thing I do before I dismiss you," the judge said. "I want to poll the jury just to make sure we have a legal verdict. By a show of hands, how many believed Mr. Toland was guilty?" She scanned us quickly. "Okay, it looks like it was unanimous. Thank you, jurors. You are dismissed."

Moments later, as we were gathering our belongings from the jury room, Judge Immergut stepped in to speak with us. Court was adjourned. "How'd it go?" she asked us all.

"I felt bad," I said.

She nodded. "Yeah," she said.

Sad

On the bus home, I thought about it some.

Counsel for the defense did a good job of evoking pity for Mr. Toland. I felt for him. Thirty years old, physically disabled because of a car wreck in 2011, two years out of work. A life getting flushed down the toilet.

But he'd presented no case.

The smells of garlic and liver greeted me when I stepped in the door. Maty was at the stove.

"Hi, sweetheart," I said.

She heard something in my voice and turned to look at me. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing," I said. "I'm just a little sad."

Update: Joseph Toland was sentenced to 18 months probation and 60 hours community service. He was also required to attend a drug treatment program and fined $200. If he completes the 60 hours of community service, the $200 fine is waived.

Blizzard of '14

Picked Maty up from work

Weather reports on Thursday told a harrowing tale of log-jammed traffic a mere half-hour's drive to the south of my place of employment. Interstate 5 was bound for miles in both directions according to the ODOT weather cameras, causing myself and many of my coworkers to abandon the office and flee northward before the advancing front.

Driving north, I saw evidence of the storm on the refugee vehicles around me. Snow clung to bumpers and tail lights and gathered at the base of rear-view windows. But the pavement was still clear when I arrived home.

Not so a mere hour later. Snow was falling in miniscule, dry flakes. It accumulated in the frozen gutters and scudded in wisps across the pavement, driven by a fierce east wind. (Ever Portland's scourge, that wind.)

At 2:30 pm. I made the short drive to Maty's place of employment to spare her the cold walk home. At that hour, the snow was thick, burying the street curbs and speed bumps.

Setting out for Freddie's

Maty was restless when we got to the house. "Weather like this, you never know," she said. "Let's go to Fred Meyer and buy food." So we bundled up and set out.

Although a mere four city blocks measure the distance between our house and Fred Meyer, it was an arduous trek nonetheless. The wind blew ice directly into our faces and the sidewalks were treacherous.

Before we did our shopping, we walked the extra block to the pho place and ate bowls of pho and drank hot tea against the cold.

Nothing like pho on a snowy day

Fortified and encouraged we went to Fred Meyer. The aisles were all hustle and bustle. We were not the only Rose City folks to see the prudence in a trip to the grocer. We purchased fish (snow cod, appropriately) and other groceries.

Made it

Thus provisioned, we hurried home. Our backs were to the wind on the return trip. Between that fact and the reassurance we took from our supplies, the homeward leg wasn't nearly as bad.

That was Thursday. Today, Sunday, conditions haven't improved much. The snow is still here with an added layer of frozen rain. But the wind, at least, has abated.

It's a veritable blizzard, but we're getting through it alright.

Hang in there, Rose City! Let's not go all Cormac McCarthy on each other.

Solstice approaching

A diffuse light spreads across the sky to the west. The sun is a flat, colorless disc.

The recently-dissipated arctic front that visited itself upon all the land leaves in its aftermath a city that is seedy and snarly and stripped of all humor.

To longingly recall those cold, austere days, sharp and bright though they were, seems foolish. There is no sense in wishing to forestall what must come. Zeus's nod is irrevocable and he nodded long ago.

People hurry from place to place with nary a smile to spare. Even the panhandlers and the clipboard-toting fundraisers are surly. I'm worried and restless.

I had grave news recently from a friend, a former lover. I mull on this as I walk in the cold. On this and on all the people who've passed. Father, family, friends. And on all the disasters narrowly avoided.

We are at the mercy of gargantuan, indifferent entities we cannot possibly understand. I grimace to remember.

Gray dusk settles onto the streets. The sun sets to the south of Council Crest. Two days off the solstice, the darkness descends.

City perks

Outside Jeld-Wen Field

Living in the city has its perks.

Last night, the Portland Timbers hosted the Wilmington Hammerheads of North Carolina. It so happened that some of my season-ticket holding friends had tickets they couldn't use. This windfall development resulted in Maty and I and our sister, Nadia, hopping  the #14 bus bound for Jeld-Wen Field on an unseasonably cool May evening.

Fallen eaglet

There was a hubbub in Lownsdale Square at the corner of 4th and Main. An eaglet had fallen from the big tree. A small crowd gathered to watch as the police cordoned off the area. Someone called the Audubon Society.

Pre-game warm-ups

We got to the stadium in good time and found seats in general admission, up above the rowdiest of the Timbers Army.

Timber's Army

Whether it was due to the rigors of cross-country travel or being just plain out-matched, the Hammerheads got hammered. The score was 4-0 at the break and the first half was played almost entirely on Wilmington's side of the pitch. Frederic Piquionne (out of New Caledonia) scored 4 of Portland's 5 goals.

It was a flat blowout. Final score, Portland 5, Wilmington 1. The Timber's Army roared its approval.

Me and my honey

On the ride home, Maty and Nadia, the two West Africans, had an animated conversation in French. An Asian-American man overheard them and interjected "Excusez-moi. De quel pays venez-vous?"

Soon the three of them were going back and forth while I, with my feeble French comprehension, followed along. It was infectious. Someone in the back of the bus spoke up to the delight of the conversants: "Tout le monde parle français!"  

It was late and we were tired, but it was a rewarding evening. 

Rode the bus. Saw a football game. Participated in a spontaneous conversation in French. Taking advantage of those city perks.

Portland's Senegalese Community celebrates 53 years of independence

This last weekend, the Senegalese Association of Oregon and Southwest Washington held their annual celebration of Senegal's status as an independent nation. The festivities occurred at the Senior Center in Portland's Hollywood District on Saturday night.

Senegalese ladies in their finery

Planning and preparation for the event began months ago. The pace of activity started at methodical and worked its way up to frenetic in the final days before the party. As is always the case with these events, the Senegalese women (plus Anna and Lisa, the American spouses of Senegalese men) spent the several days prior to the event cooking like madwomen. My wife, Maty, had light cook duty this year, due to her recent surgery, but she still whipped up a big batch of African rice and ginger juice.

(Ginger juice is a very spicy concoction of ginger, mint, pineapple, and other ingredients. The first time I tried it, I made the mistake of taking a huge gulp. I lost my respiratory abilities for several seconds. Did I mention ginger juice is very spicy?)

Absa

Sabe Kan provided high-energy entertainment prior to the banquet, laying down infectious rhythms and performing captivating mbalax dances.

Here's a little sample of their high-energy performance.



The food at the banquet was, as usual, fantastic. In particular, the mafé (African peanut sauce), was outstanding. My friend Dave Hauth, who's become a fan of West African food, commented on how lucky I am to have a Senegalese wife who cooks me up these dishes regularly.

Crowded dance floor

Attendance was good. In addition to the Senegalese folks, the local Gambian community was well-represented and I encountered people from Burkina Faso, Congo, and Guinea as well.

And there were lots of North Americans. Many of the Senegalese people have American spouses, of course. But in addition, they invited coworkers and associates. One of the objectives of the association is, as President Adama Goujaby put it, "to import Senegalese culture," and this party serves that objective well.

One aspect of this party that I find enjoyable is listening to the music of the various languages spoken at the event. You'll hear English, of course, and French. But also, you're likely to hear Wolof, Mòoré, and other African languages. My Wolof vocabulary consists of less than a dozen words, but I've developed enough of an ear for it that I can at least distinguish it from other African languages.

Na nga def (articulated as "NON gah dev") translates to "How do you do?" That, friends, is the extent of my command of Wolof phraseology.

Maty and I with Maman Goujaby, plain tuckered out

Everyone seemed to have a great time, but I'd be remiss if I didn't mention how much we all missed Elimaan and Mbarou Mbeng and their family. The Mbeng's moved to Kansas City to pursue a work opportunity. They were an important part of the Senegalese community here in Portland and we miss them.

I've been affiliated with this community every since I had the extreme good fortune of finding my wife. It is good for the heart to be part of a community that is thriving, that is maintaining its identity even as it integrates and adapts to the life and customs of the Pacific Northwest.

Party on, Senegalese folks!

The old dog's guide to springtime sight-seeing

Apologies to any who might be offended by this post. It's April Fool's Day. Try and take it with a sense of humor, eh?

This last weekend, Portland folks were treated to two full days of splendid spring weather. Temperatures in the 70s. Colors like madness. Everything woke up. Cherry and apple blossoms, bulbs and flowers. Young folks on Hawthorne Boulevard.

As beautiful as it is, this is hazardous weather for springtime walking.  Especially if one is an old dog. The potential for neck and back injuries as one traverses the sidewalks and parkways of my neighborhood is considerable. Trust me on this.

About this time last year, when springtime awoke, I was walking west on Hawthorne, coming home from a hike up Mount Tabor. I espied two young women in tank tops and spandex, out jogging along the sidewalk. They, too, were headed west, about half a block ahead of me. They were athletes with strong shoulders and lean bodies. Their hair was pulled back tight in pony-tails.Their long determined strides bespoke confidence and health.

Outside the Watertrough Saloon, a middle-aged fellow sat smoking a cigarette. He was bald as an egg, with an enormous paunch. His eyes were obscured behind dark sunglasses. As the two young women passed him, he turned and glanced down the street after them.  

Aha! thought I.

When I walked past, I simply couldn't resist. "Well, was it worth a second look?" I asked him.  He grinned and guffawed. "Busted!" he said. "One old dog can always sniff out another," I said. We both laughed.

My bald-headed, sunglass-bespectacled friend with the enormous paunch needed work on his skills. There are ways to do these things so that they aren't so obvious.

Early detection is key. As you walk, keep an eye on the sideway before you. The ideal range for first detection is about three-quarters of a city block. When you see someone that meets your criteria (shorts, sun dresses, or the like), immediately drop your eyes to a point on the sidewalk about 5 to 10 feet in front of you. The goal here is to appear as if you are lost in thought, pondering some weighty matter as you make your way down the sidewalk.

When the subject enters your field of vision, raise your eyes slowly. This is your opportunity to observe. As you bring your eyes up, you mustn't pause until you reach eye level. Therefore, make sure you take in all there is to see on the way up. When you reach the eyes, affect an expression of mild astonishment, as if, wrapped in your own thoughts you had not noticed the other person approaching.

It is vital that you be ready for the eyes. There will be eye contact. The subject is testing you to see where you're looking.

When eye contact is established, smile. The smile is key. It is not a leering smile. It is not a lascivious smile. It's a friendly, unassuming smile. Nine times out of ten, the response will be a smile returned.

This, my friends, is how to successfully enjoy the beauty of spring without coming across as a lecherous old dog.

And gentlemen, you're welcome.

Dr. Seuss world in the Rose City

So today, this fine sunny day in the last fortnight of winter, I beheld my Rose City brethren in their glory.

A tall man in a track suit speed-walked across Tabor's brow, shoulders held high, back straight as a board. His strides were long and straight-legged. He held a cell phone to his ear. "Yeah, I'm up on Tabor. Trying to get my mind right." He trumpeted his words to the world as well as his cell phone. "Rebecca and I called it off today. Yes. It's the right thing." Something in his tone told me he was speaking to a woman acquaintance.

I imagined her to be a platonic friend, possibly a former lover. When I was in those shoes, those were who I would call. Every man knows there is no consolation so sweet as a sympathetic woman. (And if we're being honest, somewhere deep down in the psychological soup of our motives, there's a faint longing for some sympathy nookie. I'm not sure it exists, but sad men ever seek for it like Galahad and the Grail.)

Skaters took the slopes in determined strides, their boards tucked against their hips. They spoke in short phrases, breathless from the exertion. Up to the top where they pushed off for the ride all the way from the from the summit to the gate by Reservoir 6.

Two high school students, a beautiful blonde girl and a thin black man whose accent revealed him to be African, sat in the grass. They spoke to each other softly. She lay her head on his shoulder.

On the slopes above the soapbox derby track there were hacky-sackers and a group of young people surrounding an Asian man playing a guitar. Dog-walkers were everywhere and some folks were tossing a frisbee.

Peaceful Portlanders out enjoying this beautiful winter's day here in the Rose City.  It reminded me of a book from my childhood. And to Think that I Saw it on Mulberry Street, it was called.  By Dr. Seuss.

Remember that book? 

Early garden 2013

Red leaf lettuce, spinach, and beets

This Portland weather.

I awoke this morning to frost. Maty was scraping the rime off the windshield when I tripped out the door at 6am.

This drop in temperature puts the test to assurances I received from the gardener at Portland Nursery and Garden Center on Saturday. When I pulled my wagon up to the register I asked him. "Everything I've got here is okay to put in the ground this early, eh?"

He looked over the little plants in their black plastic ice trays. "Let's see. Lettuce, spinach, beets. Yeah, you should be good."

Thus reassured, I made the purchase and pulled my wagon back to the house. I stopped at Peet's Coffee along the way and picked up a couple bags of coffee grounds. These I mixed in with the soil in the garden bed when I got home.

On Sunday, I went out early (10am is early for a Sunday, no?) and carefully extracted the contents of the cells of the seedling trays. I took great pains to separate each tiny plant from its brothers, then planted it in the coffee-enriched soil in the beds in front of the house.

This morning, crystals of frost blanketed the dirt in the garden beds. The tiny seedlings looked traumatized, but I couldn't be sure in the dim pre-dawn light.

I guess we'll see. According to the local forecast, temperatures this afternoon will be in the high 50s, and projected lows for the coming week don't get down past 40. I've never started a garden this early before. After all, winter still has another two and a half weeks to go.

Hang in there, little lettuces! Hang in there, spinach and beets!  Next weekend, the garlic goes in.

Hooray for the garden!

Harbingers of spring

A seasonable weekend here in Portland. Temperatures run in the mid- to high-forties. The sky is bright and white and uncertain, like a precocious child.

I noticed the crocuses this morning, walking to Fred Meyer. They strained blindly toward the lights, petals closed.

I saw them again on the way home. Their petals were wide as fledgling beaks awaiting the worm.

It must have happened quickly. The interval between the two sightings was no more than 20 minutes. If I'd stayed to watch, I might have seen it.

As the worry-worn among us will note, there is yet another month of winter to go and we might still have snow. It has happened before.

But on a weekend like this weekend, it's hard to believe.

And why would the Great Whatever play with our hopes like that?

An' she purty tonight?

A path of stone and concrete took me to the river.  No rain fell in the moment, but the city was water-saturated and the rain not far off; a taking of breath between inundations.  Gutters choked on fallen leaves and the air was sweet with rot.

Light dies swiftly at this time of year.  It was daytime as I started across Hawthorne Bridge.  By Waterfront it was night.  The sky whispered rain walking north along the river-wall.  Morrison Bridge arced the changeful void.

The sated river lolled and cast back the stark and beautiful audacity of the City of Roses.  Bright little city, if not happy, at least comfortable in the rain. 

As I beheld her, my heart swelled full as the river.  But the river sang low.   "An' she purty tonight?  An' she purty?"

Mock, if you must, Willamette.  We'll rise and fall and you'll just push on past.  But we make a pretty little spark against the void.  If I do say so myself.

Tears in the rain

Steeple at St. Stephen's

The rain held off as I stepped into Walgreens.  Coltrane dazzled in the ear buds.  Back to the back, where are the shelves of over-the-counter treatments.  Never mind.

Someone harangued the store manager.  A bald man, inky flames scaling up the back of his neck.  Rainy fury pelted the parking lot.  I paused under the awning.  Maybe it'll let up in a bit.

A woman in a shabby jacket passed before me sobbing.  Her face twisted in despair, she wailed to the weeping sky.  "I can't believe he did that."  She sagged against the bricks outside the door.

Inky Neck came out.  I paused, ear buds halfway to the ears.  Inky Neck and Shabby Jacket exchanged harsh words.  They knew each other well.  Something about a van.  Something about a promise.  "I told you back in Texas..." said Inky Neck.  "You don't care, do ya?" Shabby Jacket shouted.  The battle joined, she wept no longer. 

Profanities flew as an elderly woman pushed a walker from car to Walgreens door.  I wondered if we might have a problem on our hands.  A fussilade of profanity from both parties, then they parted.  Shabby Jacket fled in one direction,  Inky Flames stomped, cursing in the other.

"How'd ya like listenin' to all that?" asked the elderly woman, rolling her eyes.  I shrugged.  "What're ya gonna do?"

The rain did not let up.  Across the parking lot, Inky Neck shouted into a cell phone, his voice rose above the noise of the traffic.

"You got a light?"   asked Shabby Jacket.  I turned.  She was older up close.  Harder.  I had a green Bic in my hoodie pocket.  She saw me reach.  "Let me get a smoke," she said.  She pulled a cigarette from her jacket.  A wrinkled, single.  She held it to her lips.  I spun the striker wheel and applied the flame.  "It's been a day," she said, exasperated.

"They all are," I said.  Meaningless, but it was all I could come up with.  She frowned and turned away.

The rain hammered.  F*ck it, I'm going.

Ear buds in.  Neil Young Live at Massey Hall.  Bend the head, hunch the shoulders, and don't stop for nothing.  Past the county library.  Cross Cesar Chavez and skirt the Fred Meyer parking lot.  Straight down 38th for the crosswalk across Hawthorne outside Key Bank.  Hoodie growing heavier by the minute.

Five paces from the crosswalk another weeping woman passed before me to stand uncertainly at the curb. Youthful and beautiful, she reminded me of the Irish girl I knew.  Her hair was dark and she wore it short, like the Irish girl did.  She stood in the rain without a hat or jacket.  Tears coursed down her face.  Her tiny mouth trembled at the corners.  I passed her and entered the crosswalk.  The traffic stopped and she followed me across.  We parted ways at the south curb.  She drifted away toward Pepinos.  I was hellbent for home.

Hunker down

As foretold, Hellos was off and away on Friday.  He'll visit only occasionally over the next 5 months.

Now are come the leaden skies that drag at the people's hearts.  They weigh on the sunny-spirited immigrant lady and the chin-scratching stoner.  Not just they.  The jolly barrista and the surly, tatooed sandwich maker.  The shaggy-browed coffee-house scribbler and the glowering doorway cigarette-smoker.  All of us here in Portland and throughout the Pacific Northwest.

It is to be endured and we endure it.  We hunker down.  We trade sardonic jokes and slurp coffee.

"How ya doin' today?"  Spend a beat to consider, then shrug.  "They ain't throwin' dirt on the box yet."  Grin.

I swear, I don't mind.  I was born under this gray, despotic sky.  As much as anything, it has made me what I am.  There is even something to love in it.

Cascadia peoples endure sorrow well.  But you musn't believe that, come the drizzly spring, our lonely hearts don't yearn.  You musn't believe it.

Summer lingers

Good times on the Willamette.  Seventy-some days since we've had rain.  Summer lingers. 

Two dozen or more people paid homage to the sunset from Tabor's brow.  Lovers, skate-boarders, dog-walkers, seekers.  West Hills were a jagged purple stencil against the guava-flesh sky.   God's face beamed out across Eternity, casting the river bridges into dusk.  The city bustled beneath a haze of dust and car exhaust. 

The sapling oak is already tall and strong.  Some of its lesser branches have been pared away.  The long, slender fingers that remain will some day be great, heavy limbs.  Strange to think about that.

Thirsty?  I wonder, is the oak tree thirsty?  Seventy-some days, after all.  But those roots run deep.  And there will be more and greater droughts to come.

The word is that the rains will begin on Friday.  From Friday until whenever.  That's the way it rolls here in Oregon.  On the Willamette River.  During these good times.