Breakfast, bowling and the N-word

Sunday was one of those days where there was nothing special going on -- just a few ordinary things, scheduled and impromptu, that added up to a satisfying, relaxing day.

Morning: Got up early and went to the gym, my first day exercising after missing three in a row due to a cough and cold. Amazes me how quickly my strength (or perceived strength) slips away in that short a time. Going to make time this afternoon for a long run or swim.

Met Nathan for a brunch at Accanto, a classy cafe on Southeast Belmont that's owned by the same folks who operate Genoa, one of the city's finest restaurants. Nathan told me there's never a wait for a table because Accanto hasn't been discovered yet, and when I arrived I could see he was right.

I had a breakfast strata made with brioche, chevre, and turnip greens baked in a savory custard and served over a San Marzano tomato sauce topped with a sunnyside up egg. Nathan went for the bucatini carbonara, an artisian pasta with guanciale, pecorino, black pepper and eggs. Very nice.

We talked a bit about his and Sara's upcoming visit to Pittsburgh, where they will get to visit Simone and Kyndall, and about the wisdom to be found in this summer's "How To Be A Man" issue of Esquire.

Afternoon: Came home and went to the Irvington Farmers Market, a few blocks from our home, with Lori. We picked up some fresh fish and produce, olive oils, barbecue sauce, a bouquet of flowers, and a pita sandwich for Lori. Ran into a couple of folks from the neighborhood, then went down the street to Broadway Books and picked up a new novel. Feels good when we can patronize local vendors and merchants, especially those who are selling homemade products.

Had a reunion of sorts with the Broken Taco Shells, the coed bowling team that formed last fall and recently completed the third of three consecutive bowling seasons at Hollywood Bowl. We're taking the summer off as a team, so this was a nice gathering. Couple pitchers of beer, no pressure to beat another team and a side game of poker -- take one card for a spare, two cards for a strike and make your best hand. I had a full house, aces over jacks, and still lost to my buddy, John, who somehow came up with four eights!

Evening: Had a casual dinner built around leftover pork chops (as tasty as when we grilled them two days earlier), then watched a re-run of "60 Minutes." Sandwiched in between profiles of J. Craig Venter, the California microbiologist, and Colin Firth, the Oscar-winning actor, was a very thoughtful treatment of the national debate over the sanitized version of "Huckleberry Finn."

David Bradley

A well-meaning Southern publisher, a guy who grew up in segregated Alabama, took it upon himself to publish Mark Twain's classic to give teachers an alternative to the 1885 original, which is littered with more than 200 references to the N-word. The new version replaces the N-word in each and every instance with "slave."

Correspondent Byron Pitts visits a couple of high school classrooms and talks to teachers and students about the pros and cons of teaching the original version, but also provides a nice surprise when he interviews David Bradley, a creative writing professor at the University of Oregon. I hadn't heard of Bradley before, but his views are provocative and well articulated.

He argues for teaching "Huck Finn" with the original language, as it accurately reflects the speech that was used in those times in that part of the country. Substituting "slave" for "nigger" dilutes the power of the N-word, he says, and does a disservice to readers who otherwise have to confront why they react as they do to the uncomfortableness of the word and all it represents. I agree completely.

On the other hand, he says "nigger" is just a word, that depending on whom is speaking it and whom it directed to, the tone and delivery can totally change its meaning. That is, a black person speaking to another black person can claim it in a way that non-blacks cannot. I'm not black, so I can't say I would ever feel comfortable having that word spoken aloud in my absence. To me, it's detestable and hateful and I never speak it for the same reasons I don't ever say "wetback" or "beaner" or "spic" -- equally demeaning words directed at my people over the years.

Like I said, nothing special about yesterday. I guess it was ordinariness of the day that was so satisfying.

Some love for the Bug

I've grown accustomed to the smiles and friendly nods that people direct my way when I'm behind the wheel of my trusty little Volkswagen Beetle. Doesn't seem to matter who's admiring it -- pedestrians, gas station attendants, people who see me going into a store or parking it on the street -- but the first question always seems to be, "Hey, what year is it?"

And when I answer, "1967," they shake their head and comment on what good shape it's in.

This past week, the admiration has gone to another level.

Last Saturday, I found a handwritten note on the car left by from someone who said he lives in the neighborhood and was interested in knowing if I might be interested in selling "this lovely VW Bug."

Two days later, I was at my desk here at home, very likely tapping out another blog post, when I looked out the window and saw two young women carefully place some flowers under one of the windshield wipers. No note. Just a token of appreciation, I suppose.

Then, last night, when I drove to a nearby ATM, I parked the car and had just gotten out when a passing bicyclist did a 180 in the middle of the street and circled back to me.

"Can I ask you a question?" he said. "What is it about these cars that, when they're up for sale, they're always snapped up by the time I call?"

Like a proud parent, I rattled off a few reasons. They're durable, made of real steel; they're dependable and easy to maintain; they get you where you're going and they can squeeze into a lot of tight parking spaces. Plus, they're fun to drive and fun to look at.

I'm not a car guy, by any stretch of the imagination. I bought the Beetle in 1997 from a guy who was, though -- and he's the one who restored it to its present condition, including an off-white paint job. I've replaced the engine, the clutch, the fuel pump and the odometer and dealt with various little issues, and it's running fine. (This is at least the third odometer the car has had, btw, so who knows if it's been driven 200,000 or 300,000 miles over the 44 years of its life?)

I'm not really looking to sell my Beetle, especially after a weekend wash-and-vacuum job and slipping on a pair of new seat covers, but it's nice to know there's an eager market for it.

Come to think of it, it is a pretty cool car.

The first of May

It's a new month and I'm filled with optimism about several things:

-- Spring's arrival. Slept in until 8:30 and woke up to glorious sunshine. Heading into this weekend, we'd had rain 67 of the last 77 days in Portland. No wonder people were gloomy. Today feels like we've finally turned the corner toward warmer, drier days.

-- Life, lived simply: Took Otto on a long walk and appreciated anew some of the simple sights in our neighborhood: Someone's beautifully maintained bed of tulips. A young couple out for a morning run. A couple of graying boomers playing tennis. A yard sale bringing together the young and old. Nice to see the neighborhood coming alive.

-- My health: Went to the store to stock up on the various items I need to prepare for tomorrow's routine procedure: a colonoscopy. Been through it once before, so I know what to expect. Keeping my fingers crossed that there are no problems. And feeling fortunate to have affordable health insurance in these times.

-- Tuesdays, reclaimed: With the end of our bowling league season last week, I can look forward to four months of Tuesdays with no obligations. An extra weeknight will be a luxury for Lori and me. Knowing it's there in the bank makes it easier for me to think about starting another activity -- possibly drop-in volleyball on Wednesday nights. We'll have to see how the knees respond.

-- Work: Just completed four months in my new job as a community news web editor. At times there's been a gulf between what I expected to do and what I've actually done these first few months, but I realize it goes with the territory. Main thing is I feel comfortable in the web-first news environment and hope to have something splashy and tangible to show for my efforts as I work with others on the development of a network of independent bloggers that wound be linked to from OregonLive.com. More details to come in future posts.

-- My blog: I'm adding a new feature, the A to Z Music Month. See the post below for more details.

Photo: www.freepixels.com

Rush hour on the No. 8

Shiloh Hampton

One of the joys of living in the inner city is that I rarely drive to work. No traffic jams on the freeway for me, thank you very much. Occasionally, though, I'll find myself on an early bus that's packed with riders

Today was one of those days.

Climbing aboard the No. 8 around 8:30 a.m., two other passengers and I squeezed onto an already-full bus and sardined ourselves into a little space right behind the driver, grabbing onto a strap or a pole to avoid falling into someone's lap. Somehow, we took on another handful of passengers between there and downtown, meaning that a good 25-30 people were standing in the aisle on a vehicle that already had about 50-60 folks filling every available seat.

It was a slice of the city's demographics -- teenagers headed to school; a young mom reading a storybook to her daughter; young adults talking on their Bluetooth, texting or listening to music; middle-aged folks buried in their newspaper (yay!) or magazine; senior citizens out for who knows what?

As we passed south of Lloyd Center mall, we paused at a scheduled stop directly across the street from Holladay Park, a nice greenspace with lots of leafy trees between the mall and the light-rail tracks carrying even more commuters to work. At that hour, the park was virtually empty, no sign at all that two days earlier a 14-year-old boy had been critically wounded in what police suspect may have been a gang-related shootiing.

It saddened me to think of this boy named Shiloh Hampton, clinging to life a day after being shot in the head while in the company of friends leaving the mall Monday. The park is roughly half a mile south of where I live. I pass by it frequently on my morning runs. Never have I ever felt unsafe in that area, day or night.

I wondered if any fellow passengers looked out the window and made the same grim connection as me.

It's not the first time I've passed by a notorious landmark on my way in to work. Riding the No. 9 bus into Old Town a year ago, I was keenly aware that we were rolling through the same intersection where a TriMet driver ran over a group of five pedestrians in a crosswalk one night, crushing two of them to death. Wasn't long before a makeshift memorial popped up on the sidewalk -- a sad reminder that I'd see every day for weeks.

As I write this between bites of lunch at my desk, I'm alerted to an update.that just went up on our web site: Shiloh died of his wounds around 8:20 this morning.

No doubt I'll think of him now every time my bus passes that park.

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.

An auspicious beginning

I had a feeling that yesterday would be a good day. Turns out my instinct was right. Not only did I get off to a nice start with my new web-first job, but my day and night were bookended by renewing acquaintances with two amazing women I came to know as collegiate journalists and who've each achieved success on their own terms.

Just goes to show how today's technology can help refresh friendships formed two decades ago.

 First up, Patty Chang Anker. Patty was a University of Pennsylvania student who I worked with on "Voices," a daily tabloid newspaper produced by a select group of students and professional editors who came together for a week to cover news of the Asian American Journalists Association national convention. It was held in Seattle that year, 1991, and the editor-in-chief asked me (the only Latino) to help out. I remember Patty being earnest and upbeat but also somewhat conflicted about a career in newspapers. She found work at a book publishing company in New York, then went into public relations.

She found me on Facebook yesterday morning and a few minutes later I was reading her blog post on The Huffington Post taking issue with a woman I'd seen interviewed on The Today Show that very morning, contending that Chinese mothers are superior because of their super-strict disciplinarian ways. The response to the HuffPo piece was overwhelming and Patty shared her exuberance on her own blog, called Facing Forty Upside Down.

I think the photo above says it all. Married and with two children, Patty describes herself as "a mother, yoga teacher and public relations pro who exhorts anyone within earshot or email range to new experiences." And she leads by example. Click here to read "Walking on Air" and see her make good on a vow to learn how to do a handstand before turning 40.

Next up, Heidi Durrow (rhymes with Thoreau). Heidi was a news reporter intern at The Oregonian in the summer of 1990, following her junior year of college. I was an assistant city editor then and worked with her on several stories, impressed with her poise. She had graduated from Portland's Jefferson High School, the city's only high school with a majority of black students, but people looking at light-skinned, blue-eyed, kinky-haired Heidi couldn't figure her out. They didn't know she was the daughter of a Danish mother and African American father who'd grown up in Europe and moved to Portland at age 11. She spoke Danish in the home and English outside it, and excelled in the classroom.

Heidi wound up graduating from Stanford -- as well as the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism and Yale Law School -- and became a journalist, then a corporate litigator. She eventually quit to pursue a childhood dream of writing a novel. Who knew that it would take 6 years to write it and nearly 6 more to get it published? And who knew that her debut novel, "The Girl Who Fell From The Sky" would win a literary prize and widespread praise from book critics all over the country?

Heidi read from her book last night at the indie bookstore in our neighborhood so I went, and wound up writing about it in my first blog post in my new job at The Oregonian. Read it here.

I was surprised she recognized me instantly as she stepped to the microphone. It was gratifying to talk with her afterward and learn that, at age 41, she's been married for 17 years and that she's been reading the Rough and Rede blog for several months, never leaving a hint of her presence. We talked again today on the phone to tie up some loose ends and I asked her when and where had the idea to write a book taken root.

"When I was a little girl, probably six or seven years old," she answered. The inspiration came from her mom, who was a homemaker in her early 30s and taking a correspondence course in writing children's books when she submitted an article to an obscure magazine called American Dane. One day, the mail came and with it the news that her article had been accepted. Inside, a check for $10.

"I remember my dad taking a picture and Mom holding up the check, beaming like the sun itself," Heidi said. "I think I latched onto it, that moment of joy and pride, and thought I wanted to be just like my mom."

Mom was there in the audience last night, beaming at her lovely, accomplished daughter, and I got to shake her hand, too.

Lights out

NECC

Earlier this week, we signed up to become members of LA | Fitness. It was a long time coming but it made sense for a number of reasons.

Although Lori owns her own gym, there's limited time and space for her to work out, considering that she has two trainers, a yoga instructor and a massage therapist in there at different hours as subcontractors. As for me, I've kept my membership at the Northeast Community Center (the old YMCA) in our former neighborhood, out of loyalty and a fondness for the old-school vibe. It is, after all, the gym where our kids played Y basketball and indoor soccer and where I continue to swim two or three days a week and occasionally lift weights.

By joining LA | Fitness, we'll get a better deal (just a few dollars a month more for the two of us versus my dues at NECC) and it'll be just four blocks from our home, with expanded hours and newer facilities. Plus, we can go together from time to time.

I suppose it was inevitable that we'd make the switch. Two things happened this week that made me realize it was time:
-- After a swim on Monday, I went to the sauna, noticed the room was pitch black and flicked on the switch. Nothing. Just a deep voice from the darkness. "The light's out. You can come in." Uh, OK. "Where, exactly, are you? Top bench? Lower bench?"
-- Thursday, I got up earlier than usual and got to the pool about 6:10. Only other one swimmer was there, not yet in the pool, but then the lifeguard approached. "There's a water aerobics class starting in five minutes. It lasts till 7. You're welcome to stay." Uh, thanks, but no thanks. Not my thing.

Yeah, I should have known better about the schedule, but it was a reminder that I have to work around the times when the pool is not open to lap swim. That shouldn't be a concern at the new gym. Nor the lack of a light bulb in the men's sauna.

Heading out now to take Otto for a walk. Then off to the pool for the last swim of 2010.

All in a day

Sometimes the mundane and the meaningful come together in ways you don't see coming. Forgive the navel-gazing, but Saturday was, all in all, a pretty good day.

6 a.m. -- I love the serenity that comes with running at this hour. No traffic and the opportunity to notice new details even as you run past things for the hundredth time. Unfortunately, I ended the run with tightness in my right calf muscle. Not enough stretching, Lori says.

8:15 a.m. -- I catch the bus for a 15-minute to work. It's been eight or nine weeks since the last time we on the weekend crew actually had significant breaking news to cover. Portland's no Miami in that regard, but that's fine with me. I think people are just enjoying the summer with their bicycles, kayaks, kids and pets.

5 p.m. -- With another quiet day at work behind me, Lori and I walk 10 minutes to an Italian bistro to meet our kids for dinner. I picked Simone up at the airport Friday night.** Her partner Kyndall -- after a bad-to-worse experience with a friend's car in Vancouver, B.C. -- scrambled to take a bus, then a train to arrive in Portland at mid-day. Jordan and Jamie drove down from Olympia and Nathan joined us before going to work at the nightclub where he's a doorman.

As everyone rose to say their goodbyes at the end of the meal, Lori teared up just looking at the kids and their partners, and I knew exactly what she was feeling. It had been nine months since they (and we) had all been together -- since Jordan and Jamie's wedding in late November. All of them are so happy now, with where they are in life and whom they're with. As a parent, it makes you feel proud.

7 p.m. -- With just a short break to catch our breath, we headed out the door and around the corner to join in on the block party. We said hello to a fellow condo owner, Helen, and introduced ourselves to a few of our new neighbors on 11th Avenue. Quite a switch from where we used to live, where the last block party we attended was bustling with kids and younger parents. This gathering was definitely an older demographic, with several couples who'd made the decision to downsize after their kids had left home, but just as mellow a group as you'd find anywhere in the city. A couple of cops even stopped by to chat.

One of the residents arranged for a jazz trio to perform (quite a good vocalist in Natalie Keizur) and one of the neighbors we met -- an aspiring chef who just moved from Boise -- joined in spontaneously on the trumpet. Cool.

Another neighbor, a free spirit named Holly, sold us a half-dozen eggs. Score! Turns out she keeps two dozen chickens in her backyard. I'm sure we'll become regular customers.

** The busy weekend continues today with a rooftop party we're hosting for my colleagues in the Editorial Department, and Simone and Kyndall coming over to spend their last night in Portland before hitting the road early Monday for their cross-country trip to Pittsburgh.

Movie poster: Internet Movie Poster Awards

Just around the corner

In the seven months that we've lived in our new neighborhood, there's one sight I've grown fond of. It's a little wooden bench just around the corner, halfway down the block, and its plain block letters -- PLEASE BE SEATED -- beckon you to take a break from your day.

Otto and I pass by it often on our walks around the block, and the coolest thing is you never know what you'll come across.

One morning last week, there were three books, a piece of fabric, three little jars and a grocery bag full of ... I don't know what. Other times, I've seen sweaters, shoes and various food items -- a package of whole wheat hamburger buns, fresh and canned vegetables and more. I've seen parts of old phones and appliances, magazines and children's toys.

Never have I seen anyone actually sitting on the bench, nor placing an item on the bench or taking from it. But the fact that someone -- and I'm presuming it's more than just one person -- takes the time to put things out that might be of value to the less fortunate in our part of town can't help but restore your faith in people's goodness.

Come to think of it, I don't know why I haven't donated a few things to this bench of goodwill. (Sounds like I've just given myself something to add to my to-do list.)

The funny thing is, this bench is right in front of the house owned and occupied by a local elected official who is a typical Portland liberal, with a soft spot for bicycles and all that goes along with the city's green/sustainable/creative culture.

He's been in the house quite a long time, and the waist-high picket fence in his front yard, with peeling white paint, suggests that yard maintenance is not a priority. Some readers of this blog may remember a couple of posts from last year, when I wrote about Olivia, the stuffed piglet with the bright red dress and lopsided grin, who went missing shortly after we moved into our new place, only to appear one day on the neighbor's picket fence. Yes, this picket fence, just a few feet away from the bench.

We never found Olivia, but I have to think she's in a good home somewhere, maybe with someone who's helped themselves to some of the bench's bounty.

An Ethiopian treat

In our walkable neighborhood we are 5 to 10 minutes away from a variety of cuisines, including Thai, Italian, Mexican, American, Japanese and Chinese. Every Thursday we make a point to have a light meal out, so it was a nice change of pace to try Mudai, at the corner of Northeast Broadway and 8th Avenue.

It's been a while since I've had Ethiopian, so it was a pleasant experience of reacquainting myself with the tasty stews and spongy bread that comes with each entree. But let me step aside and quote from Willamette Week's review:
'' Mudai's menu offers the usual Ethiopian assortment of spicy red stews, mellow green stews and salads, all served family-style on enjera bread -- that tangy love child of a pancake and a crumpet. Mudai's delicate enjera quickly soaks up the luscious sauces, and as they mingle in its bubbly crevices you will taste a sublime harmony."

Tangy love child? Never would I have come up with those words...though I wish I had.

The atmosphere is totally relaxed, with gracious service, and big windows allow easy views of Broadway. The food is colorful, the portions are generous and it's all served on a single platter so everyone eats communally from the same dish. You tear off a piece of the enjera -- just as you would a tortilla -- and scoop up chunks of curried beef or lamb, chicken with spinach or yellow lentils. You can have your dish prepared mild or fiery hot, depending how dangerously you want to live.

Read more about the restaurant here -- and, if you haven't tried this cuisine, consider checking out one of these handful of Ethiopian restaurants around Portland.

Monday: The new routine

With all the changes at The Oregonian brought on by buyouts, layoffs and reorganization of the newsroom, virtually everyone who's still there seems to be taking on new responsibilities and/or moving to a new desk. In my case, I'm still doing my thing as Sunday Opinion editor but now I'm also the Saturday morning assignment editor, responsible for coordinating any local coverage planned for that day, plus breaking news. I pulled my first shift two days ago and all went well, no doubt because it was a quiet news day.

But this means I'm now working a Tuesday through Saturday shift, and adjusting to the rhythm of Sunday and Monday as my days off. I think it will be good having a day off that coincides when businesses are open. I'll still have plenty of time to exercise, run errands, walk the dog and prepare dinner (starting tonight, with a recipe I'm following for scallop gumbo).

I took Otto on a walk through our new neighborhood late this morning and it was a real treat, not just because it was warm and dry out but more because of the visual treasures and oddities I encountered along the way. One thing I like a lot about our new residence is that I'm walking even more than before and noticing new things on just about every block I find myself on.

To give you an idea of what I saw:

-- A loaf of sliced French bread from Grand Central Bakery, nestled against the curb at the intersection of 11th and Tillamook Street. My guess? I'm thinking it fell out of a stroller or maybe someone's pouch as they were riding or walking by.
-- A check for $2.21 from Sallie Mae to a person who presumably became separated from it on 11th. Some honorable soul placed it just off the sidewalk and placed two small rocks on it to hold it down.
-- A flag of Ireland gently waving from the gable of a home, reminding me that St. Patrick's Day is two days from now.
-- A photo of Mr. T (or someone who looks like him) Scotch-taped to the front door window of a street-level apartment.
-- A reddish bowling ball snuggled in the midst of someone's flower garden.
-- A piece of street art in the form of a five-foot-long mosaic lizard (above).
-- A robin sipping from a bird bath in someone's front yard. (I know, it doesn't sound like much but I always try to be as quiet and still as possible so a bird will go about its business. In this case, he/she paused to eye me carefully before resuming its sipping when I began to walk away.)
-- A young mom jogging alongside her daughter, who was riding a bicycle with training wheels. Now that's the kind of scene I'd never see downtown...

There's no big thought or great insight in this post. I suppose it's nothing more than the experience of seeing my new neighborhood under different circumstances that makes me feel it's worth writing about. You can drive the same streets over and over and not notice something that stands out when you set out on foot and open your eyes and other senses to what's around you.

There's great variety and vibrancy in everyday life. Every once in a while, I like to purposefully take it in.

Photo: from my iPhone

M.I.A.: My favorite piglet

Walking the dog yesterday, I noticed that Olivia was missing from her perch, no longer wedged along the white picket fence where she could keep an eye on the neighborhood.

Did someone abscond with the charming star of Ian Falconer's storybooks?

Or did Olivia set off on her own adventure?

It was nice to see she'd been rescued from the trash and propped up on a neighbor's fence. That bright red dress and those floppy ears always made for a welcome sight when I rounded the corner with Otto on our morning walk.

I'd hate to think I've seen the last of her.

Olivia finds a new home

What's that saying about one person's trash is another one's treasure?

It came to mind this morning as I was walking our dog around the block, following an early morning run in 17-degree weather. It had warmed up a single degree when we started down the street and I came upon this sight.

It was Olivia, the fashionably dressed, independent-minded piglet, also known as the storybook character created by Ian Falconer. I bought her for Lori to mark our mutual affection for the little oinker, who's always managing to annoy and exasperate her family with her sense of adventure and boundless imagination.

Well, Olivia got a little roughed up in the move to our new home and I set her out with the cardboard boxes and the garbage in preparation for our first curbside pickup this morning. So it was a mild surprise to see someone -- a neighbor? a passerby? -- had "rescued" Olivia and propped her up on a fence just a few doors down.

Made me feel good that someone saw a treasure in our trash. Nice to know Olivia will be hanging around the neighborhood in her bright red dress.