The world’s automakers seem bent on making it easier for people to do everything in their cars.
Which seems to me a curious oversight.
Not so bad as forgetting the steering wheel or leaving off the lug nuts, of course, but curious just the same.
The most significant change in the automobile interior over the past decade is the proliferation of devices designed to help drivers communicate with people who are somewhere else.
(Like as not these other people are also driving, possibly in the next lane.)
Carbuilders boast of how “connected” or “wired” their latest models are. I envision Ricardo Montalbán extolling not “rich Corinthian leather” but “rich Bluetooth capability.”
I’m hardly immune to the enticing nature of this technology. I’m enthralled by the notion of someday owning a car that’s a mobile wi-fi hotspot. The concept of hooking up to Skype and having a friend’s or relative’s face show up on a video screen in the middle of the dashboard has a Star Wars flavor to it that makes me wonder whether the era of the long-awaited flying car is impending.
Except it’s dangerous enough to have people carrying on conversations, or Googling “road rage,” while they’re rolling along at 65 mph.
We don’t want them sharing airspace with 747s.
“Hold on, tower control, I can’t land until this YouTube video is over. You won’t believe how cute these kittens are!”
Carmakers, of course, tout their latest options as “hands-free,” which enables people to update their Facebook profile without taking their hands off the wheel.
This sounds like progress.
Except a study commissioned by AAA concluded that that’s not necessarily true.
In fact, researchers found that in some cases using a hands-free device to have a conversation or send an email can distract a driver more than holding a phone and talking into it.
This level of distraction has been compared — and this is the scary part — with driving while intoxicated.
Funny, though, you don’t see automakers installing beer taps — not even ones with a Camelbak-like tube that juts out of the headrest so you can guzzle brew hands-free.
Cars aren’t always in motion, of course.
And I’m not a bit troubled by a person sitting in a parked car, texting or tweeting or whatever.
Except this technology doesn’t turn off when the engine is turned on. And you needn’t be an expert on human behavior to know that if you can do something while driving, you will.
(McDonald’s probably wouldn’t exist otherwise.)
It would be a great pity, it seems to me, if our highways, which have been getting safer for the past few decades, turned more dangerous even as our cars are better able to protect us in a crash.
In 2011, a total of 32,367 people were killed in traffic crashes on U.S. roads. That was the fewest deaths in a year since 1949.
Even more impressive than the raw numbers is the fatality rate, since the latter takes into account the vast increase in the number of cars and the miles traveled.
The most-used measure is the number of deaths per 100 million vehicle miles traveled.
The rate in 1949 was 7.13 deaths.
In 2011 it was 1.10.
This nearly miraculous improvement is due in large part to cars being vastly safer. In 1949 life-savers such as anti-lock brakes, airbags and crumple zones were more in the realm of fantasy than assembly line fact.
Back then carbuilders designed parts to look neat, and never mind that the stylish steering wheel hub, in any crash over 20 mph, would skewer you as efficiently as one of Vlad the Impaler’s stakes.
Today the engineers, having taken auto safety about as far as physics allows (roadside oak trees being rarely equipped with air bags) are turning their prodigious abilities to matters of convenience and utility.
This isn’t necessarily a disaster, of course.
I like mp3 jacks and USB ports as much as the next driver.
But I also cling to the quaint notion that piloting a vehicle with competence and single-minded focus is not merely the driver’s most important task.
It’s his only one.
Facebook can wait.
The little kid who just chased his wayward rubber ball into the street can’t.
Jayson Jacoby is editor
of the Baker City Herald.
Trust, as anyone knows whose mother ever nabbed him filching jelly beans from the candy drawer, is far more easily lost than regained.
Baker City’s water supply, I’m afraid, is that little boy with sugar crusted around his mouth.
And all of us who rely on that water, well, we’re the mom with a scowl on her face.
This state of affairs, this suddenly rampant suspicion of our once-reliable faucets, saddens me.
It is no exaggeration to indulge in cliché and call it the end of an era.
He was a black child who prospered in a town that was about as white as a town can be.
They are a family which has raised six sons, each of whom has reached the pinnacle of Boy Scouting.
Here is a group of teenagers who epitomize the concept of handling guns safely, and with the respect such instruments demand.
Three stories we’ve published over the past couple weeks.
Each struck me as an example of how the people of Baker City and Baker County can achieve the highest standards to which a civilized society aspires.
By Jayson Jacoby
Baker City Herald Editor
There is a certain sort of cemetery which can make a visitor’s impending death seem rather less melancholy than is typical.
Rock Creek Cemetery in Baker Valley is such a place.
I don’t as a rule go around pondering my inevitable demise.
But of course cemeteries tend to prompt such thoughts.
As we drove past Rock Creek Cemetery on a recent sun-dappled Sunday morning (which is most Sunday mornings in July in these parts) I was so taken by the simple beauty of the scene that I felt, rather than maudlin, a kind of joy at the thought of concluding a good life, well-lived, in so sublime a spot.
The perfectly groomed, lush lawn reminded me of nothing so much as one of the military cemeteries that England constructed in Northern France and Belgium after the First World War.
The English affinity for gardens is well known, of course, and is reflected in their burying grounds.
Even if a preference for the pastoral were not part of the nation’s character, though, I suspect Britain’s war cemeteries would look pretty much as they do. There must have been a powerful need, after so much blood had been shed (the British lost about a million soldiers in the war, a terrible tally, yet compared with Russia, France and Germany they got off light), to not merely bury the terrible bones-and-steel detritus of mechanized war but to grace it with a veneer of the living and tranquil green.
Rock Creek Cemetery hasn’t such a tragic legacy, and anyway it needs no artificial embellishments.
It comes by its grandeur naturally, from its setting in a fine and verdant valley within sight of two imposing mountain ranges.
The nearer of these, rising steep and timbered just a couple miles to the west, are the Elkhorns.
Whether this is the grandest vista from any of our local cemeteries is of course a subjective question, lacking any definitive answer.
The nearby Haines Cemetery, for instance, no doubt has many admirers, and for good reason. Its location, atop a minor rise, adds an ethereal, bird’s-eye quality to the view which is lacking at Rock Creek.
Still and all, the sheer majesty of the Elkhorns from Rock Creek Cemetery, the soaring granite of Red Mountain, the forested eminence of Hunt Mountain, seems to me unrivalled.
Connie Brown, a lifelong Haines resident, has been taking care of both the Rock Creek and Haines cemeteries for 18 years.
They are part of a district, which includes Haines and parts of Baker Valley, in which property owners pay a tax each year to maintain the two cemeteries.
(They get a discount on burial plots, too, if they choose either cemetery.)
I remember when Rock Creek Cemetery was rather disheveled, the grass dry and high, the weeds rank.
Brown said that when she was hired, the considerable task of keeping up with the weeds and the wind damage and the occasional trespassing cow had become too much for the previous caretaker.
She set about putting things in order in the cemetery, which covers about 4ﬁ acres (Haines Cemetery is almost exactly the same size).
With help from co-workers, as well as inmates from the Powder River Correctional Facility, she tamed the weeds, had gravel access roads built and, perhaps most important, a well was dug to supply irrigation water to nourish the grass.
“It took a lot of work, and it still takes a lot of work,” Connie said. “We try to make it a little better every year.”
Connie said that when she started, about 75 percent of the burials at Rock Creek were traditional ones, with a casket, and the remainder were cremations, with an urn burial.
Today the percentages are about the opposite.
One of the main reasons for the change, she said, is that some years ago the cemetery district ceased selling plots for casket burials. Burying caskets is troublesome because the water table is high and there’s an old subterranean stream channel on the property.
Plots are available for urn burials, however.
I’ve not given any great amount of thought to how I want my remains dealt with. I have no objection to cremation — there’s a aspect of purification to the process that appeals to me — but I rather like the notion of being buried more or less intact, to gradually meld with the good earth, perhaps to nurture some worthwhile root with my meager contribution to the soil.
Better still if my final plot lies within the shadows of the great peaks, that I might retain a vestigial link with those high places I loved best.
Jayson Jacoby is editor of the Baker City Herald.
Ryc Rienks’ foray into partisan politics started as a joke.
And although Ryc, who lives in Baker City, hasn’t lost his sense of humor, he’s pretty serious about his new role in the political system.
Ryc, 69, had been registered as an independent.
So had his wife, Penny.
But last year, feeling a trifle disenfranchised by Oregon’s sometimes restrictive primary election system, the couple decided to consider registering as either Republicans or Democrats.
There is no pleasure quite like slouching into the embrace of a soft chair, flipping to the first page of a book, and realizing, in that instant, that the whole of the tale awaits, as faithful as the best dog you ever knew.
It’s like starting a vacation.
Or standing on the front porch of the girl’s house who you finally forced yourself to telephone, and she said sure, she’d love to go to the movie with you.
This glorious anticipation seems to me especially rich when the book has to do with real places that I’ve been to, and plan to visit again.
I fought fires on the Wallowa-Whitman National Forest for three summers, 1989-1991.
About the worst thing that ever happened to me was once I had to stay out overnight unexpectedly and I had little to eat except a package of Wheat Thins of the size the stores would sell for Halloween, if homeowners often handed out crackers as treats.
Which, fortunately, they do not.
There’s nothing funny about fighting wildfires, though.
They die in van crashes while driving to fires.
Trees fall and crush their skulls.
Helicopters and slurry bombers crash.
And, perhaps most horrible of all because it seems so personal, so terribly ironic, sometimes the flames, which are nothing so much as a tornado of combustion, turn and strike at those who would corral them.
On Sunday, 19 firefighters, members of an elite Hotshot crew from Prescott, Ariz., were overcome by flames while trying to stop a fire advancing on Yarnell, Ariz.
Firefighting gets into the news often, of course, and much of the public debate has to do with whether the federal government, which has been racking up billion-dollar firefighting tabs in recent years, is spending too much.
I don’t care.
A billion dollars is a pittance in federal terms.
What I wonder is whether we’re spending too many lives, most of them young lives, on this campaign.
My gut answers yes.
But the question, I fear, is too complex for simplistic answers based on emotion rather than reflection.
The Prescott Hotshots weren’t engaged in a dubious enterprise, weren’t trying to prevent flames from killing trees 10 miles from anywhere.
They were protecting a town, people and houses.
We won’t cease sending firefighters into such places, nor should we.
The real conundrum, though, is that it’s well nigh impossible to recognize, hours or even days in advance, which fire is likely to transform from merely dangerous to deadly.
When that transformation depends on factors as fickle as the winds of a thunderstorm, well, we’d as well consult tea leaves or goat entrails.
Tragedies on the scale of the Arizona disaster are exceedingly rare, to be sure.
Sunday’s death toll of 19 was the highest, for a wildfire in the U.S., since 1933.
Yet the balm of the actuarial tables is cold comfort, indeed it’s no comfort at all, when you’ve just watched a procession of vans carrying 19 bodies to the coroner’s office.
. . .
When the first drop of sweat slides into the corner of your eye before you’ve made even one full revolution with the socket wrench, you understand that you picked the wrong time for the job.
The wrong hour.
Quite possibly the wrong year.
I winced at the slight sting of the sweat. The socket, which I had been tugging on with considerable force, leaped off the nut with all the stupid suddenness of a tool (tools, I am convinced, do not like me, probably because I’m mechanically inept, and that they delight in every bruise, gash or puncture wound they can inflict).
I rapped my knuckles on the gate hinge I was trying to set straight so that it would latch properly. This hurt more than the sweat in my eye, and was infinitely more annoying besides.
It was scarcely past 9 in the morning. When I stepped outside wielding a wrench and a hammer, it seemed to me not terribly hot.
Warm certainly, but nothing like the inferno the forecasters were predicting for the afternoon.
I pegged the gate repair as a five-minute job requiring the two simple hand tools and, fortunately for my fingers, neither motors nor reciprocating parts.
What I didn’t count on was breaking out so quickly into that flop sweat.
This prompted me to consult my array of meteorological instruments, which is not so much redundant as it is ridiculous.
Anyway the devices told the tale: The humidity ranged from 55 percent to 75 percent.
These of course are figures more typical of summer in, say, Savannah, Ga., or St. Louis than in Baker City.
We suffer here from what’s known, with a certain affection, as a dry heat.
I’ve never much cottoned to that term, mainly because it seemed to me misleading.
But my painful experience at the front gate was something of an epiphany.
I used to bristle at references to dry heat because it implies that even when it goes over 95 around here that’s not so bad because the humidity, like as not, is less than 15 percent.
Well, that’s about what it’s like inside a lumber kiln, and I daresay there’s nothing pleasant about being inside a lumber kiln.
Or any kind of kiln, come to that.
But now that I’ve experienced, albeit in a brief and minor way, the combination of heat and humidity that’s endemic to the Midwest and the South, I concede that the defenders of dry heat make a pretty compelling point.
The older of my two sisters lived in Southern Virginia for seven years, returning to Oregon last August, and she tried to explain to me how uncomfortable truly sultry weather can be.
Her husband, Bill, told me about having to run his windshield wipers on clear days because the air was so heavy with moisture even though the temperature was in the 80s.
Try to fix a gate in weather like that — try to open a gate, for that matter — and you’d probably need to hook up an IV to ward off dehydration.
I stand by my belief that beyond a certain threshold on the thermometer — 90, maybe — it’s a scorcher no matter how low the humidity.
Death Valley’s even drier than Baker City, but you don’t see people frolicking around there on summer afternoons.
And I’m not talking about convulsions.
Still and all, I’m more respectful than before of the power of humidity.
It laid a few of my knuckles low and that only took a few minutes.
If I had to perform even my modest household chores anywhere south of the Mason-Dixon Line, well, I’d be a repeat customer at the prosthetics store.
Jayson Jacoby is editor
of the Baker City Herald.
I don’t think Edward Snowden is a traitor.
Nor am I convinced he’s a hero.
But I’m far less interested in the man, and in any meaningless labels which might be affixed to him, than I am in the information he made available.
And it seems to me that the details Snowden has divulged about the U.S. government’s domestic surveillance programs are details which we, the American people whom the politicians are always prattling on about as though we’re all the best of pals, deserved to know.
By Jayson Jacoby
Baker City Herald Editor
It’s easy to forget that there’s a state prison in Baker City.
The Powder River Correctional Facility would be much more conspicuous, I suspect, if it closed.
Doubtless the local economy would notice the loss of about 100 jobs (roughly two-thirds are state employees, the others contractors).
The minimum-security prison, which has 308 beds and could add 30 more, opened almost a quarter-century ago, on Nov. 9, 1989.
The building, at 3600 13th St. in north Baker City, attracted quite a bit more attention during its first several years of operation than it has since.
This is due in part, I imagine, to Powder River being a new and somewhat controversial — as prisons inevitably are — addition to the community.
The more noteworthy characteristic during that early period, though, was that Powder River inmates got loose pretty frequently.
In its first six years or so, 44 inmates either escaped from the prison or walked away while part of a crew working outside the walls — one every couple of months, on average.
But since February 1996 just 14 inmates have gone missing — and only two of those were in the past decade.
So what happened to explain this sharp decline in escapes?
Well, razor wire happened.
Workers topped the prison’s 12-foot perimeter fence with coils of the skin-shredding stuff in February 1996.
Of the 44 inmates who had escaped before then, 26 of them had scaled the razor-free fence.
Since 1996 just three inmates have escaped from the prison itself (as opposed to fleeing from a work crew), and one of those slipped out the front gate rather than trying to negotiate the razor wire.
Considering that escaping is the most common way in which inmates of any prison get noticed by local residents, it’s little wonder that Powder River generates rather less publicity than it used to.
But it would be overly simplistic to conclude that the fear of getting sliced up is the only deterrent keeping Powder River inmates in their cells.
Another important change, this one dating to 2003, was the arrival at Powder River of a program by which inmates who are being treated for drug and alcohol addiction — Powder River has won awards for the success of its treatment program — can qualify for early release.
The efficacy of the treatment program itself, which predates the early release option, has surely motivated inmates as well, most of whom are within two years of release when they arrive at Powder River.
And I’d like to believe that a third element — one that was tried for the first time last weekend at the prison — will give inmates yet another powerful reason to avoid the temptation to shorten their sentence by extralegal means.
On Saturday, June 15, Powder River put on its inaugural “Family Day” event.
Inmates’ relatives were invited to the prison not just for a regular visit, but for an afternoon in which inmates could share a meal with family, play games, or paint a flower pot. Veronica Johnson, correctional rehabilitation manager at Powder River who helped organize the event, estimated that 250 family members attended.
Inmates paid for the food with money they’ve earned from work while in custody.
I concede to a certain ambivalence when it comes to anything which could be construed as coddling convicted criminals.
But as I looked at the photographs that the Herald’s Kathy Orr took at Powder River on Saturday, I remembered that inmates aren’t the only ones who suffer from their own misdeeds.
I looked at the faces of children whose fathers are incarcerated here, noticed how broad and how bright their smiles were as they got to spend an afternoon with dad’s arm around their shoulders.
It’s a perfectly valid question, of course, to ask, if having wives and children didn’t persuade these men to follow the law before, why would a barbecue on a sunny June afternoon influence their behavior in the future?
I don’t know the answer.
However, a recent study commissioned by the Minnesota prison system showed that inmates who have visitors are much less likely to re-offend, said Liz Craig, communications director for the Oregon Department of Corrections.
This makes sense, since visiting with a loved one ought to remind a prisoner what he’s missing, and why he doesn’t want to go back once he’s served his time.
Which is pretty much the goal, as I understand it, of the penal system.
I don’t mean to suggest that scheduling a “Family Day” once a year will eliminate recidivism.
But neither do I see any downside to the practice — the more so since inmates, not the taxpayers who already give them room and board, have to buy the food.
Sentencing someone to prison is supposed to be a punishment, of course, and I believe that, by and large, it should be.
But if, for the paltry cost of giving inmates a few hours in the sunshine with the people who love them, we can prevent even a relative handful from returning to the wrong side of the fence, I would consider this a sound investment.
As for a little girl’s or a little boy’s smile, well, you can’t put a value on that.
. . .
On the morning before the solstice my furnace was up before dawn, puttering around the house and rifling through my wallet, like a teenager looking for lunch money.
(Which makes me wonder: Do kids still get allowances in currency, or via electronic transfer to their smartphones?)
This is to be expected, of course, in our climatological purgatory halfway between the equator and the North Pole.
And at least this chilly interlude was accompanied by beneficial rain — albeit perhaps too much rain in a single day.
Still and all I felt a twinge of financial pain when I heard the familiar whisper of air issuing from the grates.
I relish these shoulder seasons that separate the frigid and the torrid. It’s a fine thing to sit in temperate comfort, with no machine burning through your BTU budget.
Jayson Jacoby is editor of the Baker City Herald.
I have in the past expressed some doubt as to whether “Finding Bigfoot,” the cable TV program, is wholly devoted to scientific rigor in its pursuit of the hirsute beast.
The four hosts of the Animal Planet show, which is supposed to start its fourth season this fall, seem to know an awful lot about a creature whose very existence has not been confirmed.
From here on, though, my skepticism will be tempered by a personal bias in favor of one of the show’s stars, Cliff Barackman.
He gave my daughter, Olivia, a gift I expect she will always cherish.