One thing I never wanted this blog to be about was my domestic life; another damn daddy blog.
For one thing, I don't really have the ability to extract pithy or enlightening tales from my family or my marriage; we're just not really all that entertaining, I'm afraid.
For stuff like that you need to go over to
Sweet Juniper! or
Une Envie de Sel or the Salsa family's
blog. They have the gift for making their daily lives seem unique, lively, and interesting to the casual visitor.
As Salieri says in
Amadeus, from the ordinary they make tales of timeless magic, while I from gods and heroes can craft only the ordinary.
For another, why the hell would you be interested in the boring doings of a North Portland guy of no particular distinction?
But the thing is, the vast expanse of my days is taken up with the commonplace; sleep, working, kids, wife, home...all the small change of an ordinary life of a middle-class family in this corner of the Pacific Northwest. I try and write about the big things; love, war, death, taxes, soccer. But the actual life I live often contains very little of those matters outside the walls of my own skull. My days as they pass by are actually quite different.
So, for a change, I thought I'd take you through a couple of those days.
Last week the kiddos were on Spring Break, the bizarre anachronism left over from...what? There's no real reason for a week off from school in mid-spring - what would my employers say if I suggested we shut down the firm for a week because...well, just because?
Yeah, you're damn right they would.
But Spring Break it was, and fortunately my spawn are too small to want to swim upstream to Seaside or Fort Lauterdale and attempt to find adventure between mojitos and partial nudity. Instead my bride and I decided to take the famdamily over the Hill to the desert.
The first stop - because long drives and small children are listed as one of the things filed in Dante's Fifth Circle of Hell right next to simony and unnatural relations with breakfast foods - was partway up the Gorge; Bonneville Fish Hatchery.
Now fish hatcheries in general are one of those ideas, like Paul Ryan's budget and privatizing prisons, that sounded better in the concept than in actuality. But this hatchery has one ginormous attraction, and I do mean ginormous -
Herman the Sturgeon.
This being Oregon, where we understand that there are only two real irreducible elements for Life, sunlight and coffee, Herman has his own barista.
The day was already drizzling rain - more about which later - so we paid just a brief visit to the hatchery and Herman the star sturgeon. He was a big 'un, alright. Remind me to tell you about the time Herm got fishnapped.
We loaded back into Bob the Subaru station wagon and bored further up the rainy Gorge. I wanted to take the fam on the pretty drive along the old highway, so we got off the interstate in the little town of Mosier...
...with a bathroom-coffee-and-brownie-stop at the wonderful little
10-Speed Coffee Shop before heading up into the high bench to the east...
...and the Nature Conservancy's
small reserve just west of the Rowena Loops.
This gentle plateau was washed over - probably many times - by the great Ice Age floods that ripped through the Gorge throughout the Pleistocene. Dick Waitt has
estimated as many as 60 of these "Missoula Floods" crossed the Channeled Scablands of eastern Washington, and many of them must have flowed over the top of the bench at Rowena, stripping the soil off the old Miocene basalt surface.
The rock forms an impervious surface, so in the spring the plateau is strewn with small ponds known as "vernal pools".
The cold hillsides were also beginning to show the first wildflowers of spring, a hopeful color of the warmth to come. I walked slowly, as men with failing joints will, as my family ran on ahead of me into the chill showers. If you look carefully you can see them, far in the middle distance.
Soon enough I was alone with the textures and sounds of the plateau in spring; the wind off the river, the cold smell of the dark rock, the liquid song of the meadowlark and the bree-donk of the blackbird warning intruders away from his pond below.
Reality intruded soon enough, though with my little outrunners returning; the Boy, sullen, because his mother had forbidden him to dance along the edge of the cliff, my Bride, flustered and furious because of her son's defiance, and Little Girl, getting whiny as she grew tired and wet from a tumble. Definitely time for a rest.
So I carried her back to Bob, and we headed East; stopping first at the Dalles and then turning south - through Madras and Bend - to our destination at the cabin in the pretty little state park in La Pine.
Up to this point it had been a pleasant enough trip, if one that included more than a hap'orth of driving. But Thursday night the weather closed in.
I've spent a fair bit of time over on the dry side of Oregon in twenty years, and I don't scruple to say that the rain that arrived that night and continued on into the following day was as heavy as I've ever seen east of the Cascades.
It piss-poured.
The Bride and I looked at each other with the grim understanding of what it would mean to lack outdoors entertainment for two under-tens in a rustic cabin with the nearest toilets 200 feet away in the pouring rain.
So, for the first time in many, many years, I bailed on a camping trip.
We repacked the car and headed back west. Stopping, mind you, for some adventures along the way; first, at the small "Nature Center" in the freakishly bizarre artificial "community" of
Sunriver.
Sunriver is hard to explain if you've never been there. It's completely planned. There's nothing organic, spontaneous, unregulared or natural about it. Even the lodgepole pines seem to grow less crooked within its confines.
It's entirely appropriate, to my mind, that it is located on the site of the old Camp Abbot, the WW2 Corps of Engineers combat engineer training post; the thing is an engineering artifact, all right.
The odd thing is that it's very scenic, in its plasticine way. I just wouldn't want to live there; it's all
waaaay too much the sort of place that appeals to a litigator from Bend or a real estate broker from Salem. I'd got berserk eventually and do something deranged - drag-race the golf carts out at the Tiger Woods Golfateria, reverse all the signs at the Sunriver Shopping Plaza - just to upset the nice, orderly, well-organized smugness of the place.
We left Sunriver and drove north through Bend - I'm always glad to bypass the hectic business of that place because it reminds me of what a pleasant place Bend used to be - to Smith Rocks outside Terrebone.
Mojo loves this twisted hoodoo, and so she and the Boy galloped off in the lessening drizzle as little Miss and I sat in the docent's yurt and talked about arrowheads and wild lands and civilizations vanished long ago.
Then the hikers returned, we all took a last look at the wet and chilly desert, and then returned home.
So there we were, back in Portland instead of out exploring the wilds;
what were we to do?Well, I'll tell you.
First, after a slow sort of morning - and at home on weekends or holidays most mornings are slow; the Boy and the Bride are late, late risers, so Miss and I usually sit and chat or watch her beloved Little Ponies - I took the kiddos out for an indoorsy sort of adventure so Mojo could exercise, read, and sew.
We went to Guardian Games for Pokeman swag, got some lunch, and then played arcade games at our old standby for rainy days, the "Wunderland" arcade down on Belmont. That afternoon the Boy got to stay home and play his PS2 video game - a rare treat for him - while Mojo, Missy and I went to the kid yoga class at our Kenton library.
This was a bit comic because young Miss is cultivating the whiny attitude of an older kid. She fussed and bitched about going to this thing from the moment we told her we were going until the moment we went into the little room at the back of the library.
At which point she frolicked like a young lamb. Contrary child.
My bride then returned the favor; she took the kiddos so I could go to the Timbers match against Real Salt Lake.
It was a chill, spitty night, and the Boys weren't really on form; after an ugly and pointless first half our young midfielder Darren Nagbe slotted home two lovely goals - the second really was a gorgeous thing, real highlight-show stuff
to put the home side up 2-1 with no more than 20 minutes to play. We thought we would take the full three points at home.
But we couldn't hold.
The visitors drew level a minute from time, and then a third goal deep in injury time sent them off winners and left the Timbers, and us supporters, gutted. It was a brutally ugly end to a tough match.
I've said this before - soccer is a cruel, cruel game. We stood stunned in the rain, still singing, but with the special twist in the heart that comes from watching a win carelessly booted away.
And what made it harder is that we'd seen it before; in fact, we'd seen almost this exact scene before the previous season when the loathsome New York Red Bulls came back from a goal down to win in the dying minutes.
That kind of match is the kind that mirrors all the other disappointments, large and small, in life itself; the broken heart, the broken bone, the broken promise. Every damn time life kicks you in the ass, from the trivial to the wrenching.
And, really, you only have two choices; to give up, to carp and whine, or to continue to hold up the emblems of your faith and sing, sing in your faith and in hopes of a brighter day to come.
And, of course, the next day
does come, and with it, small girls debating frilly dresses with their mommy
or kiddos having cart-pulling fun at the bounteous Portland Nursery garden store
bringing home their mom's green shoots; curry and basil, flavored with - what else - the rich dark elixir that warms up a rainy Portland day.
And we had done all we needed, so we went home.
To spend the closing hours of Sunday reading, to play games together, to plan garden beds (my bride and I), to do laundry, to sweep the floors, to watch television, to cook dinner, and then to read bedtime stories, and tuck in to beds.
And that's the sort of thing that the main of my life consists of.
That's it.
Nothing grand, nothing dire, nothing great, or picturesque, or memorable. No deeds of note or acts worthy of record. Just the pattering of the passing days, family life played
calmando, sometimes in a minor key, perhaps; sometimes strident, sometimes dull, at times very little, at times overmuch, but always a song that sings of my work, and my home, and my beloveds, and the place on Earth where they all come to rest.
So when this place remains unchanged for a day or so...that's where I am - in that other world, singing that other song, passing the quiet days in unexceptional ways behind the white picket fence off of McKenna Avenue, where the streetlight casts it gibbous light on the sleek black night-street outside.
Because of its association with warmth and pleasure the sun was often referred to as the Big Heat Tab in the Sky, and GIs were sometimes heard to invoke this deity when the weather was crummy; "Oh, great Heat Tab, bring us light!". This sometimes involved sacrificing some Ham and Eggs, Chopped; not that great a sacrifice. That particular main meal was usually referred to as "Yellow Death".
The kiddos are beginning to pick up daddy's old sport, lacrosse. Here's the littlest LAX player in Portland:
What she lacks in technique she makes up for with ferocity. Her brother still enjoys his soccer, though, and wanted to have a kickabout with his mom and I:
The Girl wanted to take some snapshots, so here's a sampling of her subjects, in no particular order:
If you look very carefully in the last photo you'll see a woman walking on a tightrope; we spend a bot of time watching her, and agreed she was very good:
The whole of Saturday and Sunday were like that (well, take away the awful beating at Jeld-Wen Field Saturday, but let's not bring that up, shall we?) - lots of lovely idle time just fooling around doing nothing of note and enjoying it thoroughly. 
This being Oregon, where we understand that there are only two real irreducible elements for Life, sunlight and coffee, Herman has his own barista.
The day was already drizzling rain - more about which later - so we paid just a brief visit to the hatchery and Herman the star sturgeon. He was a big 'un, alright. Remind me to tell you about the time Herm got fishnapped.
We loaded back into Bob the Subaru station wagon and bored further up the rainy Gorge. I wanted to take the fam on the pretty drive along the old highway, so we got off the interstate in the little town of Mosier...
...with a bathroom-coffee-and-brownie-stop at the wonderful little 10-Speed Coffee Shop before heading up into the high bench to the east...
...and the Nature Conservancy's small reserve just west of the Rowena Loops.
This gentle plateau was washed over - probably many times - by the great Ice Age floods that ripped through the Gorge throughout the Pleistocene. Dick Waitt has estimated as many as 60 of these "Missoula Floods" crossed the Channeled Scablands of eastern Washington, and many of them must have flowed over the top of the bench at Rowena, stripping the soil off the old Miocene basalt surface. 
The cold hillsides were also beginning to show the first wildflowers of spring, a hopeful color of the warmth to come. I walked slowly, as men with failing joints will, as my family ran on ahead of me into the chill showers. If you look carefully you can see them, far in the middle distance.
Soon enough I was alone with the textures and sounds of the plateau in spring; the wind off the river, the cold smell of the dark rock, the liquid song of the meadowlark and the bree-donk of the blackbird warning intruders away from his pond below.
Reality intruded soon enough, though with my little outrunners returning; the Boy, sullen, because his mother had forbidden him to dance along the edge of the cliff, my Bride, flustered and furious because of her son's defiance, and Little Girl, getting whiny as she grew tired and wet from a tumble. Definitely time for a rest.
Up to this point it had been a pleasant enough trip, if one that included more than a hap'orth of driving. But Thursday night the weather closed in.
I've spent a fair bit of time over on the dry side of Oregon in twenty years, and I don't scruple to say that the rain that arrived that night and continued on into the following day was as heavy as I've ever seen east of the Cascades. 
So, for the first time in many, many years, I bailed on a camping trip. 
Sunriver is hard to explain if you've never been there. It's completely planned. There's nothing organic, spontaneous, unregulared or natural about it. Even the lodgepole pines seem to grow less crooked within its confines.
We left Sunriver and drove north through Bend - I'm always glad to bypass the hectic business of that place because it reminds me of what a pleasant place Bend used to be - to Smith Rocks outside Terrebone. 
Then the hikers returned, we all took a last look at the wet and chilly desert, and then returned home.
So there we were, back in Portland instead of out exploring the wilds; what were we to do?
This was a bit comic because young Miss is cultivating the whiny attitude of an older kid. She fussed and bitched about going to this thing from the moment we told her we were going until the moment we went into the little room at the back of the library.
At which point she frolicked like a young lamb. Contrary child.
It was a chill, spitty night, and the Boys weren't really on form; after an ugly and pointless first half our young midfielder Darren Nagbe slotted home two lovely goals - the second really was a gorgeous thing, real highlight-show stuff
to put the home side up 2-1 with no more than 20 minutes to play. We thought we would take the full three points at home.
But we couldn't hold. 
I've said this before - soccer is a cruel, cruel game. We stood stunned in the rain, still singing, but with the special twist in the heart that comes from watching a win carelessly booted away. 
That kind of match is the kind that mirrors all the other disappointments, large and small, in life itself; the broken heart, the broken bone, the broken promise. Every damn time life kicks you in the ass, from the trivial to the wrenching. 
And, of course, the next day does come, and with it, small girls debating frilly dresses with their mommy
or kiddos having cart-pulling fun at the bounteous Portland Nursery garden store
bringing home their mom's green shoots; curry and basil, flavored with - what else - the rich dark elixir that warms up a rainy Portland day.
And we had done all we needed, so we went home.
So when this place remains unchanged for a day or so...that's where I am - in that other world, singing that other song, passing the quiet days in unexceptional ways behind the white picket fence off of McKenna Avenue, where the streetlight casts it gibbous light on the sleek black night-street outside.
"Rebirth of Mothra 3" is REALLY bad. Epically bad. Even-for-kaiju-monster-movie-bad. There's been a whole lot of really confusing, bizarre plot (which we've laughed at) and really confusing, bad acting until at one point one of the excrable Japanese kid actors (EJKA) gives another EJKA a stunned look as he tries to get an explanation for just what the hell has happened (which I'm still not sure about involving time-travel and multiple kaiju monsters) by asking his pal; 
And as the second EJKA looks back dumbly my son turns to us and drawls what should be his line:
For me and mine, well, I'm a father, so perforce my year was consumed by my children, and in that respect it was more blessed than not.
He still seems to me to be myself at eight; determined to go at life the hard way. That's not an easy road to walk, and as a father it pains me to watch him insist on taking it. But all I can do is show him where he's going and love him as he goes there. And hope he chooses happiness instead of troubles.
She is sweet and loving, the very avatar of the peacemaking little sister. So far she has yet to run up against anything she can't overwhelm with kindness and I dread the day she does. Until then I try and keep her in hugs, kisses, and lap chang (èè
ž)
Her sewing has improved to the point where she is actually making clothes (from "upgrading" existing clothing with appliques and frills). And perhaps the most exciting surprise she has brought to our lives was to learn - just this past week - that her contract with Northwest Natural has been extended six months.
In all other respects I hope I have earned another year's wisdom and another year's kindness in return for another year's journey away from the strength and fury of youth. If there is any justice in the world vieillesse should gain in savait what jeunesse can no longer pouvait.
I have my Portland home and my Cascadian homeplace. 
Does that sound callous? 
Let's do better next time, eh?
Sometimes I sit and wonder...what the fuck do normal families do?
So I called my parents today, just because I was thinking that it was the 70th anniversary of Pearl Harbor Day and I happened to know two people who actually remembered it.
Meanwhile my mother spent a good part of her war in California; long enough to see her parents' Japanese-American friends and fellow Salvation Army officers the Kobiyashis off to Manzanar, anyway. In the Sixties and Seventies I recall her telling me about working with her father, who was the West Coast Salvation Army commander, at railroad stations and embarkation ports and the long trains full of tired soldiers spilling onto the platforms hopeful for a last treat and a friendly face before the long journey resumed that would end, for some at least, in a grave on some crappy little island or in some southwest Pacific jungle.
First, I think the single salient fact of Pearl Harbor is how it shows how individual military success can be - and often is - meaningless in securing political victory. 
By 1944 the F6F and F4U were better than the A6M, the SB2C at least no worse than the D3A (though the American aviators called it the "Sonuvabitch 2nd Class" and generally disliked it) and the TBF faster and more maneuverable than the B5N.
Because the real objective of Japan's foreign policy in 1941 had nothing to do with the U.S.; it wanted pieces of China and the Asian mainland. We were just in the way.
We seem to still collectively remember December 7th, 1941, and one would think we'd remember these lessons as well. 