Somewhere along about the mid 80s headphones broke out of the home, and although they occasionally slink back inside they’ve never been quite the same since.
They’ve become disposable, for one thing.
Not by design, to be sure, in the manner of a diaper or a coffee filter.
If used as headphones traditionally were used — to listen to “Dark Side of the Moon” while you’re sprawled out on a waterbed, for instance — even the flimsiest set could last for years.
But modern headphones, which must be small and light because we expect them to deliver our music and our podcasts and our audiobooks while we jog and pedal and rappel off the north face of the Eiger, simply can’t withstand the rigors of the iPod, cross-training world for long.
Although you don’t even need to be especially energetic to destroy a set.
The train pulled out of the depot in a grudging way, building speed with a series of jerks and pulls that few modern machines can mimic.
Not that they’re intended to.
The engineers still rely largely on internal combustion to move us around, of course, but they’ve pretty much sheltered from us the explosive nature of the technology.
Cars, for instance, don’t rumble much anymore.
Most models emit instead an inoffensive whir, rather like a sewing machine.
Is a real snowball fight worse than an alleged rape?
I pose the question not because I expect anybody will answer it.
My point, rather, is to illustrate how America’s obsession with athletes can contribute to situations that would be laughable if they were fiction.
Except they’re real, depressingly so.
The traditional Christmas is under assault, and I fear the wounds will be mortal.
A cherished symbol of the holiday is being replaced by the ersatz concoctions of the chemists, who would swap the wild beauty of the snowbound forest for the antiseptic creation of the test tube.
If the genuine Christmas tree can’t survive then I fear the season’s decline in other areas is inevitable.
I can foresee the year when Muzak drowns out Nat King Cole and Bing Crosby on the hi-fi, when the celebratory dinner begins with dad plunging his carving knife not into a succulent turkey breast but into a glistening glob of tofu.
By Carmen Ott
My name is Carmen Ott and I am a member of Best Friends of Baker Inc. I became involved with Best Friends of Baker in May 2005. I never realized how important it was to become involved with the rescue of cats and dogs in Baker County until I was asked to foster a dog.
Since that first dog, my husband and I have taken more than 200 dogs and cats into our home and fostered them from days to weeks and even months until they were ready to be adopted and placed in “forever” homes.
As we sit here tonight in our warm home, we watch “Cole,” a young rescued pup as he sleeps with a full stomach and a clean bed, wondering how he would have survived the past four weeks had he not been rescued from Old Auburn Road. It makes us ask, “what makes people dump puppies, kittens, dogs and cats out in the cold without food, water or a warm place to sleep?” If you cannot keep a pet or need help finding a home for it, please ask for help from Best Friends of Baker before dumping it.
Best Friends of Baker is alive and well even though the past four years have been extremely difficult. The economy has taken its toll on Best Friend’s membership and finances. The donations are down, yet the demands of animal rescues have increased.
We are now dealing with pets whose owners have lost their homes, jobs and have no place to take their pets. People cannot afford to feed their family members and pets, so the pet must go, whether it is out on the street to be picked up by the police and taken to the impound facility, killed on the highways and freeways, or dumped at the end of lanes near farms and ranches to starve and freeze to death, or become a meal for cougars, coyotes, owls and eagles in the mountains.
Best Friends of Baker assists with the rescue and adoption placement of surrendered family pets, stray cats and dogs and unclaimed dogs in the impound facility so that they do not have to face euthanasia. These animals are placed in the few foster homes we have or are boarded until a foster home opens up or they find a “forever home.”
Best Friends of Baker could care for more animals if they had more foster homes. Best Friends needs foster homes for large and small dogs and especially homes for cats and kittens. There are just two foster homes for cats at this time. Consequently many cats and kittens are not helped. They will starve and freeze to death because there is no place for them. Best Friends of Baker provides food, beds, bowls, collars and leashes for each animal so there is minimal cost to the foster home. The main requirement is the means to house the animal and to provide love and care for the animal until it is adopted.
Best Friends of Baker has been rescuing animals since 1986; it was incorporated in 1989 when it became a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization. There are a lot of animals out there that need to be rescued. They do not deserve to die because there is nobody to provide care. Best Friends of Baker has rescued more than 2,000 cats and dogs from Baker County since 2005. We look to others in Baker County to continue to support and assist us to re-home, rescue, spay/neuter, vaccinate, treat medically, provide food, protect from abuse and neglect and find a “forever home.”
If you care, please remember that Best Friends is here to help. You can make a financial donation with a check to Best Friends of Baker, Inc., P.O. Box 183, Baker City, OR 97814. You can make food donations for cats, kittens, puppies and adult dogs. You can make a memorial to someone who has passed away or make a donation as a personal gift to a loved one. Tax season is just around the corner. If you are looking for a donation for the end of 2013, please remember, Best Friends of Baker needs your support.
If you cannot afford to make a monetary donation, perhaps you can provide a foster home which can make a difference in caring for an animal. The time spent in a foster home can make the difference in whether the animal lives and is adopted or dies because there is no place for it to be safe until it can be adopted.
I have had two cancers and yet I continue to care about the animals in Baker County. My wellness and strength comes from giving myself to these animals. “My passion and compassion comes from within. I live because I give. I give because it makes me live.”
Please check out our newspaper ads, Petfinder.com and the Best Friends of Baker website to see the wonderful cats and dogs that are looking for “forever homes.”
“He is your friend, your partner, your defender, your dog. You are his life, his love, his leader. He will be yours, faithful and true to the last beat of his heart. You owe it to him to be worthy of such devotion.”
— Author unknown
Thank you for your support.
Like most towns Baker City lies in a valley, but this place, it seems to me, is defined by its mountains.
I use the possessive form here because cities tend to have a palpable pride of ownership in the peaks visible from their streets.
When you are blessed with mountains, and in particular with a truly imposing range such as the Elkhorns, you might as well flaunt them. And so we do, on T-shirts and postcards and coffee mugs among quite a lot of other items.
Nor is this trait peculiar to places of modest size.
Portland bills itself as the Rose City, but there can be no quarrel that its true icon is Mount Hood.
Hood’s volcanic sibling to the north, Mount Rainier, fulfills an equally symbolic role for Seattle.
Baker City’s affections are not so singular.
Our mountains more resemble the Rockies than the Cascades, which is to say there are long ridges from which an occasional peak juts, as opposed to the Cascades’ solitary, but spectacular, fire mountains.
We harbor perhaps a special love for the Elkhorns because they are so near to the west, forming a sedimentary wall that casts its shadow clear across the valley.
But we lay claim as well to the more distant, but indisputably magnificent, Wallowas, which sprawl over the whole of the northeastern horizon.
I have been thinking recently of mountains, and the way we feel about them, after reading Robert Macfarlane’s book “Mountains of the Mind.”
Macfarlane, a British travel writer and mountain climber, wrote the book a decade ago. I managed somehow to avoid the volume for all those years although I relish travelogues of all sorts, and in particular ones dealing with mountains and people who climb them.
(I would like nothing more than to be a travel writer but am afflicted by the insurmountable handicaps of never really going anywhere, or doing anything interesting when I get there.)
The gist of Macfarlane’s book is that modern society’s veneration of mountains, their purple majesty and all that, is, well, modern.
Until around the start of the 19th century many people at least feared, and in many cases acutely loathed, some of the world’s greatest mountain ranges.
Macfarlane, being a European, devotes much of his book to the Alps.
He writes of 17th century travelers whose descriptions of crossing Alpine passes bear a decidedly Tolkien flavor. These accounts, largely taken from contemporary diaries or journals, lament the frightful precipices, the awful blizzards, the utter absence of civilization.
You have a sense that these writers, if they actually believed such creatures as dragons exist, would not have been altogether surprised to come across one in the icy wastelands of Mont Blanc.
Macfarlane explains how science, and especially the budding field of geology, contributed to a wholesale reversal in our opinions about mountains.
Pioneering geologists such as the Scotsman James Hutton, and Charles Lyell, a Briton, came to recognize that by studying mountains and glaciers they could understand how the Earth’s surface had been formed — and moreover, reformed — over the eons.
Their writings encouraged people, most of whom were not scientists, to have a look for themselves.
When they left the sanctity of the valleys and they saw for the first time such awe-inspiring sights as the Mer de Glace or the Italian Dolomites, these visitors stopped worrying about ogres and started thinking about building chalets and cog railroads.
By the middle of the 19th century the Alps were, to the British aristocracy, what Vail and Sun Valley are to modern America’s upper class.
Writers and poets waxed rhapsodic about the sublime spectacles among the peaks.
Doctors touted the pure air as the ideal antidote for Londoners’ soot-stained lungs.
Alpinists, most of them Englishmen, breached summits long thought impregnable. In July 1865 Edward Whymper of London led a party to the top of the most famous peak of all, the Matterhorn.
(Although four of the seven climbers plunged to their deaths on the descent. Whymper and two others were saved when the rope connecting all the climbers snapped.)
Macfarlane’s book intrigued me because I can’t imagine standing in my yard, watching a snow squall sweep across the face of Elkhorn Peak, and feeling anything but ebullient at my good fortune to have such beauty so accessible.
That I might dread the mountains is a concept so foreign as to be beyond my ken.
Yet there was much in “Mountains of the Mind” that seemed familiar.
In particular I felt a kinship with those of Macfarlane’s subjects whose love of the mountains is broad and complex, who are equally entranced by sunlight exploding off a glacier’s surface and by the immensity of time represented in a band of layered stone.
Sometimes when I look at the Elkhorns I see them as objects to ogle. Science seems a minor matter in that moment when the alpenglow slides its pink brush across the slopes, at dawn of a January day when the temperature has plummeted below zero.
At other glances I am overwhelmed by the colossal scale, both in size and in time, that the mountains represent.
I ponder the forces required to move slabs of tropical seafloor thousands of miles — the great upheavals that elevated them and the ice that sculpted the great slabs into pinnacles from which, on a fair day, you can see parts of three states.
Mountains, to borrow Macfarlane’s title, are indeed often on my mind.
And, I hope, they will never be far from my eyes.
Jayson Jacoby is editor of the Baker City Herald.
By Jayson Jacoby
Baker City Herald Editor
I went back in time this week and what a curious journey it was.
My destination was a day rather than a place.
Nov. 22, 1963.
Until Sept. 11, 2001, and with the exception of the monumental events that attended the nation’s birth in the 1770s, it was perhaps the singular day in American history.
For many people, including some of those who served as my tour guides, I suspect that that day, when president John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, retains its unique status in their memories even after the terrorist attacks a dozen years ago.
I talked with several people who were in Baker that November day. Most were high school students.
Fifty years is a considerable span, of course.
Call this period by its other name — half century — and it seems longer still.
Autumn tends to be the most banal of seasons around here but this current version has gotten up to quite the dickens.
I was over on the breaks of the Snake River last week, immersed in fall.
I was wearing a red-and-black, all-wool hunting coat (warmer than manmade fleece but also considerably scratchier).
I had a bolt-action rifle slung over my shoulder, an elk tag in my backpack, and a keen-bladed knife in my pocket which has not touched blood in many years.
It was not cold, but the air had a proper autumnal chill.
Then I saw a flash of bright orange about 100 feet ahead, conspicuous among the whitish gray chunks of limestone littering the steep slope.
He was my best friend for most of my teenage years and when we met for the first time in almost a quarter century the occasion, as it so often is in such cases, was a sad one.
My friend’s dad had died.
I stood outside the restaurant at the golf course where the post-funeral reception took place and I waited for my friend to arrive.
You used to worry in these situations.
You used to wonder whether, after so much time had elapsed, you would even recognize the face that you once saw every day and that was as familiar as those of your family.
Wrinkles breach the formerly smooth planes.
Hair goes gray.
Often, pounds are added.
(Rarely, they’re subtracted.)
You fear the embarrassment of seeing someone who you feel you ought to know and then hearing, in the tentative timbre of your voice, the question mark when you say his name.
You fear, above all, being wrong.
But we live in a Facebook world, where, for millions of us, the inexorable weathering of our facial features (and other features) is chronicled in high-megapixel detail.
So anyway I knew my friend had aged well, and I thought there was little chance of my making a humiliating misidentification.
Indeed, when he drove past in the parking lot I immediately recognized him, even from the side, and through the haze of the safety glass.
He got out of his car and started walking toward me and we each raised a hand, in a sort of combined salute/wave, at almost the same instant.
He grinned and I grinned and the years, as they sometimes do when our past and our present collide, seemed suddenly to shed most of their oppressive weight.
Nothing was the same — nor could it be the same, so many missed weddings and births and deaths down the line — yet this was of no great consequence.
We knew that our bond, though not strong enough to keep us close through the years, was in its own way a powerful one.
Except I didn’t know, until that moment, that this was so.
I wondered, as I drove to the reception that morning, whether our friendship was forever trapped in childhood, the link severed when we collected our high school diplomas and left on our vastly different journeys into adulthood.
But as we shook hands and had a clumsy embrace (I’m not a hugger, and invariably foul up the etiquette of greeting gestures) I understood that this was not true.
I understood that those distant and murky days of junior high and high school, when we played pool in his basement or watched TV in my living room or sat in his room and listened to Van Halen’s first album and wished we could make our guitars sound like Eddie’s, those days mattered.
There are many kinds of friendships, of course.
Some last a lifetime, or nearly so.
But most, it seems to me, and in particular those that begin in our childhood, do not.
I’d like to believe that this brief reunion with my old friend will revive in some way our dormant relationship.
I suspect, though, that this will not happen.
We live far apart, and not only in a geographic sense.
But even if our next meeting comes years from now, and even if the reason is again a somber one, I have a newfound appreciation for our friendship, indeed for all true friendships.
Each person must give something of himself to create such a connection, and this seems to me a mutually beneficial exchange.
I have an idea of the person I was back then but the picture is an incomplete one. Yet this vision comes clearer, comes closer to a whole and true thing, when I can reminisce with the one person who knows that part of me.
I don’t understand how this works, only that it does work, and that it’s a sort of magic.
Which, come to that, is a fair way to describe friendship.
Jayson Jacoby is editor
of the Baker City Herald.
I’m inclined to dismiss the debate over sports teams’ Native American mascots as a trivial matter except for this:
The issue raises apparent contradictions, as well as questions about the context of words, that fascinate me.
I write “trivial” not to insult anybody.
My point, rather, is that if as a society we’re truly worried about Native Americans then we ought to focus on something other than the logo painted on football helmets and embroidered on the backs of cheerleaders’ sweaters.
The academic progress of kids who grow up on reservations, for instance.
Or the persistent problem of alcoholism among some tribes.