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Showing posts from August, 2009

Supply Schools

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I've been watching the usual "Back to School" slew of commercials this week. Yes, it is true that for the most part, students and teachers do get excited about the beginning of a school year. There is some sort of renewal that transpires. One of the best things about teaching is that every year you have the opportunity to begin again. One thing that has resonated stronger than usual is a local school supplies drive sponsored by a TV station, a credit Union and a few other businesses. People have been asked to drop off pencils, paper, backpacks and the like in several conveniently located barrels around town. For some reason this strikes me as particularly sad. I see it as a powerful reflection of inequity in our schools. Because it's something true about our schools, it's bigger reflection is our society; our culture. I know I should feel pleased that people are opening up their hearts and placing gluesticks, colored pencils, and fancy file folders in the

Bridge to Nowhere

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The numbers say it all. The symmetry is blatantly disrupted by the third column of numbers; the show prices: $97. $172. and $138. In horse racing it's what's called "bridge jumping." Here's the deal. When a race sets up in such a way that the overwhelming favorite is sure to run at least third, a wealthy, albeit greedy, bettor places a huge "show" wager and is assured of collecting a guaranteed 10 cents on the dollar. In their mind they think, if I can produce $100,000. they'll give me $2000. It usually works. When it doesn't, you lose big, hence the term bridge jumper. Someone tried this last Saturday at the Humboldt County Fair race meet in Ferndale. This is in very Northern California, just below Eureka. This little fair racing site holds the distinction of being the longest continual racing fair in the nation. To appreciate Ferndale, you must see it. It's a 5/8 mile track set in the redwoods in the tiny dairy community of Fernd

Reading at the Blackbird

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Oregon Literary Review co-hosts First Wednesdays, a series of readings, performances and wine-tasting at the Blackbird Wine Shop, 3519 NE 44th off Fremont, 7-9pm. This show is 21 and over. Contact Julie Mae Madsen at maemadsen@gmail.com for more information. The readers for September 2 are Bruce Greene, David Cooke, Carrie-Ann Tkaczyk, A. Molotkov, & Evan Cooper. This night features writers of a successful Portland writing group The Guttery (http://www.theguttery.com/) Bruce Greene taught for 33 years at an urban high school in the San Francisco Bay Area. As a teacher-consultant for the Bay Area Writing Project at UC Berkeley for the last 20 years, he’s published numerous articles on educational issues in his own practice as well as personal essays based on his experiences and observations. An avid thoroughbred horse lover, and frequent contributor to The Blood-Horse magazine, he served as Northern California correspondent from 1985-2000. Bruce now lives and writes in Portland,

Willard

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His name was Willard Smith. I first met him in the fall of 1969 while a VISTA Volunteer in the 3rd Ward of Houston, Texas. On a whim, I went to a horse auction with another VISTA and we ended up bidding on a nervous little gelding recently shipped in from the Texas panhandle. Much to our surprise, but more to our disbelief, our $150. bid took the prize. If not for a generous old man, who also bought a hundred dollar horse that day, we may have had to ride our new friend home. I can still see the two horses standing in the bed of this guy's old pick-up truck. Following them on the freeway was just about heart stopping. At least we had a destination. Fortunately, my partner in crime, Julie, had located a horse boarding stable about 10 miles from our home and that's when I met the Smith family. Our little brown gelding arrived in good shape. Never question anything an old black man in overalls knows and does. We paid him about 10 bucks for the task and parted co

A Poem

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Odd Hours c2009 Bruce L. Greene Odd Hours The mind’s passion is all for singing out. Obscurity has another tale to tell. -Adrienne Rich I. They emerge at odd hours. Always crouched like wilting string beans, or oversized soap bubbles; well over prime, instantly vulnerable, silent. In remote corners of their PROPERTY they’ll weed awhile, Jerking the veins of unwanted intruders from their domestic carpet-dream; It’s what they have, what they control, what they do. When careers have yielded to succulents, they appear on weekdays, with mid-morning saws, leaf blowing, edge and hedge trimming, fumes for the elms, oscillating decibels for infants, vibrations for ant colonies. Eleanor tempts the last light with an impromptu tour of her lawn; She hears crows descending and wonders about their youth, Never seen any nests, never seen baby crows, they just appear fully grown; Their numbers have increased, would that Hitc

Big Sky, Here's Why

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My recent trip to Montana was filled with weather extremes. The heat of the day often gave way to thunder showers each evening. An early morning fishing trip into a dark canyon: the view from a kayack, A brief visit with a cutthroat trout before he returned to his holding place in the east fork of the Bitterroot river.