Requiem for a Horse Show

It is official. I read it in the Snooze. The Hood River Classic Horse Show, after 17 years, has been put to bed.

I should be happy. I should be dancing in the streets. (I live on Highway 35. It snowed today. Call me a coward.) For almost two decades I spent Fathers Day slinging hash like it was going out of style. Apparently, it has now gone out of style. Dad died in 2005. Too little, too late.

The article in the Snooze was written by Davinne. Cut, pasted, massacred, but written by Davinne. It was a good article, but an important part – no, the most important part - of what Davinne wrote was left out. And that I am less than happy about. The members of the board were cut. Unceremoniously.

First, I want to state my quote in an unedited version:

“After 17 years, ending the Hood River Classic was a difficult decision for the board to make. Personally, being employed in the hospitality industry, I know how the show not only generated funds for the hospital foundation, but also gave the hotels and restaurants a jump start on the tourist season. However, I think more to the point for me is that I will miss working with a great group of people. Lynn Everroad’s leadership and dedication has inspired me all these years. And working with the rest of the board has just been plain fun – with a little hard labor thrown in.”

Somehow, the last half of my quote got quashed. Davinne wrote about all of us: her press release mentioned everyone by name. And it also got quashed.

So, I want to personally thank each and every one of you. Linné, Mike, Carol, Paige, Fran, Lynn, Davinne. I will miss working (if you can call fun “working”) with you.

Join me on Father’s Day for mimosas at Jensen Mills Meadow!

Bon anniversaire, mes sœurs et ma tante.

Puds, Beth and Aunt Mamie,

To my older sisters, Happy Birthday! And Aunt Mamie, bless us all!

Ah, the pictures I could post of my sister's from their last birthday! Auntie Mame, you should have been there! (Maybe you were.)

Il neige!

It’s not impossible that I just wrote, in French, that it is snowing. Or possibly I just invited you all over for a swim party. We may never know.

For nine days, the Hood River Valley has been locked in an inversion. Every morning it has been 30⁰, warming up to 31⁰ in the afternoon, before plummeting to 29⁰ overnight. Not bad weather really, just totally unimaginative. It has been enough to sap the enthusiasm out of even the most festive person.

Just to rub salt in the wound, we have heard again and again:
It’s 60⁰ and sunny in Portland. It’s 60⁰ and sunny in Newport. In Bend it will be 60⁰ and sunny today. In every known place in the world it will be 60⁰ and sunny, except Hood River, where it will be 31⁰ and friggin’ cloudy.

But it finally has broken. Look, fresh snow and blue skies.

Bonjour.

Je m’appelle Mac. J’étude la français, mais je ne parle pas la français tres bien. Il faut que je comprends la français quand je visite la France en l’été de 2010.

If you are totally unaware of the French language, the preceding paragraph could potentially be quite impressive. If you are unable to read, speak or write French, it is theoretically possible that you could think that the above paragraph is fine literature. You could think that I am an amazing linguist. (If you speak French, out of common courtesy, you will bite your tongue and nod your head, holding back all your emotions as you read your beloved tongue being bludgeoned.)

Richard and I are doing the Rosetta Stone French program in preparation for our 2010 excursion to France. [The agenda isn’t carved in stone yet, but we’re talking Paris to Bordeaux (or Biarritz) to Lourdes to Provence and back to Paris. But I digress.]

Before our last trip to Europe, Richard and I used the same program to learn Dansk and Nederlands (Richard, Danish; Mac, Dutch). They have improved the program immensely. In the new version you learn things that are potentially useful right away, unlike the old program. We spent our entire time in Europe looking for children jumping off picnic tables in a park. It was the only thing we knew how to chat about. I never learned how to say “Hello” or “Thank you” or “I need to pee!” in Dutch, but “Zijf youngen springen op de tafel,” rolls off my tongue. (Just a note to any of you traveling to Amsterdam: the Dutch people look at you a bit odd if you casually make that comment while walking through the Dam. Just hold it back, for your own good.)

Richard, of course, is motivated to learn French to avoid a repeat of the near “Pigs Feet” dining disaster of 2006. (“Pieds du Porc”. Yes it is obvious, but I panicked.)

Anyhow,
Au revoirs, mesdames et messieurs. Vous avez une bonne nuit!

Sammy, Sammy, Sammy

Portland’s mayor, Sam Adams has gotten himself in trouble for lying about an affair he had with an 18 year old man in 2005.

Sam Adams is unapologetically gay, so the brouhaha is not regarding the gender of his liaison, Beau Breedlove, but the circumstances and the denial. First, when Sam met Beau, Sam was 42 and Beau was 17. The official story is that Sam kept it in his pants until Beau’s 18th birthday. Then there was the inconvenient detail that Beau was an legislative intern in Portland and Sam was a Portland city councilman. I've read that there wasn't a direct line of supervisory responsibility between the two, but there is still a taint of murky, moral dilemma. They called it mentoring. And then there was the blatant denial during Sam’s campaign for mayor.

Okay, I am in no position to pass judgment on the two. Without pictures showing full frontal (and backal) nudity, there is no way that I can comment on the appropriateness of said relationship. There is just no way to know if it was right, wrong or totally indifferent without fully examining all evidence. And I do not have all the evidence. So I just have to imagine.

But Sam lied. I think that shows a lack common sense. If I had a date with an attractive 18 year-old, I promise you I would not deny it. I would be shouting it from the rafters; boasting and bragging from coast-to-coast. I’d have a grin the size of Texas. (Richard, you might want to just ignore this paragraph.) I would be turning cartwheels down the hallway and strutting like a stud. I would be in hog heaven. In my wildest fantasies I … hang on, in my wildest fantasies, he is older, less attractive and has some real annoying habits. I guess I need to get better wildest fantasies.

Anyway, back to... forget Sam and Beau, I’m gonna go work on my wildest fantasies!

Dancing in the Streets

So long sad times

Go long bad times

We are rid of you at last

Howdy gay times

Cloudy gray times

You are now a thing of the past

Happy days are here again

The skies above are clear again

So let's sing a song of cheer again

Happy days are here again

Altogether shout it now

There's no one

Who can doubt it now

So let's tell the world about it now

Happy days are here again

Your cares and troubles are gone

There'll be no more from now on

From now on ...

Happy days are here again

The skies above are clear again

So, Let's sing a song of cheer again

Happy times

Happy nights

Happy days

Are here again!

[Music and Lyrics by J. Yellen and M. Ager]

Tomorrow

There is still a side of me that is afraid I will wake up tomorrow to discover I have been in a dream state for the last couple months.

Frank James Vagg

Frank Vagg, or more precisely, a photograph of Mr. Vagg, lives on a shelf in our house. Mr. Vagg was born in February 14, 1886 in Niagara County, New York. At some point in his childhood/youth he moved west, to Saco, Montana. There he met Gertrude Crutchfield. She became his wife. They continued their westward migration sometime between 1910 and 1920. Frank and Gertrude lived in Bremerton, Washington in 1920, and Vancouver, Washington in 1930. Mr. Vagg died on April 22, 1936 in Vancouver. He is buried in Park Hill Cemetery, his wife, Gertrude Vagg McCracken was buried by his side some 32 years later.

I have to wonder if there is anyone in the world who actually remembers Frank Vagg. Frank and Gertrude had no children. But is there a niece or nephew who recalls their uncle? A child who lived next door who remembers the affable neighbor? Is there anyone else who has a picture of Mr. Vagg? Or am I in possession of the only remembrance of what, I must assume, was a fine man.

After her husband died, Gertrude Vagg married Ira McCracken. She became the only grandmother I can really say I knew.

But what of Mr. Vagg? He is my mother’s second step-mother’s first husband. Does that count for anything?

I obtained his picture when my parents moved out of their house on the coast. The photo is in a great frame. I had full intentions of taking Mr. Vagg out and replacing him with a more Mac-appropriate picture. But I couldn’t do it. I looked at him. For over sixty years he had inhabited that frame. Grandma kept him all that time. Mother kept him all that time. I had no other options; I had to make a home for Mr. Vagg.

I can’t help but wonder if I am the only person left with, if not a memory, at least a thought of him. Am I all the shields Mr. Vagg from an unknown oblivion?

Mr. Vagg, I owe you. You gave me Grandma. I’m sure that is not how you wanted to be remembered, but I, and my sisters, may be your only heritage. Thank you.

And to the next generation: one of you is going to end up with Mr. Vagg. You will cherish him and know that Great-Grandma didn’t hang with jerks. He was a good man.

Hraddy!

Well, I didn’t go into Portland. Apparently many surgeons want to consult with you before they tighten the skin on your face so it looks like a taut piece of old, raw, weather-worn leather.

So I did the obelisk. But it was more time (and work) than I really expected. After three hours of building a 4’ high pedestal, it was beginning to remind me way too much of shoveling snow. And, at best, I’m not sure Richard is really going to appreciate my pièce de résistance. If I spend too much time, its popularity will drop even further.

So I went back to my original plan. The ice sculpture. But not just any ice sculpture. I had to tell the story of Hradchinsk, the Ukrainian cat born just outside of Chernobyl. Hraddy was snow white, but his body was sadly deformed. (Everytime I tell this story I get all misty eyed!) One day, while sunning himself on a pedestal, his head fell off. (I am sorry the picture is of such poor quality that you can't make our the intricate carving technique and the amazing details.)

Here’s to you, Hradchinsk!

Dear Shannon,

Thank you for your kind comment on my blog yesterday. I am proud that I inspired you to try something for the first time.

Of course, when you first mentioned jumping on skis, I had this picture of one of those monster ski-jumps they use in the Olympics. You know, the one where you get going up to speeds of 100mph while gliding down this incredibly steep slide in the sky, until it suddenly ends, about 50 feet above terra firma. And you’re expected to do something at that point, besides scream “I’m gonna die! I’m gonna die!” So personally, I’m glad you started out with moderation.

When you asked what I was going to do today, in the new-and- never-before-done category, my first thought was “How the hell should I know? I’m not sure what I’m doing right now, much less what I am going to be doing tomorrow.” I mean, I'm psychotic, not psychic. (The words sound very similar, but have strikingly different meanings.) But as I sat there in my normal comatose state, I thought , “Perhaps Shannon is right. Maybe if I put some forethought into my actions, I wouldn’t end up with lame excuses like trimming my moustache or taking a picture of myself.”
So, I started off thinking I would do a snow sculpture. The inspiration of snowzilla lives, with modifications. I was thinking a bear or a lion or something like that. But as I laid out my game plan, I realized that with my talent, I would end up with an unrecognizable glob of snow in the front yards. Unless, of course, I made my snow sculpture in the back yard, in which case I would end up with an unrecognizable glob of snow in the back yard. This had all the trappings of another lame idea. So I refined my plan. Rather than a sculpture, I’ll do an obelisk. Start off with a footing 2’x2’ square and see if I can build a tower taller than I am. Now I have a plan. Reasonable, possible and somewhat less lame.

Then I read the comment from your sweet mother, my beloved sister, Puds. She seemed to imply that, rather than creating an obelisk, I should take a quick jaunt into Portland for a haircut, dye-job, emergency facelift and tummy-tuck. She didn’t really mention it, but others have hinted a new wardrobe might not be a bad idea.

So, will it be obelisk or extreme makeover? I’ll let you know later.

Are you happier with this new look, Trudy?

Scary!

And my first for today. I have never taken a picture of myself at arms length before. Gawd, I hope I don't really look this bad.

And Raquel. Very funny. I have exercized before. Just before cleaning out the fridge in North Bend.

New Years Day in the Upper Hood River Valley

We knew we weren’t going to lose television in one catastrophic event. We knew there would be no cold-turkey day of reckoning. At 9AM this morning, we had virtually every channel of television entertainment that we had 24 hours earlier. At 10AM, we lost about a third of our channels. We have been told that the local (read: free) channels out of Portland could actually hang on until… well, until some technician gets his or her ass up to the communal satellite dish and unplugs the system. And rumor has it that said technician is in no great hurry. The other channels will quietly go into the night as someone at corporate headquarters realizes that Valley TV Co-op is in arrears.

This, of course, is a natural segue into my new year’s resolutions.

#1. I will watch less TV in 2009 than I watched in 2008.

Considering the relatively small amount of TV I watched in 2008, this would be a tough resolution, but for the circumstances, here-to-for called reality, under which Richard and now live. With the dissolution of Valley TV Co-op, this one should be a cakewalk.

#2. Every day in 2009, I will do something I have never done before.

This is a resolution I stole from someone else’s blog. I would give credit where credit due, but I have no friggin’ clue where (or from whom) I stole it. (It was their 2008 resolution – I ran into it a while ago.) Now this is truly an electrifying concept. Something new every day! Wow! But the reality of it is quite daunting. Here it is, day one, and I’m already having troubles coming up with something to do. (The first person who mentions cleaning out the refrigerator gets slapped. Besides, I have distinct memories of cleaning out the icebox before. Admittedly, it was at my apartment in North Bend in 1978, but that technicality is unimportant.)

So, while I am thinking of what to do today, that I have never done before, I will catch you up on the Pet-of-the-Quarter program. At the last moment, Richard nominated his car. We argued, rather hot and heavy, about whether a car qualified as Pet-of-the-Quarter. Richard was adamant that if his car wasn’t eligible, neither was Maxine. We cursed and shouted and ranted and raved. Ralph, realizing he could lose to a vehicle and generally annoyed at both of us, threw open the door, ran outside and peed on the car. Spike, seeing the open portal and sensing freedom, hit 90mph on his way out. Max, who is not quite so quick, only made it outside because I slipped on the kitchen floor, grabbing the cloth off the kitchen table on my way down. That’s really all you need to know about that whole unfortunate portion of the story. Anyway, I caught both the cats, as they were frozen on the front porch, mortified by the snow on the ground and the falling rain. Trixie, meanwhile, was rolling on the bed laughing. So, long/short, we have suspended the Pet-of-the-Quarter program until further notice.

Okay, I did something I have never done before. I trimmed my moustache back to the same length as my goatee/beard (basic stubble). I may never do this again, but I am… well, frankly, I look twenty years younger. Okay, I don’t. I’ll take a picture of me tomorrow.

I’m going to need some help coming up with ideas for the next 364 days.