Posts

Showing posts from July, 2013

Here's the Catch

Image
So I get this phone call and a chipper young man asks me if I am a fly fisher.  Uh huh, I say and he proceeds to tell me that I'm being contacted because I signed up to be an extra for the TV series Portlandia a few years ago and in the questionnaire I mentioned I fly fish.  I'm not calling about Portlandia, but rather a commercial that's casting and needs a fly fisher. I agree to an audition in a couple of days and then get an email that tells me where to report and to come dressed and "with gear."  A feeble attempt at humor, it goes on to say that they can't promise any fish. Three days later I'm sitting in a basement office with a dozen other folks waiting to be auditioned for the same commercial.  Most are 20 something women for the roles as bridesmaids.  A few 30-40 something men dressed casually but some no doubt with a change of clothes for the business traveler parts.  And then this older dude dressed in waders, carrying a fly rod and looking like

No Waiting

Image
That summer of 1964 was a typically warm one in the San Fernando Valley.  Just a few weeks away from my senior year in high school, I remember walking up to a local pharmacy to peruse the rack of paperbacks for sale.  My interests had recently migrated from the budding space program to the budding civil rights movement.  One of my classmates in U.S. History had shared a book called The Movement, full of photos about lynchings, Jim Crow laws, and the glaring poverty of the rural south. After reading a Newsweek article on literacy tests that included the question, "How many bubbles are there in a bar of soap?"  I wanted to read more.  That pharmacy book rack was the closest thing to a bookstore I could find.  But find something I did. I discovered the new paperback version of  Why We Can't Wait by Martin Luther King.  Aside from the "Letter from the Birmingham Jail," which would become a literary classic, the little paperback contained a centerfold of pictures.

The Tao of Flip Flop

Image
The last two weeks have made this a summer to remember.  Life turns on a quarter.  A dime is no longer sufficient in this economy.  A heartbeat will do as well.  At this moment a fortnight ago I was on my back in a tattoo emporium having a rainbow trout engraved into my right forearm for life.  Mikki, the talented artist whom I chose, and I were having a good chin wag.  I handled the pain just fine and felt  fairly proud of myself until the next morning when we learned that our landlords, a delightful couple would be a couple no more.  The phrase 30 days notice" landed in the pit of my stomach and remained there day and night until three days later when found myself fishing in central Oregon at a favorite lake and thinking of nothing else but the osprey overhead and the beautiful brook trout I'd just released.  House hunting could wait. Back at home I had a good laugh fantasizing that my landlords, or at least one of them, would call and say they'd changed their minds.  D

Swift Current

Image
A couple of nights ago, from a cabin on the Metolius River, I watched a little scene unfold.  It probably happens millions of times, on thousands of rivers and lakes, but on this night it was my entertainment for the evening.  A mother duck, with six ducklings, swam upstream until they all reached a tree that had landed in the middle of the river.  Draped across the rushing water, a few branches permanently came to rest about two feet above  the surface of the stream.  Mama duck settled them all in a row on a lower branch while she stood vigil a few inches above them.  Her ducklings were not small.  They all would be on their own in a few months, but for now, on this night, they "made camp." The metaphor came at the right time for me. A week earlier, I got the news that my landlords were separating and I'd have 30 days to find a new place.  Right out of the blue.  After the initial shock, something kicks in and we realize the impermanence, we compare with others less

He Speaks Yet Says Nothing

Image
Try as we might, it's hard not to embarrass ourselves every now and again.  I find it usually comes with simply trying to be honest.  The catch is that sometimes honesty flys in the face of hurting someone.  Case in point: I know someone who is rather loud.  OK, I lied, very, very loud.  It stems from a traumatic childhood, no doubt.  What little I know seems to center on the fact that, as a child, this person needed to be heard.  After a disruptive stint with a famously dysfunctional family, a dysfunctional, extremely person emerged only to flutter and sputter as an adult.  And yet, best friends don't always tell you what everyone mutters behind their backs.  "It'd be too hurtful," they say, or, "surely he must know..."   Surely, he doesn't. I know I have what it takes to drop a large hint, but the collateral damage it would do might not be worth the effort.  In fact, I was once that damage, myself, for about 30 seconds anyway.  Here's what hap

The Call

Image
When I first went into teaching I had no trouble figuring out what I would teach or how I would teach it.  Granted, I didn't know everything, but I certainly had an idea why I wanted to teach and what my subject would be.  In fact, I prided myself in knowing a good deal about history, but soon realized after college that any real knowledge would require lifelong learning. You could say I had the call.  It came about half way through high school after I realized that learning could be enjoyable and how much there was to learn.  My college experience only strengthened that knowledge. A little thing like the Vietnam War got in the way for a bit, but when that dust up settled, and I could go about the business of getting certified, I couldn't wait to have my own classroom and get on with teaching the history that I was certain was rarely getting taught.  I was focused.  I found a great Department at a wonderfully diverse high school in an equally diverse community.  I stayed for