4/26/5 - Portland to St Helens

It was weird: Things were “different” in town today.
I had parked my rig down by The Klondike and was stretching my legs a bit before headin’ back home. Quietly and without warning, I saw a man wearin’ a long brown trench coat approaching me. He wasn’t making any eye-contact, instead he was looking down at the sidewalk. He also wore one of those old fedoras that men used to wear 50+ years ago in big cities, so I couldn’t quite make out his face. When he passed by me, he suddenly pulled his gaze up from the ground and gave me a crooked-smile and “the message”: It seems I need to watch my back and be careful not to name names.
What year was this…1953? Was I in a film-noir movie from the 50's?
I felt an abrupt pang of fear and became angry as I watched the stranger’s back make a slow getaway. I began thinking to myself that I was now this close to givin’ these Joe McCarthy bastards who are runnin’ things here in town a real piece of my mind.
Instead, I decided to secretly follow the man as he headed down towards the river. I was cautious to stay far enough back so I wouldn’t be detected. Like a spy, I tracked his plodding, slow movement. He headed left, walking so slow that I had to stop and pretend that I was window shopping, all-the-while tracking him in the window’s reflection.
A few minutes later, I watched the man suddenly stop and stand silently in front of the new amphitheater with both hands in his coat-pockets. As I drew nearer I noticed that the amphi-project had definitely progressed - “They” have planted grass on the steps, mowed and trimmed it and I must confess that it looked stunning.
I warily inched closer to the man who was staring straight-ahead in silence at the new stairs. Slowly, I approached his back. I was so good at this spy-game that I knew I could have plunged a knife in his back. Before I knew it, I was standing right beside him, not carin’ anymore that I had blown my cover. He didn’t flinch at all to see who was now suddenly next to him and it became clear to me that he must have known I had been following behind him the whole time.
For almost a minute, neither of us spoke as we gazed at the new stairs in silence. I was struck how stark the concrete stairs looked: completely out of place amidst the artistically designed rock work of Larry Buzbee’s Amphitheater. An unexpected gust of wind blew up from the river and broke the silence.
“You know that they neglected to place any of the buried electrical-conduits that Buzbee designed to be run beneath the concrete,” the man said straight ahead with out blinking.
“That’s unfortunate,” I began quietly, “because Larry certainly knew it would be necessary for any lighting and power-outlets for sound-amplification.” The man suddenly turned and looked at me. His eyes seemed sad.
“Why do you think that these people just didn't bother with it? Do they care about anything,” he said with a cold, emotionless tone and stare. “What we have now, is certainly something usable and somewhat appealing to the eye, but it also has the look of something thrown-together. It’s a piece of slapdash junk art!”
“Too bad, the people couldn’t have had a real work of art,” I empathetically offered back.”
“I guess the only thing artistic the City would have really considered was a giant dog statue constructed out of rebar and plaster,” he said sadly as he suddenly turned away from me and slowly headed back toward old-towne. He had resumed staring down at his feet. “Or maybe a mural of dogs playing poker,” he suddenly said to no one in particular.
“How about velvet pictures of Elvis.” I yelled back to him in my own sadness.
Keep watch and take care of things in this town, ya hear?
-Tom

4/20/5 - Mossy Rock to St Helens

One of the great things about St Helens is that you just never know what you’re going to run into over a plate of eggs. Or, on a particular Wednesday mornin’ at the St Helens Café, just who you’ll be sittin’ next to and what they’ll tell you.

“G’mornin’ and how ya doin’ today?” the rather thin and plainly-dressed man began, smiling as he sat down at the table across from me.
“Real fine there my friend,” I knee-jerked rather innocuously, while being quick to add, “but lemme tell ya pal, there sure are some nuts out on the road this mornin’, it must have been a full moon or somethin’ last night.”

As innocent as that…it all began.

“Well ya know, Brigham Young revealed to us in 1870 that the Mormon moon-men were similar to earthlings, except that they are much taller and they dress like Quakers.”

“Come again?” I asked in disbelief, almost chokin’ on my slimy over-easy eggs.

Now, I suppose before going on any further, I should point out that I’ve got nothing against some of the Mormons I’ve met over the years: basically, some nice family-oriented people who, as far as their religion goes, seem well-organized but usually, a little over-the-top. However, on this certain Wednesday morning, I learned that Mormonism is an outer-space-oriented religion.

“Oh sure, Mormons believe that human beings inhabit the Moon,” he said as the waitress dropped off his cup of decaf-coffee while secretly rollin’ her eyes at me. “Our great Mormon apostle, the late Bruce McConkie, said that in Mormon theology, God created worlds without number and that Mormons believe that aliens live on other planets unknown to us, and that these planets are inhabited by male and female humanoids who are redeemed with immortality and offered eternal life through the power of Heavenly Father.”

”You’re shittin’ me,” I said, not really knowing what to say and somewhat embarrassed after-the-fact that I had cursed. It didn’t seem to bother him a bit.

“Yessir, Mormon theologians agree that God lives on a distant planet, the planet Kolob.”
“Kolob, huh?” I intellectually offered, in my obvious stunned state.
“Yes, Kolob is located in the constellation Cancer, sector 2813.”

Now, I ask you dear readers, exactly what can one possibly say to that?

“Kolob translates as, the first creation,” he continued on passionately, “which is nearest to the celestial, or the residence of God. Our scriptures say that God told Moses only about our planet Earth, but we're not worshiping a one-planet God."
“Well, glad to hear it friend,” I told him while puttin’ on my jacket in making my unplanned retreat despite not finishing my breakfast.
“Really, it’s all right here,” he said as he opened a dull-blue book titled, Book of Abraham: Translation by Prophet Joseph Smith, from hieroglyphics on papyrus (Facsimile 1)

I threw a ten on the table while curteously glancing at the passage his thumb directed me to read:
"And thus there shall be the reckoning of the time of one planet above another, until thou come nigh unto Kolob, which Kolob is after the reckoning of the Lord's time; which Kolob is set nigh unto the throne of God, to govern all those planets which belong to the same order as that upon which thou standest."
“Wow,” I grunted. “That really is somethin’ pal.”
“It sure is!” he replied as I left. “Keep safe on those roads out there today.”
There’s some real interestin’ people in this quirky little town y’all got here.
-Tom

4/12/5 - Longview to St Helens

The loading dock foreman was pissed. Now, I can’t tell you that it actually makes me happy to say that, but I do get a kick out of watchin’ him steam and squirm.
“Watch your step around him today Tom,” my friend Mitch advised as he climbed into his rig to head north on an Everett, WA run.
Nevertheless, I couldn’t resist.
“Now what seems to be your problem today?” I told him as soon as I entered his messy, small office.
“Fuck you T******n,” (he always calls me by my last name). “You’re my problem right now; you and this redhead up in accounting.”
I made a minimal gesture of reassurance, “I’m sure you’ll get all of the receipts together and it’ll all blow over.”
“Whatever,” he growled, and quickly threw some papers toward me to sign. “Now hit the road and call in after you’ve checked at Boise.”
Old Watson the janitor who was standing right behind him, was slyly smilin’ at me as he emptied the office waste-can and quickly followed me right out of the office as I left.
“Yeah, he’s got some trouble with that Emily up on the second floor,” he laughed as he lit a non filtered cigarette. “They’ve got some sort of amorous, extra marital thing goin’ on.” He laughed and spit out some tobacco from the end of his tongue.
“I don’t want to know about it Watson,” I told him throwin’ up my arms into the air as I turned around to walk away.
Watson laughed, “He-he...Yeah Tom, the poor bastard.”
“The poor woman,” I offered as I headed out.
Off across the bridge and into St Helens I went as quickly as I could.
As I grabbed some coffee at Bertucci's, I heard some locals talk of events at City Hall.
“I’m glad he’s in hot water. He’s always threatening and bullying people, you remember how he hassled those people protesting the Conference Center,” a tall fellow said. “Nice to see some karma roll his way.”
“Yep, that’s some torrid love-affair going on there; I’ll bet her husband is pissed,” said another man I've crossed paths with on occasion as he simultaneously turned and recognized me. “Hey Tom, how’s things?”
“I don’t want to know about it pal,” I told him throwin’ up my arms into the air.
Take care of things in this amourous little town here.
-Tom

4/5/5 - Home

Now I can see where I'm going! With Google Maps I can see my route and destination from crystal clear Satellite photos!!
It's easy: you just type in any address and switch between Map and Satellite (towards the upper right-side.)
Really fantastic. Lorraine sure loved lookin' at the place where she grew up.
I'm so glad my computer works again...More soon,
-Tom

3/18/5 - Home

It’s sure good to be back in the Northwest. Nothing like a trip through the Midwest to reinforce why Lorraine & I make our home here. Every time I travel through Texas, it seems like nothin’ but an immeasurable crappy highway makin’ a straight line through ugly brush land, strewn with the repulsive American sprawl of endless fast-food chains and gas-stations. Not my first choice for a vacation spot. I had some time to kill in Austin, so I paid a visit to the Texas Capitol building there. Inside, there are paintings of every Texas governor since statehood circling around the magnificent rotunda. I laughed seeing Ann Richards’ portrait hung right next to Dubya. Unlikely neighbors to say the least. A good laugh I had.
So as you can probably figure out, I just couldn’t get home fast enough. And the first person I saw as I headed down my street for the first time in 10 days, was the neighbor who had predicted a coupla weeks back that, “Mt. St. Helens would blow anyday.” I had thought of him in my Hays, Kansas motel room as I watched the breaking!-CNN coverage.
“Ya gotta knack for knowin’ the mountain,” I told him with a tired smile.
“Eh, that whaddn’t nothin’ much,” he fired back impatiently, quickly resuming whatever he was doing before I pulled up.
The rest of the country thought it was Krakatoa or something because the media has a knack for doin’ that: makin’ a huge deal outta nothin’ and nothin’ out of huge deals.
I can’t wait to pick up my next load and head into town to catch up with what all has been goin’ on. I’ll be seein’ y’all soon.
-Tom

3/6/5 - Seattle to Arlington, TX

Ooh boy, Texas...sheesh.
Yessir, I'm off on a long one to Arlington, which is just north of Dallas/Ft. Worth.
As you can tell by now, I'm not too excited about this much neither, what with the NW rainy season bein' on SoCal and Arizona highways these past weeks, I've got that trucker's nervous-feelin' we sometimes can get once in a blue-moon. Lorraine sent me off with a kiss and a, "Everything's gonna be fine Tom, go-on-now and bring Momma home some real money." I love that woman.
Hey ShoeShine Boy, got any tips for dealin' with loud-mouth, red neck, dishonest Republicans? I figure you got some real experience with these types around the ShoeShine box. Man, I love that ShoeShine guy. He's great!
See y'all when I get back next week. Keep your eye out on things while I'm gone.
-Tom

3/1/5 - Longview to St Helens

The ol' mountain is shrouded today in a creepy, murky cloud-bank, hiding what lurks behind it.
It immediately reminded me of my neighbor down the street who is still tellin' me that, "she's gonna blow anyday Tom." Though he's quite a character and all-around nice guy, he's also a bit of a cranky "old-coot", I believe the term is.
And speakin' of deceptive cloud banks, I figured today would be a perfect day to warn y'all about a certain speed trap that lies in wait on Highway-30 just this side of the Longview bridge in Rainier, OR.
Yes, I said: speed-trap.
And it's even more devious because it comes disguised as a school-crossing.
Yes, I said: school-crossing.
I know this stretch of highway as you can well imagine; I'm on it several times a week and even though I'm a professional driver, familiar with Ranier and all the rest, a couple weeks back...they got me. You see, when makin' one's way through Ranier, you'll be downshiftin' from 55 mph to 40, and then to 30 and suddenly, for one block, to 20. Yes, 20 mph on Highway 30 between 5th and 6th Street. It's a bit annoying to say the least.
"But what about the kids Tom!" you may be asking yourselves.
Here is the deal: In some "research" that I did before going to court for this traffic ticket, I discovered that the school--which is a couple of blocks away--was shut down a couple of years ago. (The building was purchased by a church.) So Mon-Sat, there is no school crossing in effect. And believe me, they know this fact my friends: It is NOT a school crossing, yet the signs remain. I've also heard some people say that even when the school was in operation, kids hardly ever used it to get to school.
These days, there is nothing to cross to, and certainly there is no reason to have a school crossing at this particular place, save a speed-trap. And here is where the trap comes into play: The regular road speed before this point is 30 mph. If 'said person' is traveling a few mph over the speed-limit, let's say - 35mph through town, 'said person' will be cited for speeding as if it were 15 mph over the speed limit in a "school zone". You're cooked. Oh yeah: and did I mention that all fines in a school zone are double?
On top of all this, a recent change in Oregon law mandates that school zone speeding infractions can now be enforced 24 hours a day, regardless of any children being present. So what do you think they're up to? I know I had to pay a hefty fine in court, that's all I'm sayin' here.
A cloudy, deceiving mist on the higway through Ranier. I'm just tryin' to keep an eye out on things.
I'll see y'all next time.
-Tom

2/22/5 - Lost somewhere in Idaho

Just when can I have a fancy GPS system like this one that Finnish timbertruck-drivers use? (Article below)
You read it right - Finnish timbertruck-drivers. I guess it means Finland is a more technologically developed and civilized country than we are these days. Well, they ain't spendin' billions in Iraq neither.
Boy, I sure could have used one of these today...I was as lost as the Washington DC boys and our City Hall boys seem to be.
Anyhow, I'll see y'all next time I'm in town and be sure and keep an eye out on things while I'm gone.
-Tom

The Information System in Timber Trucks
There is also an information system in timber trucks, which receive wireless haulage instructions from Metsähallitus. The haulage instructions clarify where to get the timber, which grades, how much and where to deliver to, and what time the timber should reach the customer. Deliveries are made according to a detailed schedule provided by the customer. Thanks to quick and wireless information transmission, a truck’s arrival time at a mill can be flexibly changed to suit the customer’s request.Timber trucks are also equipped with GPS technology, which helps drivers locate storage areas marked on the map. The smooth flow of information also helps in managing the work. Procurement managers and timber truck drivers communicate regularly via email.

2/16/5 - Longview to Portland

"What a beautiful day", was the consensus around Wayne's HotDog truck on Wednesday. We were all happy, upbeat and grateful to be livin' in the Northwest, in Oregon, in Washington, in St Helens. We all agreed that these kinds of days are upliftin' and we all basked in our happiness with lots of humor.
One old-timer said, "Now a couple of Wednesdays past, was both Groundhog Day and the day the State of the Union Address was given. It was ironic: One involves a meaningless ritual in which we look to a creature of little intelligence for prognostication, and the other involves a groundhog." We all roared, despite the real meaning of the joke. Other than that, I didn't hear anyone complain about anything, though there certainly could be lots to complain about. I was sure sad to hear about two young St Helens kids killed on their motorcycles on Tuesday.
We all hoped that the St Helens city-hall boys would take their lunch in one of the parks today and think about things. Think about our parks. Think about days like today. Think about St Helens people in parks on days like today.
Ahhhh...then, it was off down the road towards Portland.
Take care of things in this beautiful town ya got, ya hear?
-Tom
PS: My thoughts and condolences to the family and friends of the two St Helens High School boys killed in the motorcycle(s) accident yesterday.

2/8/5 - Longview to St Helens

Had some time to kill, so I headed over to the St Helens Library. Nice buildin', I thought to myself as I pulled up. I went inside, turned right...Uhmmm...What library? Now, my Grandmother always told me, "If you can't say somethin' nice about somebody or something, then don't say anything at all." Ok...thanks Grandma.
To the left of the library is the Columbia Center where some computer people were frettin' and worryin' and shufflin' about like a bunch of angry bees in a traumatized hive. Turns out the main server was down. The real trouble is that the City of St. Helens and the Spotlight newspaper and a whole lot of other folks rely on this server for e-mail and internet and all. And just now, as I tried most of the city links on the sthelensupdate page, none of them seemed to be workin'. A tough day at 18th and Plymouth.
ok Grandma...ok.
I'm just keepin' an eye on things in this nice little town y'all got here.

-Tom

1/31/5 - St Helens to Mossy Rock

.
An hour or so before leavin' town, I found out that the same guy who ripped off the Barlow Brothers for a pile of dirt, will be constructing the stairway for Columbia View Park. And even more troublesome is that it will not be the stairway that Larry Buzbee originally conceived and designed. No, I guess that would be too nice for St Helens, Oregon.
The City Hall Boys sure seem to think so. And the City Hall Boys also seem to like hangin' out with this dirt-sellin', project stealin', bmx-track destroyin' fella.
A few bits of advice for y'all on the "new" Columbia View designin' committee: here's some basic lessons on stair-buildin' that you could probably learn on any Saturday Afternoon at Home Depot:

Here is the Columbia View Amphitheater (9/04)

Note Mr. Buzbee's artistic design. Imagine his original vision that included a beautiful rock-laid stairway. Imagine, and ONLY imagine, because it aint gonna happen. Instead they will throw together in HACK-like fashion, something that will merely function as stairs. Now, I suppose that's alright if your skimmin' some money or whatever, but really you guys, take some time to think about how you're gonna throw it together; think about how it could look for future generations. For example:

Here are some fancy stone steps, and they look pretty nice.

These are also fairly simple and classy

These are very boring stairs.
Not much imagination at all and very cost-effective.

Now, the questions you have to ask yourselves: Which kind of stairs will you, as St Helens citizens, be walking on for the next 50 years?
Will they be fancy, or classy or artisitically considered?
Or will they just be thrown together to save a buck. Or to skim a buck?
Do you deserve better?
I kinda think you do. So did Larry Buzbee.
Take care of things in this nice little town y'all got here.
-Tom

1/25/5 - Longview to St Helens

Before getting’ started, here's a big shout-out for the Mt. St Helens Cam on this here sthelensupdate site. I sure like takin’ a gander at it once or twice a day when I’m online. Old-man McMillin down the street says the mountain is gonna blow within the next two weeks. Thing is, he’s usually dead-right. We’ll see.
So, when I got to work in Longview on Tuesday mornin’, I found out from the yard-boys that the loadin’-dock foreman had been real busy the past coupla days. He was lobbyin’ and doing his level-best to get my good-buddy Darrell thrown off a nice little run between Longview Fibre, the Newark Converting Plant and ShinHo in Tukwila. Without going into a bunch of details, Darrell knows (and lives) the ins-and-outs of this particular run, and helps connect a lot of the incidental info between these companies. The loadin’-dock forman just wanted to give the (lucrative) run to his nephew—who we all also can’t stand—in return for some kind of big debt or favor he owed. One yard-guy says he owed his nephew from a drunken night of Texas-Hold’em-poker this past weekend. Man, I just hate that guy sometimes.
And wouldn’t ya know it, when I stopped into the St Helens Café for some coffee and eggs an hour later, I heard about Margaret Magruder getting the shaft as well. (Ya might remember my post about her a while back.)
Boy, that pissed me off; this news on top of Darrell & the loadin'-dock foreman's nephew.
As I understand it: Joe Corsiglia and the Clatsop County Commissioners voted for Margaret, while Rita Bernhard & the Multnomah County Commissioners voted for Brad Witt. This left it up to Tony Hyde to cast the deciding vote, (for Witt) saying something to the effect of "promising Witt his support before Margaret entered the race". I guess Mr. Hyde has a lot of “integrity and loyalty”, sorta like the loadin’dock forman’s integrity and loyalty to his damn nephew. But, in sportsmanship, I’ll give congratulations to Brad Witt, who apparently went on the record about the problematic “Japanese Knot Wood”. Witt might want to bone up a bit on the very environmental concerns that Magruder intuitively knows and understands. He probably meant to say Japanese knot-weed and not, “knot-wood”. (sigh)
Like my friend Darrell compared to a nephew, I still believe Margaret would have been more intuitively informed and responsive to local issues, people and problems than Witt, but what do I know?
Anyhow, it sure was nice to be back in St Helens and catchin’ up with things. I’ll be sure to keep my eye out in this nice little town y’all got here.
-Tom

1/18/5 - Longview to Brainerd, MN

I'm off on another run east, to Potlatch in Brainerd, Minnesota.
Since we officially found out this past week that our WMD-reasons for waging war in Iraq were unfounded, I decided to post this interesting excerpt from Mark Twain's "The Mysterious Stranger", which Lorraine has been reading.
-Tom

"Monarchies, aristocracies, and religions are all based upon that large defect in your race -- the individual's distrust of his neighbor, and his desire, for safety's or comfort's sake, to stand well in his neighbor's eye. These institutions will always remain, and always flourish, and always oppress you, affront you, and degrade you, because you will always be and remain slaves of minorities. There was never a country where the majority of the people were in their secret hearts loyal to any of these institutions."
I did not like to hear our race called sheep, and said, I did not think they were.
"Still, it is true, lamb," said Satan. "Look at you in war -- what mutton you are, and how ridiculous!"
"In war? How?"
"There has never been a just one, never an honorable one -- on the part of the instigator of the war. I can see a million years ahead, and this rule will never change in so many as half a dozen instances. The loud little handful -- as usual -- will shout for the war. The pulpit will -- warily and cautiously -- object -- at first; the great, big, dull bulk of the nation will rub its sleepy eyes and try to make out why there should be a war, and will say, earnestly and indignantly, "It is unjust and dishonorable, and there is no necessity for it." Then the handful will shout louder. A few fair men on the other side will argue and reason against the war with speech and pen, and at first will have a hearing and be applauded; but it will not last long; those others will outshout them, and presently the anti-war audiences will thin out and lose popularity. Before long you will see this curious thing: the speakers stoned from the platform, and free speech strangled by hordes of furious men who in their secret hearts are still at one with those stoned speakers -- as earlier -- but do not dare to say so. And now the whole nation -- pulpit and all -- will take up the war-cry, and shout itself hoarse, and mob any honest man who ventures to open his mouth; and presently such mouths will cease to open. Next the statesmen will invent cheap lies, putting the blame upon the nation that is attacked, and every man will be glad of those conscience-soothing falsities, and will diligently study them, and refuse to examine any refutations of them; and thus he will by and by convince himself that the war is just, and will thank God for the better sleep he enjoys after this process of grotesque self-deception."

1/13/5 - Home

Can't tell y'all how great it is to be back home in the NW and relaxing. Lorraine fixed us up her pot-roast last night, I don't know what more a man can ask for.

Not much to say this week. I've been outta-the-loop, though it looks like I'll be headin' into town over the weekend on a Boise run, so I'll check in and see what's going on then.
Meantime, enjoy some pics from the road.
-Tom

Couldn't buy gas here, but it's a beautiful shot anyway


I'm still tryin' to figure this one out!


Obviously, an amateur

The Gorge in winter


A sure sign of being back home in the NW

1/4/05 - Elk City, OK to Home

There's no place like home.
I'm in a depressing (but warm) motel in Elk City, Oklahoma which is located nearby my constant companion of this past week: I-40.
Happy damn New Year.
Actually, there is total depression all around me. This is because of a certain, widely-watched TV program, which is almost over now, better known as the National Championship of college football. This television-broadcast is showing the much beloved local-team getting the total beJesus kicked out of it.
There's not much to do here, that's for sure. I can't wait to get home. I miss Lorraine and have already called her three or four times today. I've also gone over the TravelLodge-edition tourist-pamphlet a couple of times, which informs me of my fantastic opportunity to visit The Washita Battlefield Site where Custer massacred a bunch of Cheyenne Indians 130+ years ago. Great...Elk City rules. I figured I'd kill some time and get some bounty out of their fabulous snack-machine instead.
And, the mood was not good by the Snack/Ice-Machines either: A couple of Okie-truckers (now there's a "team" for ya) were going on and on about the game while their wives (or a couple prostitutes, I couldn't tell which) filled their ice-buckets proudly displaying the Elk City TravelLodge logo. These guys were clearly not happy about their Sooners losing to "a bunch of L.A. pretty boys."
"It's not like a tsunami or anything fellas," I politely offered.
The tall one spit. "Yeah it is pardner, it's like one big soo-nam-ee, (nam spoken like Sam) and I'll tell ya what: them soo-nam-ee people over there... (I loved that) ...once again is dependin' on the long-generous-arm of America." They all snickered like a bunch of idiots.
"Wait a minute," I said, "they're only gettin' 35-million-bucks from us, and that's a whole lotta nothin' if you ask me."
"Try three-hunert-fiddy million buddy," the shorter one sneered as my bag of Funyuns dropped with a thud into the vending-payoff-bin. "Yeah, ya betta add a zee-ro to that fig-yur a yours," the tall guy cracked. The wives/prostitutes laughed as they all left. It all kinda reminded me of sick high-school stuff.
I went back in and did a little internet-research and calculating: turns out our "generous" $350 million offering to help save the rest of the unfortunate world equals what it costs us to to wage war in Iraq for 42.27 hours. Ok...I'll round it up - the same amount of money we pay for two-days worth of war in Iraq. Welcome world saviors.
I'll sleep and then drive.
Besides, what good are red-states if they can't even play football?
See y'all soon.
-Tom

12/27/4 - Salem to Port Wentworth, GA

Well, looks like I'm off on a long roadtrip to Georgia. I sure am hopin' the Weather-Gods will be kind to me.
Before leavin', I figured I'd show y'all the kinds of dumb-ass signs I usually find when I'm drivin' across the States.
See ya when I get back! keep an eye out and take care of this nice little town y'all got here.
-Tom

12/21/4 - Outlet-Mall to Home

I realize that it isn’t a Sunday in the middle of June. And with only a few days til Christmas, I guess this must seem a strange thing to say, so I’ll explain.

On the way home from some last-minute shopping with my friend Rick Moody, we started talking about our fathers. How every year they’d get into the garage and unpack the Christmas lights and hang them in bitter cold, shovel snow out of the driveway, pack all of us kids into the car for the tour of lights on our street, how they’d tell us in that fatherly tone that we would not open a single-present, under any circumstances, until Christmas morning. It seems to me now that all of this was done without much complaint or excitability; unlike Rick and me, who were totally pissed and worn out from our relatively simple shopping-trip to an outlet-mall.

Fathers use acronyms. Fathers refold maps; fathers like to appear as though they have infallible knowledge of direct routes between any two points. Fathers are purveyors of ethics.

My dad was a salesman and never appeared to be quite comfortable at home to me. I always thought he didn’t really appear in my life until I was seven. He was in-residence before that - the early-years, sure - but in a way more erratic than fatherly. I always supposed he flourished at his office but when he got home, he merely made his way around the premises. His most frequent expression was one of furrowed skepticism. He dressed casually but never sloppily. My dad wore Top-Siders and cable-knit sweaters and tweed jackets with patches on the elbows. He had thinning hair and was slim. He was, compared to me, very large. He was a behemoth. My childhood interest in dinosaurs—in the T. Rex or the Pterodactyl—was really a metaphorical interest in dads. My dad dispensed incontrovertible orders. And we executed these orders. But my father was also a cipher to me, a mystery, an enigma.

Fathers may offer standard-issue praise, such as “Attaboy!” “Stick with it!” or “Way to go!” Fathers are able to dispense paternal wisdom even in a semiconscious or unconscious state. Fathers dispense advice that they spurned themselves.

My dad hated noise. The noise of kids, the footsteps of kids, herds of kids. He had immediately married right out of school, spawned his first child ten months after marrying, two more by the time he was twenty-six. He had no idea how he was going to pay. He had no idea how he was going get us through college, how to manage teenage rebellions or any of the unpredictable adolescent stuff. The noise of kids made my dad crazy because he was not actually watching football on TV, or the news, or whatever; my dad feigned watching TV. He was actually quietly brooding about how he was going to pay. Up on the second floor of our house, I would be throwing a pile of shoes and toys, one by one, at my brother and he would be crouched and screaming behind a desk, when suddenly we would hear the sound of my father’s voice in the stairwell, “What the hell is going on up there?” And we would fall into our brief, shameful silence, an anxious silence so familiar as to have preceded our very births.

Fathers appear to us without condition if only we can interpret their complicated language. Fathers move over expanses of time, across abysses of generations; fathers move across impediments, opening out, softening, becoming unguarded, giving away the rules of fathers to younger, angrier men; fathers, over time, become attentive and kind, regretful and warm, sensitive and even, gentle.

He was a dad: clocking in and out, getting vested in the pension-plan, taking the car to the garage for repairs, catching the 5:02, showing me how to throw a baseball, putting up Christmas lights, and eventually, moving somewhere else and writing the child-support checks.
So, why was I stunned this week when he waxed artistic, literary-truth over the phone of Melville, Dickens, Dostoevsky and Tolstoy? Turns out, Dad was a Lit-Major with hopes and dreams way-back when.
Who knew?
“You’re a good writer Tom, keep it up,” he said.
“Thanks Dad,” I told him.
“Sure Tom…it’s true. I sure wish your Grandfather had said that to me.”

The resistance to fathers is honorific, and resistance to fathers is always the last lesson in the instruction of fathers. Fatherhood knows that it is honored by its offspring’s contempt.

A whole sequence of fathers looking backwards for answers, ultimately finding that the most impossible father, with the most draconian set of regulations, was not in a living-room preparing to lecture us, but cradled inside of us and impossible to dislodge.
Happy Father’s Day/Merry Christmas Dad.
-Tom

12/11/4 - Longview to St Helens

There's nothin' like a cold Saturday morning with the loadin'-dock forman in Longview. Honestly, I was surprised he was even there and from the looks of things, he was too. "Grab me a cup-a-coffee Tom, willya?" he asked me in a subdued (and somewhat-shocking) civilized manner. And I figured, what the hell - it's the Christmas season: even the loadin'-foreman could catch the 'bug'. So following his first short-sip from a hot cup-a-joe I brought him from the Dispatch-office, why was I actually surprised when he winced at me and said, "Christ T*******," (he usually calls me by my last name) "I could get used to yer brown-nosin'." (followed by his cynical laugh)
I just about blew a gasket. And in fact, I actually did a few minutes later when Lorraine called me on my cellphone to remind me about pickin' something up from Safeway on the way home.
"Just let it be Tom," she advised in her beautiful forgiving voice. "He always likes to push your buttons, because he knows it works...I think it's sweet you brought him his coffee this morning."
And with that, it all went away. Poof - vanished in an instant- courtesy of my wife's beautiful mind and voice. And I'm here to tell ya that a few minutes later, I was still feelin' grateful and lucky after signin' his log-papers and handin' him back his pen with a, "Happy Holidays Jimmy, I'm glad I could getcha yer coffee this morning."
"Screw you T*******," was his reply. It didn't faze me in the least as I climbed into my truck.
Yeah, he knows how to push my buttons, because he 'installed' a few of them over the years.
The day was uneventful in St Helens, except for one brief instance: Coming out of Safeway, I noticed a small group of shoppers gathered around the Salvation Army bellringer. Turns out the 'ringer' was State-Rep. Betsy Johnson from Scappoose. I smiled and threw a few bucks in. To which Ms. Johnson smiled back, looking me in the eye and offering me her genuine, "Thank you, and Merry Christmas!"
I didn't see any news cameras around to film her doin' this. And I know there is a few of you out there in internet-land that might say that what she was doing at a Safeway on a Saturday morning in St Helens was self serving or whatever. I've got news for ya: Betsy was doing this very quietly. No publicity; no ulterior motives.
One thing y'all should all know about me: I'm a man who still believes in Santa Claus. I believe in the 'bug' of Christmas. Because as I see it, if I ever lose that, a LOT goes along with it. I always give it my best every year to reconnect with my childhood wonder. To never lose touch with my inner hopes and beliefs of Mankind's good-will, grace and love for one another.
Happy Holidays Lorraine!
Happy Holidays loadin'-dock foreman Jimmy!
Happy Holidays Betsy!
Happy Holidays Bill, and to all of you sthelensupdate readers!
Happy Holidays St Helens!
This sure is a nice little town y'all got here.
-Tom

12/6/4 - Astoria to St Helens

It always is nice to be back in this nice little town y'all got here. These last few trips, I seem to be makin' a beeline to Wayne's Hotdog Truck every time I roll into town. Besides the fan-friggin'-tastic dogs and hot-sandwiches, I'm usually able to shoot the bull with all the others hangin' around and catch up on the news in town. The talk circlin' round the dogtruck this particular day was about replacin' Sen. Joan Dukes being that she was appointed to the NW Power Planning Council by Governor K. Everyone agreed it was a no-brainer and that Betsy Johnson was the shoe-in. So the question became who will take Betsy's place? They were sayin': Rosemary Lohrke, Rita Bernhard, George Dunkle, Gary Heide, Dianne Dillard, Margaret Magruder. The way the process works is that the Democratic Central Committee with the largest population (Columbia County) puts together a list of people that they would like, and then County Commissioners from the affected regions make their decision. If they can't arrive at an acceptable candidate, then the final decision is made by Governor K.
Of all the people I heard talked about, I was intrigued with Margaret Magruder. Margaret was a former chair of the Oregon Board of Ag. and is the Coordinator of the Lower Columbia River Watershed Council. She also raises sheep and this is where it gets interesting. Turns out that Margaret is a part of a newly formed company of local sheepgrowers, Oregon Shepherd, who are manufacturing a wool insert that is placed into stormwater-drain catch-basins. This wool-insert filters sediment and pollutants like hydrocarbons from stormwater that runs off streets and parking lots following heavy rainfalls and trap these pollutants before they head into our rivers and streams. They tested these wool-filters in storm drains at the Port of Portland, Freightliner Corporation in Portland, and Clackamas County. The successful trial-run encouraged them to begin marketing them. And here's what is really great: most catch basin filtration products in use today are made out of polypropylene—very durable, but non-biodegradable. Margaret and Co.'s wool insert is made of natural fibers that not only capture and remove environmental pollutants, but can then be composted after use—normally about eight months to a year. The wool inserts are also relatively inexpensive—expected to be much less than $100 each.
“The polypropylene inserts have to be put in the landfill, whereas our inserts do not create another source of pollution,” Magruder said.
Ok...now that's one smart lady. Talk about a no-brainer! As I see it: there's the person ya want in Salem watchin' your backs.
Take care of things in this nice little town y'all got.
-Tom

12/1/4 - St Helens to Snowflake, AZ

I'm on a long haul. Listenin' to Moby Dick on tape. I was riveted to Chapter 23, which is short, (six inches long Melville says). Ishmael watches the sailor Bulkington steerin' the Pequod and writes of him as a restless pioneer, fated to die at sea. And he considers this kind of death infinitely preferable to fading away through cowardice and comfort:

"When on that shivering winter's night, the Pequod thrust her vindictive bows into the cold malicious waves, who should I see standing at her helm but Bulkington! I looked with sympathetic awe and fearfulness upon the man, who in mid-winter just landed from a four years' dangerous voyage, could so unrestingly push off again for still another tempestuous term. The land seemed scorching to his feet.
Wonderfullest things are ever the unmentionable; deep memories yield no epitaphs; this six-inch chapter is the stoneless grave of Bulkington. Let me only say that it fared with him as with the storm-tossed ship, that miserably drives along the leeward land. The port would fain give succor; the port is pitiful; in the port is safety, comfort, hearthstone, supper, warm blankets, friends, all that's kind to our mortalities. But in that gale, the port, the land, is that ship's direst jeopardy; she must fly all hospitality; one touch of land, though it but graze the keel, would make her shudder through and through. With all her might she crowds all sail off shore; in so doing, fights 'gainst the very winds that fain would blow her homeward; seeks all the lashed sea's landlessness again; for refuge's sake forlornly rushing into peril; her only friend her bitterest foe!
Know ye now, Bulkington? Glimpses do ye seem to see of that mortally intolerable truth; that all deep, earnest thinking is but the intrepid effort of the soul to keep the open independence of her sea; while the wildest winds of heaven and earth conspire to cast her on the treacherous, slavish shore?
But as in landlessness alone resides highest truth, shoreless, indefinite as God—so, better is it to perish in that howling infinite, than be ingloriously dashed upon the lee, even if that were safety! For worm-like, then, oh! who would craven crawl to land! Terrors of the terrible! is all this agony so vain? Take heart, take heart, O Bulkington! Bear thee grimly, demigod! Up from the spray of thy ocean-perishing—straight up, leaps thy apotheosis!"

Better is it to perish in that howling infinite. Talk to y'all when I get back.
-Tom