We were watching TV the other day — Nov. 13, to be specific — and a promo came on for “How the Grinch Stole Christmas.”
The program (the original, and in my view vastly superior, cartoon version, not the decent Jim Carrey movie) was scheduled to air the very next day.
I glanced over at my son, Alexander, and my daughter, Rheann, who were sitting on the sofa.
Each of our faces showed a similar bemused expression.
“The Grinch already?” I said. “It’s still almost two weeks until Thanksgiving, for criminy sake.”
I probably sounded sort of disgusted — as though this premature pushing of the holiday season was an affront to my sense of tradition.
But later that day I got to thinking about this.
And I decided that rather than bemoan the trend I would celebrate it.
BY JAYSON JACOBY
BAKER CITY HERALD
I’d like to publicly thank Oregon's Access & Habitat Program (AHP) for greatly expanding the geographic range in which I can embarrass myself as a hunter.
Used to be I had to flaunt my failures mainly on public land.
I went out walking Sunday afternoon and although the day came off bright and balmy, I felt a trifle melancholy.
The reason, I told myself, is that I sensed this was likely the last such day to grace our valley for a long while.
Not till March — or perhaps May if next spring is as tardy as the previous one was — will I be able to stroll around in short sleeves, as comfortable as a cat curled on a patch of rug beside a furnace grate.
Yet after a few more minutes of ruminating it occurred to me that my initial thought on this matter was not merely misguided.
It was pure balderdash.
The man in the wheelchair had a problem.
He beckoned us as we walked west on the sidewalk. My wife, Lisa, and I were on the north side of Broadway, just across from the Middle School.
The man was also on the sidewalk, rolling east.
It was just past noon on a quintessential Indian summer October day. The sky was rich blue, the air calm, and the sunshine warmed exposed skin in that way peculiar to mid autumn — none of the unpleasant prickliness of summer heat, yet the warmth was somehow insubstantial, as things are which cannot last much longer.
I have been afflicted just lately by the urge to take a long walk.
Actually this feels more like an obsession.
Anyway this compulsion, or whatever it is, to embark on a hike of epic rather than merely respectable length has barged into my subconscious and latched on with the adhesive stubbornness of a barnacle.
Or an ABBA song.
(Say what you will about that quartet of Swedes, but they knew how to craft a pop hook. I defy you to silence the chorus of “Dancing Queen” once it has command of your internal juke box. Or I should say your internal iPod; I need to update my metaphors.)
I understand why people are congregating on Wall Street, hoisting signs and chanting slogans.
Well, I kind of understand.
The economy stinks.
And Wall Street is the symbolic, and malodorous, heart of the putrefying American financial system.
(Washington, D.C., serving, of course, as its calcified brain.)
Parading these decrepit organs, as it were, through downtown Des Moines wouldn’t make the point quite so explicitly.
(Although geographic proximity proved no deterrent to the sympathetic protesters who descended last week on several other cities, among them Portland, where the presence of sign-waving hordes is as predictable as autumn rain puddles.)
What’s not clear to me, though, is which actions we’re supposed to take against the omnipotent cabal that controls America — the so-called 1-percenters — that will confer any tangible benefit on everyone else.
And by “we” I mean the voters.
Guns, as a general rule, don’t belong in schools.
Trouble is, general rules, not to mention laws, sometimes get broken.And occasionally the people doing the breaking have guns, which they take to school and use to murder students and teachers and anyone else who gets in the way.
When that happens, the presence of another gun-toter — ideally, one who’s not suffering from any sort of psychosis — could, quite literally, be a life-saver.
President Obama wants to boost the income tax rate for wealthy Americans.
The president’s proposal has provoked the predictable platitudes, as stale and as devoid of nutrition as last week’s doughnuts.
The phrases “pay their fair share” and “class warfare,” among others, ring with their usual hollowness across our fair land.
(Although that pair makes for a nice rhyme. I should mention this to my 4-year-old daughter, Olivia, who has recently taken to rhyming in a big way.)
Pedaling a mountain bike on a trail blazed by deer seems like a perfectly reasonable pastime until you see the boulder that had been hidden by a tuft of elk sedge.
It is then, in that awful instant before impact, that you come to understand the essential truth of your situation.
Which is that a deer, equipped with four legs and a sense of balance that would embarrass one of those tiny Olympic gymnasts who leap about like sprites, is far more capable than you are of avoiding obscured rocks.
Or visible rocks, come to that.
I remember when what you saw when you crossed the Santiam Pass was, mainly, trees.
Live trees, to be specific.
Conifers, to be more specific yet.
Trees are still the most conspicuous form of vegetation at this 4,817-foot gap in the Central Oregon Cascades.
But quite a lot of the trees are dead.
Fire killed them. Their scorched needles have long since dropped. Their blackened bark has peeled away revealing the gray boles, bleached a trifle closer to white with each cruel winter.