Notes from Mr. Master Recycler-in-Training, Sir.

Just don't buy the garbage in the first place.

Really, think of other options. Go communal. Rent. Do without. Thrive at a different level.

Me and My Favorite Cock.

Come on folks, mind out of the gutter. You remember, my new best friend from Kansas.

The picture didn’t capture the emotions or the intense camaraderie, but it is all I have to remember him by.

On the Road Again.

On the face, it was a simple objective. Get to Seattle, do the tribute, come home. But it started poorly.

I left work a couple of hours before I really planned. Given the extra time, and the sentiment of the journey, I thought that it would be good to do something to remember my parents. My first thought was to drive by all their old homes between Portland and Seattle: Mom’s childhood home in Vancouver; “The Farm” where Mom moved to in Junior High; the house that Dad built in Kalama; the house they lived in during their years in Winlock. But then I remember the trip that I showed Richard all those highlights of my parent’s life.

It seems that knowing Mom’s childhood home was a block away from Vancouver High and at the end of the trolley line has lost some of its usefulness. The trolleys stopped running many, many decades ago, and they tore down ol’ Vancouver High in the 1970’s. Knowing that it was on a number street just off a main street was a good hint, but not enough to pinpoint the actual house. Richard got to see the part of town Mom spent her youth. Maybe.

I was sure that finding “The Farm” would be much easier. It was on Parker Road, out in the country when Grandma lived there, in the 1960’s. Thank goodness nothing changes. Vancouver has engulfed the area and changed the named streets to numbers. Once again, Richard got to see something that may have been like the area Mom lived in during her teen years. Well, the area after a few decades of relentless urbanization.

In Kalama, I was more successful. We were able to whittle down the possible houses that Dad built to 4 or 5. They were all within 10 or 12 blocks of where I thought the house should be. But none were at the exact location.

In Winlock I could pinpoint the exact house. I knew it. Later, Karla told me I was wrong. It wasn’t across the street from the Catholic Church. It was next door. Close, but no cigar.

So rather than go that erroneous route, I decided to do what I can do well; get flowers and put them on their graves. How was I to know that the Safeway in Kelso had moved? (The Safeway in Kelso is my flower source. Only the finest for my parents.) I pulled off the freeway and headed directly to the Safeway. You can imagine my horror when the building was empty. I asked a clerk at the store next door if she knew where I could get flowers… close and convenient. She told me at the Safeway. I pointed to the store next door and said, “Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but it’s not next door anymore!”

She looked at me like I had gone mad. “Safeway is just on the other side of the freeway. Gawd, it moved ages ago. What you on that you missed the last three years?”

I opted not to answer.

So I crawled back into my pick-up and headed out to find “the other side of the freeway”. It sounds easy, I know. But I was a block from Kelso High School (Go Highlanders!!), and while I was chatting with the clerk in the store next door to where Safeway used to be, the school allowed something in the neighborhood of 16,000 teenagers onto the street. Some on foot; some in cars. It was horrifying.

A few wrong turns and 15 minutes later, I found the Safeway on “the other side of the freeway”.

So I headed on to


Where I paid respects to


And saw the



And something new.


Winlock seems to be trying to vie with the Ball o’Twine.

Remind me to tell you about the rest of the trip sometime.

Today Is National Punctuation Day.

And what did you do for your favorite punctuation mark?

I didn’t know until the radio announced it as I was driving into work. It was too late; all the semi-colons had already made plans to celebrate with someone else. So, I called the question marks. Seems they are intensely popular, too. On down the line, I was rejected again and again, until finally an ampersand agreed to have a drink with me after work. I know, ampersands are not technically punctuation marks, but they are damn close. And it had an opening on its calendar.

Moral of the story: plan in advance! (Oh, and commas can be downright rude if they know you’ve gone through all the other punctuation marks before you ask them out.)

Notes From the Last Day of Summer.

Good news: Halloween candy has hit the market place. I was at Rite-Aid today buying old-man supplies and there they were, staring me in the face as I walked into the store; bags of Halloween treats. Richard and I can make the season last for two months, no problem.

Bad news: I was at Rite-Aid buying old-man supplies and old-man supplies are expensive.

Good news: big furry animals keep you warm at night.

Bad news: big furry animals are needed to keep you warm at night. (And there is a comparatively small furry cat who isn't into sharing bedspace.)

It’s a mixed bag.

I HATE TO PAINT

Progress is slow, but there is progress.

And Henry Gibson

1935-2009
One of America's great poets has passed.

Laugh-In Forever!