As I Recall

With the testimony of Dr. Blasey Ford before Congress, I'm sure many folks are trying to remember some of the high school parties they attended.  This is all the more difficult depending on the type and amount of beverages present.  I suspect social class plays a significant role too.
Some indisputable evidence that has come out of these hearings and their aftermath is that alcohol was a huge part of the equation back in the 1980s, the setting for this particular situation.
Frat parties and exclusive private boys schools clubs have always been about getting drunk.  The degree to which one imbibes seems to be the significant factor here.  But, inebriation is not the topic here, high school parties are.
Do you remember many high school parties you attended?  I do...at least a few.  They seem to revolve around events rather than what we drank.  Growing up in Southern California, many of those I recall revolved around a swimming pool.

As a high school junior, the memorable party was all about the Beatles.  It coincided with their "invasion" both into the country and the Top 40 list.  As I recall there was a time when they had a few songs in the top ten concurrently.  I remember the girls in my class knowing all the words and singing along as they danced with us boys.  They had their favorite Beatle too and through in the head shakes and falsetto parts as well.  There was also a party shortly before my mid-year February graduation that revolved around the UCLA Varsity basketball team playing the Freshman team in their traditional first home game of the season.  In those days (1965) we had an A semester and a B semester.  Baby Boomers entered the postwar school systems in such numbers that there were two graduations a year for decades afterward.  Anyway, in 1965 one particular Frosh player on the UCLA squad turned out to be legendary.  That was Lew Alcindor who later became Kareem Abdul Jabbar.  His presence and budding ability were so profound that the Freshman team beat the Varsity.  That information filled the room at one high school party.  One group of guys went into a bedroom and watched the game on a small black and white portable TV instead of eating dips/chips or flirting with the girls present.
And then there was the Dylan party.  "Bob Dylan is the greatest poet in this country right now,"  I recall saying something like that with as much arrogance as I could muster.  My mind was turning about Vietnam and some of the guys present on that evening had their lives either ended or permanently changed by that war.  There were other parties, but none stood out.  Most of us had a few close friends and we double-dated a lot.  Our parties were rather small get-togethers.  We weren't driven by alcohol, in fact drinking wasn't a priority in any way.  Simpler time?  Nerdier time?  No just a different time.

Attraction

A couple of weeks ago I met a wonderful young man just about to begin his career in one of the more stressful helping professions.  Robbie is a sharp, well groomed, young professional who will soon be working with folks that have been diagnosed with all manner of mental illnesses.  Like so many young folks I meet, he had education debt, but also the energy and intellectual curiosity of someone who would make a great friend.
We met at a small dinner party organized around the fact that all attendees had helped one of our neighbors when he sustained an injury that left him on crutches for the better part of 6 months.
Since Robbie will soon be moving about an hour away, the little get together had even more meaning.  Some of my neighbors and I had helped our injured friend without ever meeting each other.  This dinner would remedy that.
The dinner went well.  We talked politics, film, art, and a smattering of neighborhood news.  Before the evening ended Robbie asked me about fly fishing.
"It's something I've always wanted to do," he said.  "I think I'm finally at the point in my life where I can make that dream happen."  I was thrilled.  I've been looking for a fishing buddy as I grow older and less mobile.  Could this stroke of luck really be happening?   Yes, it appeared so.

Over the next few days, I exchanged a few emails and text messages with Robbie.  He was realistic about the money he'd have to spend just to get the gear necessary to fish lakes and streams.  I volunteered to go with him to offer suggestions and evaluate the affordable gear available.  *Note, fly fishing can be expensive, but the good news is that the fish are not aware of what you are wearing or how expensive a rod/reel combination is in your hand.  We made a tentative plan to go shopping together, but I haven't heard from him for about a week.  Maybe he decided to wait until next year, that's certainly understandable since there are only about 2-3 weeks left in the season.  The snow will fall at the higher elevations where the trout swim in a matter of weeks.  I'm wondering, though, perhaps we are much more fascinated with doing something than actually doing it?  Just curious, but it's possible.   Now I know Robbie has more important things on his mind right now, but so far he fits into a pattern of folks I know who "always wanted to learn to fly fish."   And that's OK.  Maybe they know time-consuming and frustrating it can be.  Maybe all the gear, and getting it all in place is a deterrent too.  After all, getting in and out of those waders and wading shoes can leave a person breathless.  And have you ever tried to tie on a #18 fly...it's like threading a needle in a windstorm.
I think there just might be a happy ending to this story.  But Robbie, we only have a few weeks to give it a go.

Fall Colors

Last week I made my annual pilgrimage to a small lake in Central Oregon.  I've been going there for about 10 years now every September.  It's great to be in this Cascades after Labor Day because the tourist population is gone and the weather usually holds up for another month. 
I had a goal.  There are some beautifully colored Brook trout in this lake and while I have no problem with catching (and releasing) a Rainbow trout, the opportunity to catch a Brookie with Fall spawning colors often eludes me.  I charged up the battery on the little digital camera that fits nicely into the pocket of my favorite fishing shirt and promptly forgot to put in in place the morning I drove the 18 miles up into the mountains from our rented guest house in Central Oregon.  The thought hit me just as I was negotiating the last mile of the horrible washboarded dirt road that dead ends at the lake.  What's the worse that could happen?  I kept asking myself.  I could catch (and release) a beautiful brook trout and have no photo.  Just the picture of those blue greens and red oranges...the pink and red spots...the muted aquas and blacks.  Just catching the fish would have to be enough.  So, as luck would have it,  that is precisely what happened. 

When you fly fish out of a float tube, as I do, hooking a fish is a real adrenaline rush.  So much of the time is peaceful and contemplative that that sudden tug on the line really gets the blood pumping.  Then the game begins.  Keep the line tight and try not to rush the retrieval.  Fly fishers often lose fish.  They come "unbuttoned."  So when the time comes to reach for the net and complete the entire process of catching a fish, you never know what is on the end of the line.  Even rather small fish can but a bend in the rod right before they come to the net. 
So...when those gorgeous colors surface of the water and I realized I'd fooled a nice brookie, I realized the worse case scenario had come to fruition.  Nice fish, no camera.  I carefully revived the fish and took an extra long look before he/she swam back to the depths of the lake. 
Maybe there is something of good fortune that things turned out this way.  I'm forced to keep the image alive through my imagination.  Fishermen of all stripes have a size problem.  As the years pass, the fish seem to grow in length.  I will try not to let that happen, because it's all about the colors, not the inches.  I will say this fish was between 12-14 inches long and had teeth!  Look at those colors in the graphics I've attached here, and know that they pop even more when you see them a foot or two from your face. 

Levis Forever

There is a song called "Amanda" by Waylon Jennings that has a verse I've held onto for decades.  I think the song was written in the 1970s when I was in my 30s so it's easy to see the appeal because the aforementioned verse goes:
                                   It's a measure of people who don't understand
                                   The pleasures of life in a hillbilly band
                                   I got my first guitar when I was fourteen
                                   Well I finally made forty, still wearing jeans

I liked the fact that at 40, I was still wearing jeans.  Levis are my jean of choice.  I've had them in many colors, but the 501 blue jeans are the best, by far.  As a teacher, I could wear the brown or black 501s in the classroom and perhaps the blue on a Friday.  In my last month of full-time teaching I wore blue 501s every day.  Guess I wanted to put an exclamation point on the career. Today, it's no big deal, I've seen administrators walk the school halls in denim.  A few years back, it was just too casual.  My aim here is not to discuss the merits of jeans or when they are or are not appropriate, but rather their timelessness.
A few days ago I saw a social media post asking an interesting question.  Some 20 somethings were wondering what the little pocket on the front right pocket is for?  The best they could come up with is keys or cocaine.  It's coins, I informed them.  Then I felt the need to add that there was a time when parking meters took pennies.  A dime, two nickels, and a hand full of pennies would come in handy.  Easily accessible from that little pocket, those few coins would get you an hour or more on the meter. They are or used to be physically durable too.  Not so much anymore.
I sang this verse at 40, 50, 60 and now 70.
Today, when I buy a pair of Levis, they are often locked up in a case.  There are so many varieties, that I've got to wade through the 513s 505s and various other numbers to find the basic 501.  Then it's on to finding a salesperson to unlock the case and find my size.
If I were to edit the song referenced here, I'd ad the line..." still wearing jeans, in the same size.