Another 9th Street street party

Captn Joe laughs as daughter Elizabeth and Spencer look on

Ricky Spence Tanner and Simba in front of the firepit

Baby Claire gives Moma Jill some loving eyes

Brian keeps a close eye on Kim's wineglass

Ricky acts like a dork

Ellen shows off her dance moves

My neice Claire gives Simba some love

Annie and Brian listen to every word of Kim

Another groundbreaking!

The homeowner to be and her daughters

Andy has a birthday

Happy birthday boy

Andy seems to actually enjoy the attention

Our family grew blue this weekend

Long time ago, we had a MG converatable. Didn't seem to make sense with kids coming -- so we sold it.

Fast forward and our kids are older now.

Time to add a little zest back into our lives.

So meet Bluebug.

Laughter and sadness at the beach

Five families got together this weekend at Seaside to say goodbye to one of the families. The 9th street gang is losing Rob and Michelle. GM is transferring Rob to Ohio.

It just goes to show what I've always said, emotional connections are not always a function of duration (Remember me saying that Rusty?)

They grew to be an integral part of the neighborhood, our village. Our kids and their kids roamed from house to house seemlessly. When one family was gone, the other took care of the other's house and pets.

So we gathered together for one last party -- one last weekend, 19 of us in one house.

Greg Sauer carefully checking the flank steak

Capt. Joe cooking his harvest of clams

Parkers peddling through the streets of Seaside

Joe and Ellen on the sandy end of a kite

Ricky waiting his turn on the kite

Sid building in the sand

Tanner, Elizabeth and Ricky in the sand

Soul food

We will miss you

Kids - eating and playing

My young man standing at the beach

Week end in seaside

On the boardwalk

You have to concentrate when listening to Kim's stories

Rusty wins again

Rick Emerson Listener Party

Pushing the comfort level -

Last night I went to Rick Emerson's radio listener party at Sabalas at Mt Tabor. I like Rick's show. He's a wordsmith -- clever and local.
I arrived in the hip Hawthorne district well aware that I may be a stranger in a strange land. I don't do downtown Portland all that much, even less a hip neighborhood like this.
Sabalas is a former theater turned bar/performace area.
As I crossed the street, I could tell I was the only person around in a Nordstrom button-up shirt. I had thought about buying something else for the event -- but this is who I am these days -- so accept yourself.
The crowd was younger, in some cases very young. Goth, pierced and long colored hair. I looked like a recruiter from Youth for the Republican Party. I entered the side lounge. Huge orange glow drawings were on the wall. Bartender was kind, round and tattooed. Hard of hearing also. Maybe it had something to do with all the noise.
I did feel uncomfortable at times, but I thought it did me good. Sort of a diversity training. I work around folks who - generally look and dress like I do. Here was a different set of folks. It's good that I understand not everyone looks like me.
It also took me back. Years and years ago.
To a time when I looked more like the "kids" around me.
I recalled going to another bar in Olympia with my long hair and beard.
It was a working man's bar.
I could see people look at me as if I didn't fit in.
Now -- as the old guy in the Wurther's candy commercial says, "now it's my time to give out the candy."
Last night it was easier for me to accept the counterculture dress of those around me than it was for me to accept myself being out of context.
But I pushed the comfort level not just to accept others, but to accept myself.
And I reflected, on how the angry young man with the long hair and beard now looked around and saw a new generation of expression. I breathed in the freedom -- and for a moment -- felt at home.

Cowboy hat as a reward for being good

We were recalling Easter’s past: I recalled one that personified my fear of retribution. For some reason, I was not baptized as an infant. I think I remember mom saying it had something to do with her wanting me to understand what was happening.
So she waited until I was 6. That still wasn’t old enough.
My wonderful, wonderful aunt Adaline was trying to be helpful – and said, "if you are a good boy at your baptism, we hae a special gift for you."
Great! Now more pressure.
The Sunday service began. I was called up to the alter.
What the hell was going on?
Am I going to be subject to some painful, or worse, embarrassing ritual?
Will I be good enough to get a present from my favorite person in the world?
In our church, we had a kneeling thingie that separated the minister from the ungodly riffraff.
So I approached for god-knows-what.
I was nervous.
The minister said something.
I thought he said, come over.
A little odd but, what the hell – this was a man of god. I had to do what he said.
So I tossed one leg over the banister and started climbing over.
The minister stopped me.
No, come closer, he said.
Ack!
I’ve been bad.
God hates me now.
And I won’t get a present – because I’ve been bad.
Trauma is over.
We go home.
Adaline gives me this cowboy hat filled with candy and cheap toys – all wrapped in plastic.
OK – so this is my reward for being good? I wasn’t perfect, but I still got – this thing.
So, the reward for almost virtue is a cowboy hat and candy.
Wonder how that affected my development?

Blue colar child care

Click on -----> X

A wonderful scene arriving home

I am not exactly sure why she was doing it -- but my sweet neighbor Sid was nestled in her sleeping bag in my driveway upon arriving home the other day.

A teachers tale

I live around a lot of teachers. I like it. They are good people with good stories about lives being touched.
What has been so privately reassuring is how dedicated and hard working these people are after 20-25 years. While good teachers from my childhood stick out, some burnt out cookies are easily recalled.
Today's tale involves the recent round of parent teacher conferences at the nearby school. Of note was the progress of a fourth grader who began school with little command of English. The boy's work was excellent and he was making great strides.
As my teacher friend told the story, he mentioned how proud the parents were of their child. They talked of their dream for him to go to college. And then casually, the teacher mentioned that not only did the parents not speak English, they were not literate in their native tongue.
I shuddered at the idea that in my town in one generation a family has moved from illiteracy to fully bi-lingual literacy. This family will forever be changed. And so will the world.

Another 9th Street BBQ

Kim shows off her flank steaks

Rob loves his chips

Simba sports her new Easter wrap

Syd and Bri

The 9th Street gang -- hanging

My desk

why do I love a bush so much

Kim hired a fellow to come in and trim the bushes. It was either that or.....continue to watch them grow out of control.
He said he was going to cut back the butterfly bush (BB). If you don't know, a BB is a bush that grows like a weed and thinks it's a tree.
Yes, I know you can cut them way back but when I got home, it was little more than a stump. It should grow back- but it hurt.
BB and I go way back. Eight years when I was moving from Salem. I dug up BB and it died. All wilted. I put him in a bucket of water based on faith.
He came back.
He was alive.
I brought him to the new bare yard. Planted BB and he grew 20 tall.
I loved his survival attitude.
Now I look at him, hoping that his trim will make him even better.
I hope.