Nobody on the cable show “Finding Bigfoot” can actually find Bigfoot, but they can, apparently, move an entire volcano a couple hundred miles.
Which seems to me even more implausible than the notion that an unidentified bipedal primate has been slinking around the forests of the Northwest for decades yet not one has been clipped by a Camry on the freeway.
Wolves can’t even avoid that fate, and wolves are more nimble than any biped.
I watch “Finding Bigfoot.”
I would describe this as a guilty pleasure except I don’t get a great deal of pleasure from the experience.
Exactly one century ago from Saturday, the world changed in a way it never had before.
Perhaps it is hyperbolic to deem June 28, 1914, the most momentous day in human history.
But if this indeed qualifies as exaggeration then it is
of the mildest variety — the antithesis of, say, referring to “You
Light Up My Life” as the best song of the 1970s simply because it sold
the most records.
What happened on that day, in Sarajevo, Bosnia, a city
little known outside Europe, is a frail teenager named Gavrilo Princip
fired a pistol into a car.
Princip’s bullets killed two people: Franz Ferdinand and his wife, Sophie.
Franz Ferdinand was the nephew of Franz Joseph, emperor of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.
The federal government does a pretty fair job of making sure our soldiers, when they fight on our behalf, have cartridges for their rifles and shells for their artillery.
But after the battles, when these men and women get sick, they often don’t get so much as a “take two aspirin and call me in the morning” from our supposedly grateful nation.
The widespread failures of the U.S. Veterans Administration, and in particular its medical care apparatus, are of course appalling.
People who don’t even work, much less risk their lives carrying out our country’s policies, will be sitting in a doctor’s office maybe a day or two after they notice the symptoms.
Veterans, meanwhile, wait a month.
If they’re lucky.
In Oregon, by and large, veterans are not even that fortunate.
I had a baseball glove and a ball and a bat and just down the block there was a grassy field smooth enough that only rarely would a grounder take a nasty hop and smack you in the nose.
But none of those things made me a baseball player.
Or want to be a baseball player.
You need a dad for that.
And not just any dad.
You need a dad, like my dad, who can wield a glove with his left hand and a bat with his right, hit a ground ball, catch the return throw, flick the ball out of the glove and rap another roller with just enough speed to test your mettle.
I own two vehicles, which have between them 12 forward gears.
Not so long ago you needed three or four rigs to get that many transmission cogs, but such is progress.
The unusual thing about my modest fleet, though, isn’t the gearbox tally — showrooms abound these days with 7-, 8- and 9-speed transmissions — but rather the type.
Both are manuals, which is to say stickshifts.
It used to be you could tell oftentimes what kind of transmission a car had without wriggling onto the floor to count the pedals, which can give you a crick in the neck. Or worse, if you rise up too fast and whack your forehead on the fuse block.
If the shift lever poked out from the floor, the transmission almost certainly was a manual.
But if the lever jutted from the right side of the steering column, the odds were better than even that it was an automatic.
Baker County Assessor Kerry Savage has created a spreadsheet that makes you wish you had owned a home here since 1970.
Although it’s quite likely, I’ll concede, that you already felt this way and need no spreadsheet to confirm your feelings.
Measured as a long-term investment, this theoretical house reminds me of those intriguing stories — some of which have the not minor advantage of being true — of people who had the foresight, or the dumb luck, to pick up a few thousand shares of stock in, say, IBM back when most people thought a microprocessor was a very small person who helped you apply for a bank loan.
Savage’s spreadsheet shows the market values of the various categories of real estate in the county — residential, farm, forest, etc. — for each year dating to 1970.
Like all such documents, it seemed to me at first glance indecipherable.
Also at the second glance, after which I had to plead to Savage for help.
I had the worst vacation of my life last week.
And the best.
On the negative side of the ledger I list the common ailments of a manual laborer whose skill with even basic hand tools is so meager as to be dangerous to passers-by.
I refer here to myself.
I tweaked a tendon or a ligament or anyway some part of my right wrist while shoveling gravel into a wheelbarrow.
I gashed my left arm on a section of plastic fencing whose ends ought to have been labeled “Ginsu.”
I almost glued two fingers together.
(My own fingers, fortunately.)
Yet the aches dissipated, and with a speed no salve or balm could match, the instant on Friday, May 16 when I glanced over at the new playground in Geiser-Pollman Park and saw that children were climbing every ladder and careening down every slide.
The new trees cast only thin shadows over the sidewalks north of the Fairgrounds rodeo arena but their significance, it seems to me, looms much larger than their meager shelter.
We who love trees must of course leaven our affection with patience. Much more patience, certainly, than we invest in the sowing of a vegetable garden or an expanse of grass, either of which yields its final products in a matter of weeks or perhaps a few months.
Trees are nothing as ephemeral as a row of peas or corn, but the greatness of a tree accumulates only over many years.
There is I think a slight similarity in this respect between trees and children.
Neither arrives fully developed. We watch as they grow into their potential, striving always to give them all they need to prosper. We rejoice when they achieve milestones (first autumn display of brilliant foliage, first straight-A’s report card) and we despair when they falter (first wind-snapped limb, first time late bringing the car back and with a dent in the fender).
For those of you who have been asking to receive your Baker City Herald subscription online, today’s the day you’ve been waiting for.
Our readers are increasingly interested in receiving local news delivered to their computers, notebooks, iPads and smartphones. We’ve included some news stories on our website, www.bakercityherald.com, since 2001, and share local updates on Facebook and Twitter. But in our mobile world, it makes a lot of sense to have a “portable” subscription that delivers the entire newspaper digitally — you can read it while on the road, vacation or before you get home from work.
So, for the last two years, we’ve been planning delivery of the full version of the printed Baker City Herald to our subscribers to be accessed online and via mobile devices.
Finally, it’s here. In today’s print edition you’ll find a Readers Guide to the Baker City Herald that includes information about how to use your subscriber account number to login, create a password and view today’s newspaper ... every page. Your monthly subscription now gives you the option of having both the print and online edition at no extra charge. You can also choose just to receive the online edition, or never login and just keep receiving the print edition of the newspaper delivered to your home. Any way you choose, you pay the same subscription price as you’ve been paying ... no additional charge.
I made it five pages into the book before I got so mad I had to put it down.
I figured the library wouldn’t appreciate it if I returned the book with half the pages dangling from the binding like rotten shingles from a neglected roof.
I picked up the book a few hours later, determined to finish it without so much as dog-earing a single page.
Over the next several days I read the remaining 445 pages with emotions ranging from anger, which never totally dissipated, to bewilderment to sadness.
I’m grateful to Cameron Stauth for writing “In the Name of God.”
But that he was able to write it — although it seems to me that he felt he had to write it — is a tragedy.
The subtitle for Stauth’s 2013 book explains the topic: “The true story of the fight to save children from faith-healing homicide.”
Except most of the children Stauth writes about weren’t saved.