>Baker City Herald | Baker County Oregon's News Leader

Baker news NE Oregon Classifieds Web
web powered by Web Search Powered by Google

Follow BakerCityHerald.com

Baker City Herald print edition

view all Baker City Herald print publications »

The Baker City Herald is now online in a Replica E-edition form and publishes Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Current subscribers have full access to the E-edition.

View Paper

If you are not a current subscriber, subscribe today for immediate access.


Recent article comments

Powered by Disqus

Home arrow Opinion arrow Columns

Eyes wide open: When fathers hand the keys to their sons

I tend to get awfully drowsy during long road trips, but last weekend I discovered a sure cure for this annoying and potentially dangerous affliction.

Surrender the driver’s seat to a 15-year-old.

It’s a more effective tactic than propping your eyelids open with toothpicks.

Less painful too, I expect.

Although I’ve always tried, in my dealings with toothpicks, to keep the little implements as far away as possible from my eyes.

The 15-year-old, in this instance, is my son, Alexander.

LAMP gap is bridged; and 'The Oregon Desert" returns

Walked the new stretch of the Leo Adler Memorial Parkway on Sunday afternoon and christened it, unofficially, the Twin Bridges section.

(All my pronouncements are unofficial, as I lack any authority to mandate that they be used.)

This name, though hardly inventive, is at least accurate.

There are indeed two bridges, of what looks to me identical design, spanning the Powder River along this latest segment of the Parkway, between Madison Street and Washington Avenue.

As a result this portion of the path — the asphalt is so fresh it gleams — gives travelers an especially intimate look at the river.

Other, older sections also nuzzle the Powder’s shore, to be sure.

But it’s quite a different experience, it seems to me, to look at a river from above rather than from beside.

The bird’s eye view reveals details — the depth of the water, the shapes of the rocks over which it flows, the occasional flash of a fish’s silvery fin.

Moved, not by mountains but by a field of brown grass

I recently toured two national parks which are renowned worldwide for the beauty of their landscapes, yet neither place made my throat swell with emotion nor my eyes sting the way that a third park did.

This despite the latter park being, by comparison, shabby in appearance and unlikely ever to grace the pages of a calendar or a coffee table book.

The scenic grandeur of the other parks — Grand Teton and Yellowstone — is beyond dispute.

I quite enjoyed gazing at the granite spire of the Grand, with its imposing precipices and the almost cartoon-like scene it paints against a backdrop of blue sky.

And the immediate and rampant volcanism of Yellowstone, this blatant evidence of the molten world that lies beneath our feet, impressed me as well.

But there is a great difference, it seems to me, between pondering the works of nature and imagining the scene behind the buffalo robes of a tipi, where two women lie dead beside a newborn whose skull has been crushed by a heavy blow.

Between the carnival atmosphere at Old Faithful, which spews on a schedule that’s scrawled on dry-erase boards outside kitsch-crammed gift shops, and a thicket of lodgepole pines where men gouged into the soil to gain meager shelter from the misguided policy of their government and the bullets that it spawned.

The third park is Big Hole National Battlefield.

What’s up with that misplaced ‘s’?

I found a perfect T-shirt the other day sporting this question: “Is there a hyphen in anal-retentive?”

A close runner-up is: “A semi-colon is not a medical procedure.”

These shirts — amusing to those of us who work with words — are on sale to celebrate National Punctuation Day, which is today.

Who celebrates punctuation?

On any given day, our newsroom is likely to have a conversation about apostrophes, semi-colons or quotation marks.

English teachers also are mighty fond of punctuation.

Not everyone is so concerned.

My affinity for that anal-retentive shirt comes from my obsession with reading signs — countless times I’ve fought the urge to stop at a business to correct its misspelled signs. (I’m pretty sure that would embarrass my family.)

Could Baker City’s soul survive a Redmondesque expansion?

“Bend” is the favorite four-letter epithet uttered by people who fear Baker City might soon succumb to the creeping suburbanism that has inflicted its architectural and commercial banality on so much of this country.

But I spent the night in Redmond earlier this summer, and it occurred to me that that city, rather than the budding metropolis that is Bend, perhaps offers the more compelling comparison.

There is, it seems to me, a widespread fallacy that not so long ago Bend and Baker City were akin to twins.

In fact, Baker hasn’t bested Bend since the 1920 Census.

That year, Baker’s population was 7,729, Bend’s 5,415.

A decade later Bend had gone ahead — 8,848 to 7,858 — and the Central Oregon city has widened its lead every decade since.

Redmond, though, is the classic late-bloomer.

As recently as 1970 (I realize this hardly qualifies as recent, but it happens to be the year I was born and so I’m inclined to downplay the significance of that span) Redmond was a mere stripling of 3,721 inhabitants.

That same year Baker boasted 9,354.

Stressed out about germination and enamored of bug ads

For a month now I’ve been tending a patch of new grass, and the stress of this endeavor, on which I embarked with great optimism, has begun to wear on me in a considerable way.

I ought to have known it would.

I figured out quite some years ago that my personality is ill-suited to the peculiar pressures of cultivation.

I lack the necessary patience, for one thing.

The process of horticultural germination, even at its speediest, seems to me painfully sluggish.

I just can’t go in for watching a patch of dirt, pining for the appearance of the first sprig of green.

I need instant gratification.

My current project is a path that runs between our backyard patio and the toolshed.

I built this path more than a decade ago. It’s maybe 30 feet long, with a comely curve along the way.

Initially the path’s surface was a mixture of pea gravel and decorative white stone. Last year I added a dozen or so round brick pavers, to keep a little girl from bruising her bare feet on the gravel.

But this summer Lisa decided grass, being vastly softer, was the better choice.

She spent many hours shoveling gravel and sifting out the dirt by means of a pair of metal screens. As is typical, she graciously failed to mention that I contributed not the least bit of effort to this task.

Until the first day of August, when I prised out the remaining pavers and smoothed the base of the path.

Then I put the pavers back, spaced out along the whole of the path, hauled in a dozen or so wheelbarrow loads of dirt and tamped it around the pavers to level the surface with the rest of the lawn.

Stuck in a snowstorm, with a more pressing problem besides

The bladder is the prankster of organs.

This stretchy sack of tissue will plod along for months, performing its simple but vital duties with unremarkable consistency.

But under more pressing circumstances the bladder can turn as sneaky as a petulant three-year-old who’s just been told she can’t have dessert.

Let’s say, by way of example, that you’re backpacking in the Eagle Cap Wilderness, and an ill-tempered August snowstorm comes up, and you’re ensconced in a clammy tent trying to stave off hypothermia until dawn, when you can actually see the trail that leads to parking lot, where there should be a pickup truck with a heater.

That’s precisely the situation in which your bladder will get up to its mischief.

My bladder will, anyway.


Seduced by a noxious weed: The luscious lure of the blackberry

’m not sure what to make of the Himalayan blackberry.

Except when I happen to have a bowl of vanilla ice cream.

This temporarily clarifies the situation.

A handful of blackberries, dusted with a skim of sugar and gently bruised with the back of a spoon to release their pungent juice, can transform a scoop of soft serve into a dessert that’s positively ambrosial.

My predicament, though, has nothing to do with the various culinary uses of the blackberry. These, ranging from cobblers to jams to munching them fresh-plucked, are pretty much above reproach.

What I can’t figure out is whether, speaking ecologically rather than gastronomically, I’m for the fruit or against it.

The thing is, the Himalayan (also known as the Armenian) blackberry, according to biologists, is a noxious weed.

And we’re supposed to abhor those.

All things in moderation: Especially when it comes to summer

It’s been a strange summer in Baker County, weather-wise, but in my estimation a particularly pleasant one.

The season, should its current patterns persist clear through until autumn, now scarcely a month away, will rank as an especially moderate example of its kind.

This pleases me because our summers, when they diverge any great distance from average, tend to be decidedly uncomfortable.

Abnormally hot summers, for instance, annoy me because they soil what seems to me the essential reward of this golden season. This of course is the ability to go outdoors wearing a minimum of clothing and not worry overmuch about whether you’ve memorized the proper remedies for heatstroke.

Threats of tyranny, and the role of the majority in America

I’m troubled, albeit slightly, by a federal judge’s ruling last week declaring California’s ban on same-sex marriage unconstitutional.

But the cause for my dismay is not that Judge Vaughn Walker sided with those people who believe gay marriage should be legal.

I happen to be one of those people.

I don’t care if two people of the same gender get married.

And it bothers me not a whit if the government deems this legal arrangement a marriage rather than a civil union or some other silly euphemism.

So far as I can tell, society would do well to encourage pairs of adults — any pair of adults — to make lifetime commitments to love one another and to raise their children in a nurturing environment.

The greater problem in this country, it seems to me, is not that too many people want to get married but that too many of us can’t stay married.

<< Start < Previous page 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 Next page > End >>

Results 286 - 300 of 428
Local / Sports / Business / State / National / Obituaries / Submit News
Editorials / Letters / Columns / Submit a letter
Outdoors / Go Magazine / Milestones / Living Well
Baker Herald
About / Contact / Commercial Printing / Subscriptions / Terms of Use / Privacy Policy / Commenting Policy / Site Map
Also Online
Photo Reprints / Videos / Local Business Links / Community Links / Weather and Road Cams / RSS Feed

Follow Baker City Herald headlines on Follow Baker City Herald headlines on Twitter

© Copyright 2001 - 2016 Western Communications, Inc. All rights reserved. By Using this site you agree to our Terms of Use