Sara V prepares to retire

Wednesday: The last haircut

Every five or six weeks, I make a little notation on my calendar: "Sara V -- 6 p.m."

It's my reminder to go see Sara Van Houten and get my hair cut. After this week, though, someone else is going to be working the scissors around my head. Sara is retiring.

Best as we can figure out, she's been cutting my hair for 10 years, maybe even 11. It started shortly after she and her husband Bob moved to Oregon and she began working at a salon that was two doors away from where my wife and a business partner had opened their personal training gym on Northeast Fremont Street in the Beaumont-Wilshire neighborhood.

In the ensuing years, Sara would move her business five times, most recently to the basement of her home and then to a shop in the back yard of a neighbor's home just down the street. The neighbor recently sold her home and will be moving in August, so the loss of that location forced the issue of retirement. Health issues and a desire to be closer to their kids and grandkids in Arizona also factored into it. Understandable, of course. And I hope they find a buyer soon for their lovely home so they can move back to Phoenix.

Sara with her beloved DeVille

Sara does a great job on my hair, but it's more than her skill with a comb and scissors that accounts for my loyalty as a customer. She's a lot of fun to talk to, whether we're trading stories about family, ragging on politicians, or chatting about food and sports (she play golfs and loves NASCAR).

I also appreciate that she quickly became involved in community affairs as a member of the Hollywood Boosters, serving many times as organizer of the annual Veterans Day parade along Sandy Boulevard. In that role, she'd twist arms, bend ears and make calls until she got U.S. senators and congressmen to participate along with mayors and city council members. In other words, she's not easily dissuaded from her goal.

I've enjoyed my friendship over the past decade with Sara V, a hair stylist and conversationalist extraordinaire. Here's hoping that she finds contentment and joy, along with plenty of sunshine, in the next phase of her life.

Guest blog: Redemption in literature

My friend, Kristen Mira, rounded up a bunch of folks this month and asked them to be part of a group of guest bloggers on her site, Dragonflies in My Net.

Yesterday was my turn to contribute, so here's the link: "Redemption in Literature"

I was pleased to be asked. And because imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, I'm going to see if I can pull off something similar for Rough and Rede.

Stay tuned.

Marshall's metamorphosis

With three kids in their 20s and (eek) early 30s, Lori and I are at the age where we can take pride in the different paths they've taken to adulthood and the multitude of interests they've pursued along the way.

So it isn't much of a stretch to feel a certain pride in the accomplishments of our friends' children, too, as they hit various milestones on their life's journey. Such was the case Tuesday night when we saw Marshall Baker, one of Jordan's lifelong friends, in a live musical performance at the White Eagle Saloon.

He and his musical partner, Tony Hawes, played a half-hour set of original contemporary folk music under the moniker of Instant Tradition. They're on a tour of the Northwest that continues tomorrow night at Artichoke Music in Southeast Portland. Check out their bios and listen to their songs on their Facebook page.

We've known Marshall literally since he was in diapers, part of a play group that also included Jordan and led to a friendship with his parents, Rebecca and Greg, and little sister Clara. The two boys went to preschool together, joined (and survived) the Cub Scouts, attended each other's birthday parties and attended the same  neighborhood public schools, culminating with their high school graduation in 2005. They played together on sports teams and wrestled at Grant High School, during which time Marshall evolved from tall, scrawny kid to tall, muscular kid.

Jordan joined the Army, got married and lives off base near Fort Lewis in Washington state. Marshall went to Whitman College, got a degree in music composition, and moved to Lawrence, Kansas, to start making music. Marshall's always been scary smart -- the kid who could get straight As with little or no effort -- and a handful at times, but he's also been a talented musician, influenced by his fiddle-playing dad.

Todd Hawes and Marshall Baker: KJHK studios in Lawrence, Kansas

On Tuesday, he played the fiddle and mandolin and sang harmony vocals. At age 23, with his shoulder-length brown hair and baby face, blue denims and long-sleeved white shirt, he resembled a young Johnny Depp. He got called up by the next band to join them for a couple of songs on fiddle and the vocalist couldn't help but notice the fan support.

"You seem to be pretty popular, Marshall."
"Yeah, I grew up here."

Marshall came over between sets, gave us each a hug and signed two copies of his band's debut CD.

Instant Tradition. Pretty cool.

Album cover, photo: www.facebook.com/instanttradition

Rain falls and so do the mighty Mariners

George, Dave, Jack and Bobby

I looked forward to July 17 for several weeks, knowing I'd snagged four tickets to see the Seattle Mariners take on the defending American League champion Texas Rangers during a Sunday afternoon game.

Two friends, Dave and Jack, and Jack's teenage son, Bobby, joined me for the 3 1/2-hour drive from Portland to Seattle, all of us grousing at the cool temperatures and constant rain that we're experiencing in mid-July. Isn't it supposed to be summer? At least, we told ourselves, the game wouldn't be rained out, owing to Safeco Field's retractable proof. It's a marvel of engineering that covers the field and fans, yet allows for open-air views of the sky outside and circulation of fresh air.

We had great seats -- 18 rows back from the field, about halfway between third base and the left field fence -- and high hopes for a competitive game. We should have known better. The Rangers were on a hot streak, with 10 straight wins entering today's game, while the Mariners had lost eight in a row, including two shutouts in their last three games. During last night's loss, Seattle managed to score a single run, ending an scoring drought of 30 (thirty!) innings.

Today's result? Rangers 3, Mariners 1.

Two plays early in the game signaled how things would go. In the Mariners' first turn at bat, the lead off hitter drew a walk, only to be promptly erased by a double play ground ball. Meanwhile, a single swing of the bat, a three-run home run in the second inning, gave the Rangers all the runs they would need. It was Seattle's ninth loss in a row, their longest winless streak since 2008. In losing four straight to Texas, they scored a total of two runs.

Safeco Field

A week earlier, I also watched a major league baseball game in San Francisco -- and the entire experience was different in every conceivable way. I rode the light-rail train from suburban Fremont to watch the Giants beat the Mets before a sellout crowd that showered spontaneous cheers and genuine affection on their World Series champions. ("Rockin' it with the Giants")

In Seattle, the crowd was subdued. The "mighty" Mariners were overmatched and have such a punchless lineup that they had only one base runner through the first four innings. They didn't get their first base hit until the fifth inning and didn't score until the eighth, prompting a half-delirious, half-derisive cheer.

The technicians in the sound booth tried to manufacture some crowd noise, with canned music, but the Mariners fell flat. (Quick menu note: Did you know you can get an all-you-can-drink soda at Safeco for $11? Seriously.)

Despite the anemic performance on the field, my buddies and I had a good time. Lots of conversation about baseball, family, politics and work (all three of us are journalists), and no one took the loss hard, given that we all root for different teams anyway. We were just a little disappointed that we couldn't have seen a better -- i.e., more exciting, more competitive -- game.

Tommy and the Big Cincuenta

Tom and George: Friends for fifty years

A little over two years ago, I was blown away when I received an email out of the blue from someone in my distant past. He had been anonymously reading my blog and he asked if I was "the george rede from decoto (union city) calif." If so, we had been good, if not best, friends in kindergarten/first grade.

Yes, I was that George Rede and the writer was Tommy Nunez, who was indeed my best friend in those long-ago days of black-and-white television, one-speed bicycles and baseball cards. We emailed back and forth, trading memories and establishing an online friendship. I wrote a blog post which remains one of my favorites: "Tommy? Is that you?

And today, our friendship came full circle. I flew down to San Jose for a weekend family reunion and drove over the mountains to Santa Cruz to meet him and wife Terri at one of their favorite spots for lunch. He met me in the doorway of Hula's, a casual restaurant with a tiki bar, Hawaiian art and a distinctly laidback surfer vibe. And, wouldn't you know it? He looked just like the Tommy Nunez I used to hang with until I was 7 or 8 years old -- except for the mustache and beard, of course.

Over the next 2 1/2 hours -- as Tom and his wife Terri sipped mai tais while I tossed back a couple of Oregon microbrews and we noshed on wings, pot stickers, calamari, chicken and beef skewers -- we chatted and laughed as comfortably as if we were still second-graders at Decoto Elementary School.

Hula's Bar and Grill, Santa Cruz

We covered a lot in 150 minutes: marriage, family, children, work, parents, siblings, in-laws, the economy, the Internet, Portland and Boulder Creek, the community where they live in the Santa Cruz Mountains. My family moved from Decoto/Union City, a blue-collar, heavily Latino town, after the fourth grade, when I was 10. I had the fuzzy impression that Tommy's family had moved away around the same time but he corrected me. His family also moved away after second grade, when we would have been 8 or 9.

We were both living in Fremont but in different parts of town, so we never again attended the same schools.

So, Terri interjected, that means you haven't seen in each other in, what, 50 years??

"Uh..." I stuttered. "I guess that's right. Fifty years!"

Last fall, I attended my 40th high school reunion and called it The Big Cuarenta. Realizing the Tom-George  friendship goes back half a century, it's only right to call it The Big Cincuenta. :)

Oh, how I wish Lori could have been with me. She would have loved Tom and Terri, with all of us growing up in the Bay Area. Lori in San Francisco and Terri in Hayward, the town immediately north of Union City. I told them both how completely relaxed I felt in their company and how it felt like Tom and I hadn't missed a beat. What a great feeling to know we have so much in common -- with three kids each, all of similar ages, including one married child and one gay or lesbian child in each of our families.

Here's hoping all four of us can get together, whether in Oregon or in California, to continue the conversation.

Blues on the water

Lucinda Williams

Every three years or so, it seems, we're able to make things work in our schedule and head down to the Waterfront Blues Festival. Yesterday was our day in the sun (literally) and even a few hours spent there made we realize anew why it's one of Portland's signature events and also one of my favorites.

Start with the location. Tens of thousands of people are sardined into a grassy bowl sloping down to the west bank of the Willamette River. While you focus on whomever is performing on the featured stage, you're also able to look down at several boats bobbing in the water and across two bridges to the east side, with Mount Hood looming behind everything.

Consider the vibe. Though people are packed in tightly, with low-back chairs, blankets and coolers, there isn't a single person with attitude -- unlike what you often see at carnivals and amusement parks. Some folks are dancing (by themselves, with a partner or sometimes a group), reading, talking, eating or just people-watching.

Factor in the humans. This is one of those events that attracts people of all ages. Yes, you've got the grizzled graybeards and old hippie mamas, but you've also got twentysomethings and everyone in between, drawn by four days of music on four stages, tons of tasty food and drink, and several booths with clothing, jewelry, Mardi Gras beads and other merchandise. One of the memorable sights: A tall, thin dude in his 50s with purple hair to match his purple shorts and flip-flops. If only he'd borrowed the sunglasses with purple frames I spotted on a guy half his age.

Hawthorne Bridge rising behind a rotating screen

Add in the music. For $10 and two cans of food per person, you're treated to a lineup of more than 100 performers that this year included nightly headliners Robert Cray, Lucinda Williams and Buddy Guy. We saw Lucinda Saturday night and she was quite good. I often think of her as the female Bob Dylan -- great lyricist, one-of-a-kind voice (raw, bluesy, inflected with a Louisiana accent) -- and a Keith Richards lookalike (spiky hair, dressed all in black). 

TIME magazine once called Lucinda "America's best songwriter" and she made my list of favorite performers in May's A to Z music challenge. In many ways, she and her band are the opposite of Alison Krauss and Union Station, whom we saw earlier in the week. While AKUS is all about melodious music, harmonious vocals and friendly banter with the audience, Lucinda Williams is all business. No chit-chat for her.

The Oregonian's pop music critic, Ryan White, said it well in his Day Two wrap of the festival:

"Lucinda -- and she's a one-namer, isn't she? -- brings a different kind of party, a different brand of blues. It's the kind of party that involves sitting around by yourself drinking whiskey. It's not 12-bars and guitar face, but tell me a song called "Real Live Bleeding Fingers and Broken Guitar Strings" isn't the blues?"

Chris and Deb Ehlers

Toss in a little serendipity. A day before the festival began, we realized our longtime friends from Salem, Bob and Deb, also were going to be there on Saturday. They arrived before us, saved us enough space to lay in two more chairs and we enjoyed each other's company on a gorgeous summer night. Bonus: Their son Chris, who was born the same week as our Nathan, had arrived home a few days earlier from Vietnam, where he's been teaching English for several years, and he met his parents there. So that was a nice surprise, to see him all grown up at 31, when our earliest memories of him go back to diaper-changing when both of our families were in the same babysitting co-op.

Finish with a feel-good payoff. The largest blues festival west of the Mississippi and the second-largest festival in the nation also provides the Oregon Food Bank with its largest fundraiser of the year. One hundred percent of gate donations go to feed hungry people  The first day alone raised 13,500 pounds of food and $76,806, White reported.

With all these positives, I'm left to wonder: Why attend only once every three years? I may have to reconsider.

Photo of Lucinda Williams by Ross William Hamilton, The Oregonian

Bro Time

"It is a lovely thing to go out with friends from different lifetimes and watch them enjoy each other."

A Facebook friend posted that the other day and I couldn't help but think of it when I hosted a poker game this weekend.  

OK, so it wasn't exactly four friends from different lifetimes but they did evoke memories of different places and experiences.

There was John, a bowling buddy and a youngish dad whose wife, a registered dietitian, briefly subcontracted some of the space in Lori's gym for a solo practice. Andrea has moved on to other work but I'm glad I'm become friends with John, who's among the most outgoing, disarming people I've ever known.

There was Jon, who I met in Salem some 30 years ago when his wife was a veterinarian and Lori was a veterinary assistant (yes, she's done a few things in the world of work). The husbands inevitably got together and we've remained friends despite our now living 45 miles apart from each other. Jon's a baseball fan (gave me a cool Marineros cap) and a jack-of-all-trades when it comes to work and hobbies.

There was Bob, who I also have known 30 or so years  -- actually, it's 31, because his son Chris and our oldest son, Nathan, were born two days apart in the same hospital in Salem. His wife, Deborah,, and Lori met there as new moms and when we bumped into them a few weeks at the same restaurant it seemed like destiny that we'd become a great foursome.

And then there was Tom, whom I just wrote about last month as my Monday morning breakfast partner. We go back to college days, as his girlfriend Elsa was Lori's roommate then. (Gee, there's a Lori connection in all of these friendships...) Tom lives in Portland and we've seen each other get married and become a dad.

It was immensely satisfying to be in the company of these great friends -- and better still to see them get along so well with each other. I got emails from each one of them commenting on that very thing. 

Lori had dinner with friends, then went to the Starlight Parade. Yet she helped me set things up for the evening, and managed to return home early enough (as in midnight) to be able to say hello to everyone. 

This weekend delivered the warmest weather of the year and I spent a big chunk of it inside, working both Saturday and Sunday shifts to make up for taking an extra day off for Memorial Day). So it was a nice break right in the middle to have an evening full of pizza, beer, brownies, guy jokes and great conversation.

As the game crossed over into Sunday morning, we played one last hand that produced one honkin' jackpot -- at least by our meager nickel-dime-quarter stakes -- and it was fitting that Tom won the hand because Sunday was his birthday. 

Until next time...

Photo: GFKPoker

Central Oregon rewind

Looking west toward the Cascades from Pilot Butte / City of Bend photo

I would be hard pressed to say exactly when was the last time I was in Central Oregon. I'm guessing it was something like a decade or more. But, finally, Lori and I had a reason to cross the mountains on Saturday: an invitation to stay with friends at their new townhouse. We drove through off-and-on rain the whole way and we even got a few snow showers as we passed Timberline Lodge.

So it was appropriate, I suppose, that we encountered overcast skies as we approached Bend, a former mill town that's become familiar to readers of Sunset and The New York Times as an upscale community that's home to an inordinate number of doctors, lawyers, skiers and others who are into winter sports. I say appropriate because the slate gray skies that obscured the normally majestic view of the Three Sisters and Broken Top was a metaphor for the barely recognizable town where we made our home for two years in the late Seventies.

We were in our mid-20s then, still a couple years away from becoming parents, and we mostly hung out with other reporters who worked with me at The Bulletin, as small daily newspaper known as a great training ground for ambitious young journalists.

Drake Park / Jennifer Clark photo

Back then, Bend had maybe 16,000 residents and the local mill was still the largest employer in town. We learned to cross country ski and ice skate on an actual frozen pond; climbed the South Sister and nearby Black Butte; and thoroughly enjoyed the crisp, clean high desert air and panoramic views of the Cascade Mountains. Downtown, such as it was, offered a mishmash of forgettable storefronts, mediocre restaurants and very little night life.

And now?

Well, as surprised as we were to see the growth in Madras and Redmond, two no-longer-so-small towns north of Bend, we were blown away by the scale of change in the former timber town. The big-box retailers have moved in with a vengeance on U.S. 97 at the north end of town. Drake Park is still a jewel in the historic city center, offering a central gathering place alongside the Deschutes River.

But downtown looks as though someone picked up the old shopping district, turned it upside down and shook everything out. Now, Wall and Bond streets offer a collection of boutique shops, sushi bars and trendy restaurants, a refurbished theatre and the obligatory Starbucks. In place of antiquated equipment and shabby housing south of town, the Old Mill District now offers a tourist-oriented shopping experience similar to what you'd find at any regional shopping mall -- i.e., lots of national retailers and a multiplex theater.

Three Sisters at sunset / Robert Gustafson photo

Nearby, across a footbridge, the Les Schwab Amphitheater now offers some great bands, typically before or after they've played a show in Portland or Seattle. Recent acts: Death Cab For Cutie, The Decemberists, Iron and Wine, Alison Krauss & Union Station.

Nothing, though, prepared us for the complete transformation of the west side. A cluster of upscale subdivisions extending away from town offers a mind-boggling array of townhouses, massive single-family homes, even a gated subdivision for those inclined to buy an extra layer of privacy. Summit High School lies in the midst of this affluence, with state-of-the-art buildings and athletic facilities and, no doubt, a student body demographic resembling that of Lakeridge, Lincoln or Jesuit high schools here in the metro area.

With so many for-sale signs on so many properties and so many structures under construction, it's hard  in some cases to tell what's still being built versus what's been abandoned. But it's very easy to see how the Bend housing market overheated and then crashed big-time in recent years.

The city now has a little over 80,000 residents. The Bulletin has a fancy new home on S.W. Chandler Avenue, which I presume is named after its legendary editor-publisher Robert W. Chandler -- the gruff old guy who hired me way back when and left a towering journalistic and philanthropic legacy when he died in 1996.

If  Thomas Wolfe were born here, he'd certainly have every reason to say, "You can't go home again."

Even though I lived here a scant two years, the Bend of old and the Bend of today might as well exist on different planets. The change is simply breathtaking. I imagine the mountain views are as gorgeous as ever, but it'll take another trip -- with clear weather -- to confirm that.

Spring thunderstorm / Jennifer Clark photo

Monday morning breakfast

Tom

Breakfast is my favorite meal and Monday has become one of my favorite days of the week because it's a day off.

So what could make it any better? How about the company you keep?

In my case, I'm happy to say the "value added" comes from getting together with my longtime friend, Tom. He and I have been able to meet at least semi-regularly for breakfast for the past several months, each time choosing a different restaurant in this city filled with so many great choices.

Today it was O'Connor's in Multnomah Village. I made the trip to the west side, where he lives, after he'd graciously come over to the east side for several meals.

Tom and I go back to college. We met in our senior year when I began dating someone who was a roommate of Tom's girlfriend, Elsa. That "someone" was Lori. And Tom married Elsa, too, the same year Lori and I became husband and wife.

Tom and Elsa moved to Portland the year after we did and, through a happy set of circumstances, we've lived just a few miles apart from each other for most of our time in Portland. Through the years, we've shared many of life's big moments: parenthood, becoming homeowners and taxpayers, putting our kids through college, surviving a parent's death.

Heck, the first dog we owned together even gave birth to theirs. (Brandy and Bruno were a mix of German Shepherd and something else and both were known for amazingly strong jaws, as they thought nothing of running around with a tree branch in their mouth.)

We've each raised three kids (they have two daughters and a son, while we have two boys and a girl) and now Tom and Elsa are preparing for the marriage of their younger daughter, Alana. Their first, Erika, married several years ago and has given them two grandchildren.

No one among our friends knows us as well as Tom and Elsa. We all grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area and survived our Catholic upbringings. I treasure their friendship, their generosity (their annual backyard barbecue is always a summer highlight) and their positive outlook on life. Tom's been a great poker buddy and golfing companion and now a regular breakfast partner.

Our conversations meander from family and work to politics and leisure and travel and back to family again. And all this over a delicious meal to start the day. Already looking forward to the next get-together. Friends don't come any better than Tom.

A community rallies around Elizabeth

Elizabeth Hovde and sons

I've written a couple times about my friend and colleague, Elizabeth Hovde. She sustained a traumatic brain injury in a skiing accident on Mount Hood early this year and frightened the daylights out of everyone who knows her.

After weeks of care in the hospital and at a convalescent center, she went home to her husband and two little boys in February and an ongoing regimen of physical therapy. Slowly, the brain is recovering and Elizabeth is well enough again to drive and will soon resume writing her column for The Oregonian. (I'm no longer her editor, as a result of my move back to the newsroom in January, but that won't diminish the warm feeling I'll have when I see her byline in print again.)

This Saturday, Elizabeth and her family will be the beneficiaries of a 5K run/walk to raise money for their ongoing medical expenses. Husband Ryan is a high school counselor and doubles as a track coach at Heritage High School and Clark College in Vancouver.

Past and present track athletes have taken the initiative in organizing the May 21 event. That's a powerful testament to the bond between a coach and his runners and to the affection a wide community of friends feels for Elizabeth, who is one of most dynamic, upbeat people I've ever known.

I won't be able to participate in the fundraiser, as I work Saturdays, but I will be there in spirit. I also look forward to the day when I'm able to congratulate Dina (Elizabeth is her middle name) on her amazing recovery.

Spring cleaning on a mundane Monday

Elbert Hubbard (1856-1915)

Monday is a regular day off from work, so it's often taken up with domestic chores. Empty the recycling bins, take out the trash, put away the laundry. Change the litter box, vacuum, iron some shirts.

As long as I was doing some of these things, it occurred to me, "Why not do some pruning on Facebook?" How did I ever get 450 friends anyway? That's three times the number that social scientists tell us we can really manage effectively.

So...just went in thinned out the ranks of my FB contacts by about 10 percent. I really don't think folks will notice. The definition of a "friend" is just so loose these days. Co-workers, cousins and lifelong buddies are tossed together in the same cybersalad acquaintances, distant relatives and one-time contacts. Politicians, too.

I think this is all for the better. With Twitter and work and personal email accounts to manage as well, there's no shortage of ways for people to stay in touch. And in most cases, such contact will be a lot more relevant than reading about someone's personal quirks on Facebook.

A parting thought on friendship, courtesy of the American philosopher and writer Elbert Hubbard:

"Your friend is the man who knows all about you, and still likes you."

Photograph: en.wikipedia.org

A man of faith

Héctor E. López

If most people on the planet are connected by six degrees of separation, if often seems there are only one or two degrees in Portland.

So it happened that a mutual friend's cyber-introduction resulted in my meeting the Rev. Héctor E. López for coffee last week. What a delightful, intelligent man. And who knew we'd have so many things in common?

He's a 72-year-old retired minister from the United Church of Christ who's married to Lynne Smouse López, the current minister at Ainsworth United Church of Christ in the Concordia neighborhood of Northeast Portland. It's a congregation that bills itself as "a multicultural, multiracial, open & affirming community" that explicitly welcomes members of the LGBQT community, and part of a centuries-old progressive church that in 1700 (76 years before the United States came into being) to oppose slavery.

Coincidentally, the Ainsworth church is the same one where a group of young parents, including us, established a Montessori preschool in the upstairs of the building in the early '90s.

Hector struck me immediately as a friendly, generous man (he insisted on buying my coffee and scone) with a keen sense of self and his family's and church's history.

-- He's a third-generation Congregationalist, owing to his maternal grandparents' conversion from Catholicism in the 1880s in Mexico. 
-- His parents immigrated to the U.S. in the 1910s and settled in southern California. Héctor was the youngest of three children and wound up following his older brother to UC Berkeley, graduating in 1960. As a tribute to his deceased sibling, Héctor wears Humberto's class ring from UC.
-- He was part of three-member team that did off-site supervising of a woman minister in her last year of seminary in Los Angeles. (That would be Lynne.) They married in 1996 and moved to Portland the same year.
-- He and his wife are raising two adopted children, a 20-year-old son and 17-year-old daughter. I shared the story of our adoption and it turns out their kids attended some of the same schools as ours.
-- He and a Muslim imam are co-leaders of an interfaith group that meets every Tuesday in downtown Portland for informal conversation. They started the group after the 9/11 attacks nearly 10 years ago and are still going strong.
-- He's a member of the city's Human Rights Commission and its Community and Police Relations Committee, panels that allow him to take a stand against discrimination, racism and overly aggressive police.

Clearly, this is a man who lives his values. I admire that in a person.

On the day we spoke, Héctor told me that we was flying to Boston the next day to present a scholarship to a student at Andover Newton Theological Seminary in Andover, Mass. Not just any scholarship, either. The Héctor E. López Scholarship, established in 2005, is awarded to Latina and Latino seminarians preparing to become United Church of Christ ministers.

Two students received scholarship funding this school year. The other: Andrea Cano, another transplanted Californian who's made Portland her home. Andrea graduates this month from the Pacific School of Religion in Berkeley (my birthplace, btw) and already has a job waiting for her next fall as a chaplain at Portland's Providence Hospital.

Is it any surprise that it was Andrea, a former journalist and community activist, who brought Hector and me together with an email suggesting we might enjoy meeting each other?

It's a wrap

Clockwise from left: Erin, Beth, George, John, Brian

After 16 weeks of Tuesday night bowling, our season is officially over. The Broken Taco Shells wound up 8th out of 16 teams (including a couple that didn't finish the season) with a record of 32 wins, 32 losses. There was a free bowl and beer tasting Tuesday night, with local breweries offering complimentary tastes of their IPAs, and each team received a cash payout based on their win-loss record.

Of course, for us, it wasn't about where we finished or what scores we bowled -- it was all about camaraderie, good sportsmanship and knowing that the bowling alley was a place to just unwind among friends.

Erin, Beth and I formed the core of the team, and Ellie was our most reliable sub. John and Brian lived up to our team's nickname with medical issues that kept them from playing a full season. John messed up his shoulder and ankle when he fell on some rocks at the beach. Brian survived open-heart surgery after he left a zumba class one day, feeling queasy, and drove himself to the hospital. Talk about a scare for all of us.

We all came together for the last month of the season, though, and extended last night's season-ender by gathering at a tavern for more drinks and a few games of pool. We sucked -- but it was fun.

We're going to forgo a season-ending "banquet" -- no faux trophies and potluck this time -- and just do something spontaneous after next Sunday's final bowl, the long-awaited bowling fundraiser for Big Brothers Big Sisters.

It's been a blast, bowling every Tuesday for a year over three consecutive seasons. We'll take the summer off and see if we can pick up where we left off in the fall.

Postscript No. 1 -- If we'd given out trophies, Lori would have earned one for Most Supportive Spouse. She came several times during the season to cheer us on, including last night.
Postscript No. 2 -- This is blog post No. 555 since I began in 2009. Love to see the numbers line up like that.

A new month, a new look

It's time to turn the calendar to another page. And in doing so, I'd like to call attention to a new feature on Rough and Rede.

I've finally added My Blog List, a half-dozen blogs written by friends scattered all over, from here in the Portland area and the San Juan Islands to Chicago, Cincinnati and New York City, plus a link to my favorite general-interest publication, Esquire.

The blogosphere has its pros and cons, for sure, but I love being able to connect with people so easily and dip my toes into such eclectic waters.

Whether you're a writer, an educator, a foodie or whatever, take some time to browse these blogs. You may find something you like, in which case you can continue building the online community through leaving comments or becoming a follower yourself.

Related question: What do YOU like to read? Leave a comment listing up to five of your favorite blogs and I'll compile them into a single post.

In the meantime, enjoy the music video, appropriately titled for the first day of April.

Onward, Dina!

In January, I wrote about "My favorite conservative," Elizabeth Hovde, a contract writer whose weekly columns were a product of our collaboration during my time as editor of The Oregonian's Sunday Opinion section.

She did the heavy lifting as the reporter/writer. I was her sounding board for topics and approaches, and followed up with suggestions and tweaks during the line-editing process. It was a joy working with Elizabeth, an outgoing personality who threw herself into the roles of wife, mother (of two young boys) and journalist.

I wrote then about how shocked and sad I was to learn that she'd been seriously injured in a skiing accident on Mount Hood. I refrained from saying more at the time, but Elizabeth suffered a Traumatic Brain Injury that sent her to the hospital for two weeks and then to a rehab center for three weeks.

Word came recently that Elizabeth is back home and recovering well. That came as great news to the large community of supporters who have expressed their concern for her in prayer, visits, well wishes and donations to a fund set up to help defray her medical expenses. A Web site dedicated to keeping people informed about her injury and recovery had logged more than 8,000 visits as of this week and the medical fund took in more than $8,000 in just the first three weeks.

I always felt badly when I saw online commenters (invariably, Portland liberals) ripping into Elizabeth, leaving posts that were insulting and demeaning. If only they knew what a kind, big-hearted person she is. If only they'd stop to consider her values and political positions come from a place that's just as valid as theirs.

In late February, Dina (she uses her middle name, Elizabeth, in her byline) wrote a letter on the Caring Bridge  Web site to thank everyone who has showed support to her and her family. The excerpt below gives you an idea of Elizabeth's (er, Dina's) character:

"For being the source of bad news, I’m forever sorry. For your response to our bad news, I am forever grateful.

"...It is simply overwhelming to know that I needed so much help and that you were all there for me and my family. Like I said, I’m grateful – grateful for what Ryan and the kids survived, grateful for life, grateful for all the great friends I have. Whether you wrote a note or visited, your thoughts and kindness have gone a long way and I appreciate it more than I can adequately express. So thank you.... 

"So what does a brain trauma victim learn? Here goes for whatever it is worth:

"Take nothing for granted.

"You aren’t in control of your life as much as you think you are.

"Love people -- ya never know how much a person needs or how much you might need.

"Be grateful for your body. It is amazing.

"Prayer matters.

"I learned a lot more but that is the big stuff.

"Now I will get back to healing, but I couldn’t let more time pass without telling you how much you all mean to me. From people I went to elementary, middle, high school and college with, to people I know now, you have all played a role in where I am today.

"Thank you … and onward. I am full of gratitude and can’t wait to celebrate life with you."

Onward. That's how Dina Elizabeth signs off on all of her emails.

Onward, indeed.

Fifty Followers!

50. The Big Cincuenta. Or just a big "L" if we're dealing with Roman numerals...

Any way you represent it, I'm pleased to note that Rough and Rede reached another threshold last week when the "followers" odometer hit 50.

Is it possible to write about this without sounding egotistical?

I'd been stuck in the mid-40s for a long time but I noticed some movement shortly after the first of the year. Finally, last week, a new icon appeared, representing the musical interests of a high school classmate I connected with at our reunion last fall. JoElyn is a clarinetist, a lover of the outdoors and, much to my surprise and delight, a big-time baseball fan -- a rabid follower of the San Francisco Giants and no doubt still walking on air after their World Series win last fall.

Anyway, this seems a good time to express two thoughts:

1. I really appreciate the encouragement and friendship that come from writing this blog. I know that having 50 followers doesn't mean that everyone is reading regularly. Heck, I'm realistic to know there are probably several "one-and-dones" out there. So it means a lot to receive the feedback that comes from each and every comment you leave.

2. I have a hunch that some of you would get along really well with each other if I were to provide a virtual introduction. So I'm going to give myself permission to do just that -- while noting that it's already happened by itself in a couple of cases. Consider it a variation on the saying "Mi casa es tu casa." (My home is your home.) "Mis amigos son sus amigos." (My friends are your friends.)

Image: Ryan's 50 Word Short-Stories

Remembering Victoria and Kate

One thing about Portland is that there aren’t many degrees of separation among friends and acquaintances. Case in point: A week ago, I visited the offices of the Nonprofit Association of Oregon to shoot a video interview.

The executive director, Carrie Hoops, and I walked into a room where a meeting had just broken up and my eyes went straight to the wall. There was a framed poem entitled “Our Victoria.”

“Did you know Victoria?” I asked.

Carrie, who's still fairly new to the association, said no but that she’d only heard wonderful things about her.

“She was our neighbor,” I said. “A wonderful woman with a generous spirit.”

She and her daughter Kate were killed in a tragic car accident in December 2003, enroute to attend a 50th birthday party for Victoria’s sister in Central Oregon. Their deaths left behind husband Kevin and two boys, Sean and Conor, and tore a hole in the heart of the neighborhood and the community at large, as both mother and daughter were known for their selfless service.

Victoria and Kate in Morocco

Victoria, tall and gracious, had spent 30 years working for nonprofits in California and Oregon. Kate, flame-haired and vivacious, had graduated from Smith College, served with the Peace Corps in Morocco and worked among the poor in Calcutta, India.

It always sounds like a cliché to say a person was taken too soon. In this case, it’s absolutely true. I remember the memorial service for Victoria and Kate filling the Southeast Portland church they attended. I remember the small circle of friends who gathered to plant a tree on the sidewalk strip in front of their house, just two doors away from our own. I remember asking myself how could I possibly go on if I lost Lori and Simone …just like that.

It’s hard to believe seven years have passed since their lives were cut short. But seeing Victoria memorialized on the wall of an organization that strives to do so much good lifted my spirits that day.

Here’s the text of the poem, composed by Kim Stafford of Lewis & Clark College:

"Our Victoria"

Some things get frayed by grief
or trouble—you need a needle
and a loop of cotton twist.

Sometimes the button can’t find
the buttonhole—you need a needle
and a knack for knots.

Some days the hem gives out
at the edge of a life, cuffs go
ragged at a mother’s wrist.

Small things, you say? Hard
to see? Little nothings in a world
of big catastrophes?

She saw—Victoria, our friend.
She held the hand that held
the needle that held it

all together. Sometimes now you
need her, the one who saw and held--
so you remember by holding
another's hand where hurt heals.

 Katie’s legacy lives on too. Each year, the Multnomah County Health Department gives the Katie Jeans-Gail Award for Young Heroes to a youth or youth-related group who inspires or promotes other young people to make healthy lifestyle choices.

I'm honored to have known them both.

'Community Writer' brings a global perspective

A little over three years ago, when I was just getting started as Sunday Opinion editor, I launched a Community Writers program that was designed to give voice to ordinary citizens and their concerns. I thought it would be a good complement to the professionally crafted editorials and columns cranked out members of The Oregonian's editorial board -- and I was right.

The program was well received by the public, and the writers -- 12 in the first group, 15 in the second -- took the opportunity and ran with it, weighing in each week for 12 weeks on a variety of issues that mattered to them as teachers, students, retirees, lawyers, ministers or whatever line of work they came from.

One of the unexpected benefits is that I formed solid friendships with a few of the writers, not the least of which was with a Beaverton woman named Lakshmi Jagannathan. Originally from India, she described herself to readers as a wearer of many hats -- "agricultural scientist, homemaker, school volunteer, PIFF (Portland International Film Festival) enthusiast, creative writer (and) Mom." She said she hoped that as "an immigrant and an avid traveler, I expect to bring a global perspective to my writing."

And true to her word, she provided exactly that in an op-ed essay that ran Tuesday on The Oregonian's Opinion blog: "Safety is in the eye of the beholder."

Pyramids of Giza

She and her family recently traveled to Egypt and were struck by the contrast in how safe they felt compared to the United States. While they were abroad, they learned of the shootings in Tucson.

"As I watched the news on TV sets at the airport, I wondered what the Egyptians must have thought," she writes. "'America is a dangerous place,'" some nervous mother might now say to her child. "'You could get killed in a grocery store.'"

Read more, learn less

Friday evening was a night to remember. Not only did Lori and I get a chance to renew our friendship with two of the nicest people on the planet -- Deb and Bob, at right -- but all four of us attended a reading at Powell's Books featuring Tom Rachman. I've already posted two items on Rachman and his outstanding debut novel, "The Imperfectionists," so I won't go there again.

I will, however, pick up on a comment that Rachman made during the Q&A that followed his reading. Someone asked him what do newspapers need to do to survive? No surprise that the question came up because his novel, after all, is based on archetypal characters in the newsroom of an English-language international daily that's clinging stubbornly to print in a digital world. And there was no dispute from my view in terms of what he replied -- that there is no one way to resolve the problem that newspapers face.

It's inevitable that the newspapers will continue to decline, he said, because of the dual threats from technology (more people want their news now and free) and declining advertising (advertisers can find other venues that are less costly and deliver a niche audience). If newspapers had decided from the outset to charge for their online content, perhaps things might be entirely different. But that's not an option at this point.

Rachman, a former journalist himself, said he picks up the local paper in each city on his book tour,  and "I can't help but notice that I feel much less -- or more narrowly -- informed." Without trained professional editors who select the most interesting, most relevant stories, readers are less apt to be surprised by something valuable and informative that they wouldn't find on their own, he said.

"Now you're more likely to know more about what you already know," Rachman said. "You're not going to be directed to things of value."

Precisely.

And to underscore his point, today's Oregonian had an op-ed by Stephen Randall, in which he argues that we're living in a time when it's important to have opinions. "Not necessarily smart or original ones; almost any opinion will do as long as it's forcefully expressed. When it comes to opinions, we're all living in an intellectual Costco, where it's volume, volume, volume."

The Internet is a Petri dish of opinion inflation, breeding commentary like bacteria. Because few people do anything interesting or have anything factual to report, they toss off a short opinion. That, in turn, leads to opinion hyperinflation; just looks at the comments sections on any blog.

"There was a time when thoughtful people tried to be balanced," Randall writes. "The old-style political columnists were famous for saying nothing. They presented both sides of any given issue...pretty much allowing readers to form their own opinions..."

Now? We have Keith and Glenn and Arianna and Sean. We rate restaurants, then tweet about them. We criticize music, films and TV. We vote for dancers, singers and comedians. We critique what people wear. And we sometimes, maybe even often, do this when we are angry or just plain loud.

Yes, journalism is a lot flatter now, just like the world economy, as a result of Web 2.0 technology. While I applaud many of the changes it has brought, I also share Rachman's thoughtful critique of how reading habits have changed and I cringe at the overly opinionated people we have become.

My favorite conservative

For the past two years, I've enjoyed a great professional and personal relationship with Elizabeth Hovde, a self-styled "just right of center" opinion columnist for The Oregonian. She works from home, writing a column on politics and current events for the Sunday newspaper and also blogs during the week.

I've teased her about being a human Swiss army watch because she is so reliable in terms of filing on time and at the desired column length. We share an affinity for the Northwest. We swap stories about parenthood (she and her husband have two young boys, whereas Lori and I have three adult children). We chat about movies, music and books and, through editing her column, I find myself questioning my beliefs and assumptions about religion and moral issues. And on those occasions where we agree -- such as her support of the Dream Act -- well, let's just say it's been nice to wind up on the same side of an issue.

Just before the year came to an end, I joined Elizabeth and a fellow editor for a drink after work. It was nice to see her so relaxed, chatting happily with fellow journalists and poking fun at herself in a self-deprecating way.

With the newsroom changes that took effect this year, I'm focused on getting a handle on my new job and no longer am working with Elizabeth. So I was nearly speechless when I learned that she had been seriously injured in a skiing accident last week. We posted a short news item about her on The Oregonian's Opinion blog on Friday and, much to my pleasant surprise, commenters posted nothing but good wishes for her.

Out of respect for her privacy, I won't share any details of the accident other than to say it will likely take weeks and months to recover. I'm still trying to process the idea that vivacious Elizabeth -- who wrote movingly about her dying dad last Father's Day and then had to bear his loss a few months later -- is the one who is in a hospital bed. Life can be so unfair.