If you look deep enough, you will see music; the heart of nature being everywhere music. – Thomas Carlyle
Get the sense yet another Rose City winter had lasted far too long. From May 23, 1990.
I forget who gets the credit, although the name Red Smith comes to mind.
“Writing is easy,” whoever-it-was once suggested. “Just take out a clean sheet of paper and open a vein.”
So, I thought I’d give it a try.
I rounded a corner in my life the other day and for once I actually paid attention. Here’s how it happened.
Firstly, I started listening to myself. Didn’t like what I heard. What I heard was anger and torment and despair. Not exactly music to the ear. Whether it was the one-hundred-thousand-dollar ($100,000.00) homeless sweep or mandatory flag reverence or dioxin in my coffee filters or the Court’s decision that panhandling DOES NOT convey a social or political message or _____ (your personal pet tribulation here).
The world was becoming a hostile place. The country was doomed and the city was going down the tubes faster than you can say “domed stadium.”
Cigarette ads are an assault. The lottery is a regressive tax on the gullible. The media is the lap dog of professional sport. There are twelve hundred Bloods and Crips versus seven hundred policemen. 1200 vs. 700. And the gangs have bigger guns.
Anyway, I thought I was holding up. Barely.
Secondly, the Mayor’s re-election campaign hit television. He looks so calm, so reassuring. Then he opened his mouth. He actually had the gall to say aloud – publicly – if we wanted ‘strong management’, we’d re-elect him. The unmitigated temerity. On videotape even.
Couldn’t quite decide which was more bizarre: that he said it or that he thought we would believe it. Luckily, seems we knew better.
While I’m still reeling from that affront, the Interior Secretary of all people says the Endangered Species Act is “just too tough.”
And “Do we really have to save every species?”
And “Nobody’s told me the difference between a red squirrel, a black one or a brown one.”
Here’s a free tip. It’s kinda like Native Americans, African-Americans and Latinos, Manny.
Something inside me snapped like a fresh green bean. Either I was crazy or they were. With these guys running society, I had to start taking things a little LESS seriously. Worry less about THEM and more about myself. Me.
Find a new perspective.
Went to North Portland to look for it.
You go your way, I’ll go mine. The bridge less crossed.
“Bridging The Decades” was the theme for the 28th annual St. John’s Parade. And it seemed to recall nothing more than 1962 in small town America. Where I grew up.
A more peaceful time. A saner era.
I even biked all the way out there, so I didn’t have to hassle with parking. I rode up the parade route with the other kids from finish to start in front of many, many anxious spectators. Moms and dads and families, grandfolks, too. It was cold and overcast, your typical bad day in May.
I pulled over in front of a reviewing stand at the corner of Buchanan and Lombard. Just in time to avoid being run over by the first of one-hundred-and-three (103) parade entries. The Roosevelt High School Marching Band. “St. John’s own,” according to Rep. Mike Burton (Dem.- Excited), who announced every entry like he meant it. Nice sound.
Travis Thoreson was the Grand Marshall. Looked pretty darn good for a kid who got his newest heart on April 6th. Riding in a cherry ’64 Vette.
The Rose Festival princesses came by, each in a classic British sports car. Do these young ladies really enjoy all that obligatory hand waving? Their chaperone, Kathy Brisbee, merited her own car. “A Dorn good deal.”
The Junior Rose Court came by. Princesses in the embryonic stage. Then the Royal Rosarians, with two women marching in the same straw hats and white suits as the men. Portland City Commissioner Icky Bogle was followed by the Columbia River Girl Scouts.
Who will – trust me – need a restraining order if they get too close to him.
Barbara Roberts, someday soon to be Oregon’s first female Governor, trailed a five-year-old Yorkie named Spike, who was pulling his own little wagon.
Another pol, Attorney General whatever… “Can’t give anything away,” Dave Frohnmayer responded, when asked to throw some trinkets to the crowd. “Violates the law.”
Is legal mind an oxymoron?
A dragster rolls down the street. RACERS AGAINST DRUGS is sponsored by a bar. The Your Inn Tavern. Honest.
I know what you’re thinking. Is it painted a yellow hue?
The Portsmouth Community Taekwondo School marches past, a half dozen people who look like they could destroy the entire neighborhood with just a couple of kicks. You know they’re tough, they’re walking barefoot.
Little Leaguers. The Rivergate Stompers Square Dance Club and more politicians. The Flat Broke & Four Wheelin’ Club. Pete Lulich, St. John’s Citizen Of The Year. The Ockley Green Middle School was stylin’. Chester The Chicken, a human dressed as poultry, was a big hit with toddlers.
Standing right in front of me, kinda blocking my sight-line and I’m tall, straw-colored straw hair in the way, she’s wearing a shiny black jacket from Bubba’s Inn. “Fine Food. Beer. Wine. Pool. Shuffleboard.” Written in gold cursive.
The man with her wears a long sheath knife on his belt next to a gigantic key ring. He clobbers one of three little boys. “Step on that dog again and you’re really going to get it.” The pit bull looked like he could take care of himself.
Then, like a Binaca blast, a full-sized tricycle comes along. Festooned with “a lot” of balloons and crepe paper, it’s the one and only Greg Fahey.
Greg hasn’t missed a parade since 1972. I asked him why he participates.
“I like it good,” he explained. “My family likes to watch me. They’re proud of me.”
They have every reason to be. Greg, thirty-seven, is developmently disabled and diabetic. “I’m fine. Just slow,” he reassures me. Just slow. And a winner. Greg has won ten (10) trophies in the past, although this year he settled for “a white ribbon,” third place.
He rides that trike like he is Peter O’Toole in Lawrence Of Arabia. Greg works twenty (20) hours weekly at McDonald’s and he cuts wood for neighbors. Greg is also assistant troop master for Boy Scout Troop 52. He helps out his mom. Hid dad died in July, 1975.
“I miss him,” Greg confides.
Mr. Greg Fahey on that shiny three-wheeler going down Lombard, smiling proudly and waving so unself-consciously to the applause.
I saw that and suddenly I was struck by a single thought. I’ve been seeing the world as a half-empty glass, while Greg’s glass is always half-full.
So simple, so obvious. I’m fine now.
Just slow.
