Rock Stars of the Literary World at the Nature of Words

Reason #439 why I love where I live: out of control enthusiasm for quirky events. Yes, it happens regularly at athletic competitions, where racers in pink tutus or pond-skimmers in gorilla suits are not unusual sights. But last weekend demonstrated the true heart-on-the-sleeve, embrace-life-fully spirit always lurking below the surface 'round these parts. If you spent any time at the Tower Theater last weekend, you know what I'm talking about.

The Nature of Words annual literary gathering, spearheaded by local poet Ellen Waterston and now in its seventh year, brought a dozen or so northwestern writers to town for readings and workshops. The readings at the Tower sold out - with a waiting list and line out the door. Does that not amaze you? It sure seemed to perplex the writers - that so many folks in this small town would pack the place, laugh and cry along with their words, hoot and holler at the outrageous parts, and cheer them on like rock stars.

The most fabulous, most inspiring, most stick-with-you part of listening to these wordcrafters is learning how far each of them has come. Sherman Alexie, who had most of the cards stacked against him from birth; Seth Kantor, whose unique and solitary background seems to have instilled both patience and impatience with the rest of the world; Myrlie Evers-Williams, whose inner strength and tenacity I cannot even begin to fathom. And Matthew Portman, whose poems knock you from giddy humor to profound sadness and back again.

Maybe similar festivals of words take place in other towns. But these writers, in this landscape, with this audience of word lovers... I'm guessing I'm not the only one inspired to spend more time with a good book, or with pen on paper. That is, once the gorilla suits and skis are put away.

Add to your reading list: The Last Town on Earth

At the most recent First Friday art crawl I followed the crowd into Dudley's, the relatively new coffee and used books shop that's moved into the old Book Barn space on Minnesota Avenue. I picked up "The Last Town on Earth," by Thomas Mullen, and spent the next week submerged in the life of 16 year old boy as he comes to grips with homelessness, deadly epidemics, the morality of war, and the lengths to which people will go to protect their families from threats, real and perceived.

These are modern day issues, right? But this story takes place almost a century ago, near the end of WWI, in a small fictional logging town near Everette, Washington. The town physician is just catching on to germ theory, most of the town's young men have been marched off to Europe's battlefields, and news does not travel quickly or easily. But news of the horrific Spanish Influenza has gotten through, and the town decides to take drastic measures - a self-imposed quarentine. The ramifications of intentional isolation spark questions about drawing lines in the sand. Where does my community end - at the Canadian border? at the edge of town? at my front door?

While I've never claimed to have even average retention for history, this book highlighted two glaring holes in my understanding of WWI. First, I thought peace activism sprang up with the Vietnam War. Conscientious objectors and protest demonstrations during WWI? The propoganda that Wilson applied was eerily similar to the rhetoric that led us into Iraq. Guess it takes a good historical fiction novel to pull back all that government propoganda, even today.

And the second gaping hole? Spanish influenza. I have a whole new appreciation for living in the lightning fast world of global telecommunications, when Swine Flu and Bird Flu epidemics are identified and fought before you can say "gauze mask." Thomas Mullen makes you feel the fever, the aching joints, the strangulation, as well as the fear of not knowing how to keep your family safe. Is it the actual illness that tears this town apart, or the decisions made by town leaders?

Joining the Technorati world...

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Rollin' in the Clover

Finally, after years of neglect, my lawn is looking green and lush, soft and welcoming to bare toes. Unfortunately, there is very little growing there that would fit the normal definition of turf. No, turns out that clover is way happier on our sunny side of the street than is grass - and it's made me think about how mixed up we've become in our quest for curb appeal.

While my clover patches haven't yet migrated into the carefully manicured lawns up the street, friends have warned that most homeowners don't share my fondness for this lovely three-lobed leaf. I don't think they need to worry. Their dense thickets of grass where the uniform blades stand at attention like little green soldiers don't seem to appeal to the free-wheeling clover plant, which prefers the barren open spaces found on neglected lawns like my own. I may soon find myself on the Homeowner Assocation watch-list, might even receive one of those strongly worded warnings to shape up - but so far they've been a very tolerant and friendly group.

So what's so bad about clover? After a little googling, it seems the main complaint is that it breaks up the uniformity of a grass turf lawn. Well, Central Oregon has never been much for uniformity - just attend a parade in Bend and you'll have to agree - so maybe we can bring the diversity down to the grass level as well.

Reaching way back to my botany days... clover is a legume, meaning it's in the pea family. Legumes are givers. They are the Robin Hoods of the plant world: stealing valuable nitrogen out of the air, which has more than it needs, and putting it back in the soil, accessible to all nitrogen-needy roots. And legumes feed the bees - honeybees thrive on clover nectar. Not convinced yet? How about my favorite trait of leguminous lawns: clover grows in dense carpet-like mats, but stays low to the ground. The only reason to fire up the gas-guzzling mower is to clip the flowerheads occasionally - to avoid stepping on a honeybee. Clover is truly the lawn-cover of choice for lazy environmentalists like myself!

Grass, on the other hand, is a greedy little plant, in terms of water and soil nutrients, and what does it give in return? Well, hours of toil and trouble, for one thing, and a toll on the wallet for another, between the fertilizers, herbicides, and the water bill. It's perfect for those who love to spend their free time on yard work (note: not the same thing as gardening!) and thrill to the heady smell of fertilizer and mower exhaust.

Now if I could just get rid of those unsightly blades of monocots...

Oakridge's Alpine Trail

Gravity is not always my friend, especially when riding uphill on a bike. I am the first to admit my lungs appreciate a little assistance, especially in the form of a shuttle van. Which is exactly where I found myself this past Sunday, as Randy of Oregon Adventures hauled my family and seven others, plus bikes, up to the start of the Alpine Trail in Oakridge.

Oakridge, Oregon, is a Central Oregon mecca for trail riders. The town is nestled along the Willamette River on Highway 58, halfway between Eugene and Gilchrist. This town could reinvent itself to become the next Leavenworth or Sisters - but more likely the locals spend any spare time on their bikes rather than sitting in planning meetings (which is why they live there, after all!)

So after releasing poor Minnie (our beloved 28 foot cabin-on-wheels) from her winter storage, we packed up the tonka pie supplies and bike gear, and puttered two hours out of Bend for a weekend of camping and biking. Without a reservation, mid-way through Memorial Day Weekend, we felt lucky to land a spacious campsite at southernmost tip of Hill Creek Reservoir, in the Sand Prairie Campground. If you head that way, look for this site, right next to the West Fork Trailhead. The site backs up to a side channel of the Willamette, where the water runs low enough to wade out along the rocks without risk.

We shuttled up next morning with Oregon Adventures, meeting at the Trailhead Diner (town's not big enough to need directions to the diner.) At twenty bucks a head, the price was well worth the pain it would have taken to get three teenage boys and one slacker mom up the windy gravel road to the trail head. Jeff, on the other hand, thrives on uphill grinds - I think his climbing legs are big old endorphin factories. We all had plenty of ascending even with the shuttle - once out of the van and on the bikes the trail continues to wind uphill for a good a mile before the rolling descent begins.

The singletrack is nicely maintained, with just enough rocky areas and dips to keep you paying attention - but no hazards. Steep enough to keep the boys flying along and the adrenaline charged - not steep enough to make a mother fret for their safety (or my own.) We had a blast!

Every so often the woods clear to reveal lovely panorama views from Bachelor to Diamond Peak, hovering over fields of wildflowers. Then it's back into shady and cool old growth, where riders seem tiny next to massive trunks, uncurling ferns crowd the forest floor and rotting nurse stumps sprout new baby trees. The photos included here really don't do it justice - taken with a little pocket sized camera that fits in a camelback.

Back in town after a few hours, we stopped for a bite at the Trailhead Diner, an eclectic little coffeehouse/burger spot, where the servers are living works of art. The pace was slow but the food was tasty, especially the chicken and spinach quesadillas.

This ride was just a taste of what Oakridge has to offer, and it's definitely on our list for another weekend trip. The Larison Trail and the West Fork Trail are next - shuttle-free, sadly - but at least I'll earn my cheesy Trailhead quesadillas.

A Grand Farewell to Winter

If you were in Bend this past weekend and didn't find yourself exhausted, happy, and a little bit sunburned by Sunday evening - you just weren't trying. One of my favorite things about this town is that every season is embraced and celebrated: Summerfest, Fall Festival, Winterfest, and...well, there is no spring to speak of, so there is no Spring Fest... but the PPP weekend throws a grand farewell to winter and launch into summer - time to pack away the skis and break out the flipflops.

The Pole Peddle Paddle and the Mt Bachelor Pond Skimming aren't advertised as a farewell to winter, but for me that's what it's all about. After six full months of powder, rime, crystal bues skies and gale force winds, it feels so good to pare down to one layer of clothing, to feel a warm breeze on legs that haven't seen the light of day in way too long, and to appreciate the creative flair thatfolks bring to these events. From the guy in the monkey suit skimming the pond on a snowboard (way to juggle those bananas!) to the elite team of athletes wearing wigs and pink tutus, it's a last hurrah on the mountain and a great big welcome to the trails and lakes to come.

The traditional calendar says winter is supposed to end with the vernal equinox on March 21, and summer doesn't start until the solstice on June 20. Those are celestial dates corresponding to the Earth's position to the sun, really not relevant to life here. All that matters is the evenings are getting light enough for after-work rides, the mountain is closing the lifts for the season, the trails are drying up, and it's time to pack away the winter gear (except for the puff jackets, gloves and hats, needed for summer evenings up high) and break out the paddles, flipflops, and sunscreen.

Here's a photo of Gabe post-pond skimming. He skimmed it with ease but got dunked by the chicken grab - and got to take home the chicken for his effort!

Little Ski Hill, Big Fun.

Every winter trip to Leavenworth includes a visit to the Leavenworth Ski Hill. Not only is it far away from the polka music and bavarian kitch, it's about the best deal on two skis that a family can find.

Don't expect much in the way of vertical - there are just two slopes for downhill skiing. Riders slide on up the slopes via rope tows, so bring some old leather work gloves that can take some abuse. The hill is perfect for wee skiiers, new skiiers, or in the case of my family, kids who can spend hours building jumps and kickers.

For the aerobically inclined, seven kilometers of nordic ski trails start out of the ski hill area - trail passes are required and are good at all nordic ski trails maintained by the Leavenworth Ski Club - about 27 kilometers in total.

My sister-in-law Nancy makes full use of the Leavenworth Ski Hill - downhilling with the kids, nordic skiing, and...for a little extra rush of adrenaline...climbing up to the wooden jump structure, strapping on the extra long skis, and flying Eddie-the-Eagle style off the 20 meter old school Bakke Hill jump.

Whatever the activity, kid fuel comes cheap in the cozy log lodge, a 1930's CCC project. We filled five empty bellies for under twenty bucks - and a seat by the roaring old fireplace to boot. Not a bad way to spend a winter day!