Deny This

 Portland is doing its best imitation of Death Valley today.  Another record falls today.  As I write today it's currently 108 on its way toward 112 or 113.  Just for curiosity's sake, I checked on Death Valley.  It's 120 the same temperature it was on the day I visited that marvel of a landscape about 40 years ago.

While many in the Pacific Northwest are strangers to this kind of oppressive heat, I grew up in Southern California and recall days in July as a Little Leaguer when 3 digit temperatures threatened to cancel our games. They never did. Coming home to a cool shower and some cold watermelon were always waiting and made for a most relaxing end to the day.

When I lived in Texas, the heat was laced with humidity.  Same for the time I spent in Louisiana.  I remember one Sunday morning in New Orleans when I was meeting some friends for brunch in one of those old Garden District homes converted into a restaurant.  It was only about a half-mile from where I was staying so I decided to walk along St. Charles Ave. instead of taking the streetcar.  I'd showered and put on a clean, freshly pressed dress shirt that was dripping wet by the time I arrived at my destination.  I'm not a big sweater, so that's humidity.  

I can sit on my float tube, covered up, of course, in the sun for hours in direct sunlight.  The polaroid sunglasses help with glare, and if a slight breeze comes up, it doesn't matter if the temperature of the air is in the 90s.  If the water gets above 49, though, it's time to go home.

But today is really oven-like.  I just went outside to get my mail.  The wall of heat is just sitting and waiting for anyone to come along.  It is eerily quiet in my neighborhood.  No lawnmowers or leaf blowers. Very little traffic.  No dogs or cats around.  Even the birds and squirrels seem to have disappeared. 

Fortunately, we are supposed to go back to the high 80s or low 90s tomorrow.  A few clouds will return in a day or two and I might even venture out to my favorite lake to see if the fish are still laying low.

There is not much that can be done on or about a day like today.  I would, however, like to encounter a climate denier.  Not a leg to stand on in this heat.  

From the Corners

 The past few years I've been thinking about memory more and more. What gets retained, and what does not? What drifts away and what finds its way back with a little help from our friends? Lately, too, I've been finding that not only does my memory play tricks on me from time to time, but some things that remain crystal clear in my mind are no-shows in the memories of close friends of mine.  Close friends who were right there with me at the time.

Loss of memory with age is to be expected.  It comes with the territory.  But what I'm talking about here is the loss of various experiences that one would expect to be saved, if not permanent.  This may have to do with the emotions felt at the time.  

In my introductory psychology classes, I often asked students to think about their first memories.  What is your earliest memory?  On occasion, there would be a handful of students who can't recall anything before the age of 5 or 6.  Conversely, there are a few who recall experiences from their first year of life.  Here's where emotion comes into play.  Research shows that the emotions tied to various experiences have a big impact on what we remember. Times that were fearful are remembered more easily than those that were not. Trauma, we know, goes deep and can be highly impactful or erased through repression.  

Like my peers, as I age, I seem to be focused on events of the past more and more.  With retirement, comes some loss of identity, so it seems natural for us to live in that familiar territory as long as we can.  

A couple of instances I've experienced in the last few years illustrate what I'm trying to say.  Two years ago, at the 50-year reunion of my VISTA Volunteer service, I spent a weekend with people I hadn't seen in decades.  Our memories proved a valuable resource, but we found that where some of us remembered precisely the names of people and places, others were lost in the fog.  I've always had a fairly good memory, but it is not infallible.  On occasion, I find that I have confused two similar but separate things. This seems especially true for names or last names.

My longtime friend Lenny Anderson and I were in a show about Woody Guthrie's life and music for about 10 years in the 70s and 80s. A year or so ago at a music jam we both attend I suggested we do Woody's "66 Highway Blues."  Lenny said he had no memory of the song.  When I handed him the lyrics, he repeated them but not to the correct tune.  How can he not recall a song we did on stage many times, I wondered?  Maybe it wasn't important to him, I mused.  Then that theory about memory and emotion kicked in.  I recalled that I enjoyed doing that tune so much because I had a little bluesy harmonica solo on it.  My first such performance.  The nervousness I carried to the stage with me the first few times we did the song might have emblazoned it in my memory.  Whereas, Lenny did many songs in that performance, songs that were much more challenging too.  That may account for why he had no initial memory of the tune.  

Recently at our music jam group, Lenny suggested we do "66 Highway Blues." I was pleased and surprised.  We fell into our old comfortable routine with guitar and harmonica.  Then the others joined in with mandolin, guitar, and fiddle.  Never sounded better! Sometimes all that's necessary to jog a memory.

Got It Bad

 We hit the road a couple of days ago.  The first driving marathon since before the pandemic.  I can still do a 12-hour stint, though I don't advise that for anyone.  But when the temps in the Central Vally are three digits and there is a good bed awaiting you in the next state over, nice to know it's still doable.

From Portland to the California line is a beautiful stretch.  Still very green this time of year, but also showing the scars of last year's awful wildfires in parts.  Somewhere between Cottage Grove and Roseburg a melancholy song came on the radio.  It was Dinah Washington's version of "I Got It Bad and That Ain't Good." I was reminded of how smooth and distinct her voice was.  Katie asked if that was Billie Holiday and I said that while that was certainly a good guess, I thought it was Dinah Washington because there are subtle differences.  I wouldn't be surprised if Billie recorded a version of the same tune because it's definitely in her wheelhouse to sing a song about abuse.  But Dinah, it was and then I got to thinking.  There was, at first, something incongruous about listening to this performance and looking at the beautiful countryside outside my window.  It was a very urban song, in a very rural setting.  Or was it?  It then occurred to me that hearing this recording in the middle of the year 2021 while passing small town after small town in Oregon was a tribute to both the tune and its iconic singer.  It suddenly felt great to realize that future generations will stop and wonder about that beautiful and rare voice.  Dinah Washington will always be here.  Even in smalltown Southern Oregon.  

Maybe all this nostalgia is the result of the pandemic or a sign of coming out of it.  It reminded me too about that special phenomenon of hearing a particular piece of music in a particular kind of environment.  I used to love it when I had Bluegrass music playing in my car and I"d be driving through East Oakland.  Or Shubert playing as I exited the high school faculty parking lot.  Hank Williams often accompanied me through a Chicano barrio, or some Chicago blues or a Delta blues master wailing as I drove to an alpine lake.  We make these soundtracks, and then use them repeatedly to make other meanings.