Celebrating Eugene

At the Saturday Market a few weeks ago, I overheard an older gentleman say to his companion (while shaking his head in bewilderment), “Oh, there must be something in the water here in Eugene.” Translation? Eugene has a reputation for being a little quirky, a bit different.

Why, whatever do you mean??

Yes, it’s true. Eugene embraces diversity, and by diversity we mostly mean fashion. Not style, nor culture, but counter-culture and its accompanying costumes. Eugene is home to many tribes and we can easily identify one another by what we wear.

But first, I must tell something on myself. Do you see the photo of me, one hand defiantly on my hip and coffee in the other? Look at the expression on my face. I am watching the parade during the Eugene Celebration last Saturday morning. That, apparently is my parade-watching face! Don’t you think it should be registering something like joy or delight?

Or what about this next photo I love so much? I have no idea what’s going on here but I’m standing with friends in Boise at the Capitol; le sigh, Christine La Bean, rest her soul, appears to be transforming into a robot while I look as though something smells verra verra bad. I laugh a deep belly laugh every time I gaze at it. But my point is this: I was spending time with friends I love dearly and my face does not show it.

Walking down the street, I’ll catch a glimpse of my face in a store window and it actually scares me! I often have such a stern expression that my own face startles me.

A few weeks ago, while in Sunriver, Groom and I decided to have lunch out. We chose a lovely looking bistro and ordered our food, and of course, a cup of coffee. Most of you know, I looooove coffee. I do most things with a cuppa including photography, designing jewelry and watching a parade.

In fact, Groom just snapped this next shot of me while I was propped up in bed reading this week. Whoa, did you catch a load of my schnoz? Rarely have I seen my face in profile, is that really what I look like?

But I digress. Back to the bistro in Sunriver. We paid for our food and coffee and sat outside at our tall table, waiting. And waiting. After an awfully long time, we checked on the status of our order. The proprietress acted shocked that we wanted the coffee that we paid for. She really didn’t feel like making a pot of coffee as the restaurant would be closing soon. I looked at my watch. It was 1:30pm. “What time do you close?” I asked.

“3 o’clock.”

What? An hour and a half before closing and she didn’t really feel like brewing a fresh pot as the old one was empty? Now it became our turn to express incredulity. She “explained” that we’d probably be the only ones to drink it and she really couldn’t afford to waste the rest, like times are tough, you know? Well, using her argument, we really didn’t feel like giving her money as a donation for coffee we weren’t going to receive. Is that even legal, charging for an item on the menu and then balking at having to serve it?

I admit it, I was ticked and Proprietress was in a dilemma. She didn’t want to refund our money nor did she want to brew beans. In a snit, she finally decided that money in her till was better than giving it back, so it was with a martyred sigh and a huff that she made us coffee. Well, by this point, I didn’t want it, so I did my own version of sulking. Then, a man walked up to his car parked in front of our table. He unlocked it with his key chain remote, making that horribly obnoxious beep.

That’s all it took. A fearful owner, too tight-fisted to make a pot of coffee, and a man unlocking his car without benefit of a key. My mood blossomed into a minor tropical storm. Now, I didn’t do anything except complain to Groom.

And then the scary part happened. For the very first time, I felt the particles of my spirit hardening and I felt alarmed. I knew in that moment, I could get stuck like that. In an instant, I had sudden compassion for the nasty next-door neighbor where I lived when I was little, or the wicked step-mother of my dear friend; two women, whose faces had frozen into eternal expressions of bitterness.

I called God’s Minion in a panic. I told her I was very afraid of hardening into a freeze-dried shrew, the life and joy leaking out of me until I was a shriveled husk. To my amazement, she laughed her deep, throaty southern laugh.

What? Here I was in the midst of a true mid-life panic and my dear friend was laughing at me. In the condensed version, she said she knew me too well and that I’d never get stuck that way. The fact that I could recognize it and was repulsed by the notion was all the proof she needed.

She compared my panic of angst to downhill skiing. Describing me all dressed up like a snow bunny (okay, I added that part) on a slope with a sign pointing downhill toward Getting Stuck in Bitterness. “You looked over the edge, saw the invitation, got a little spooked and skied on,” she told me, and then added, “You had an insight of compassion for those who do get stuck there. You now see how easy it is to simply point your skis down that hill and keep going.”

If your heads are still in the upright position, then please follow the lighted pathway to my next example. Right after Sunriver, we shared dinner with friends and they told of a similar experience. They had been invited to a restaurant with a guest Italian chef. He was in town for only one night, so the place was packed. They had to wait almost two hours for their food.

The man-half of the couple, whom I’ll call Victor, decided it was “unacceptable,” while the woman present, who shall be named Victoria, pronounced it “entirely acceptable.” They debated and Victoria said, “It’s a beautiful summer evening, we’re out with friends listening to music, anticipating the chef’s creation, of course it’s acceptable.”

I am now referring to this as the “Victor/Victoria” syndrome. Two people in attendance at the same dinner having completely different experiences. One went with the flow, charmed by the company, music, and warm summer weather, while the other found fault. I recognized myself as Victor.

My life is beautiful. So why then, do I tend to focus on the ridiculous instead of the sublime?

Right after the Eugene Celebration parade last Saturday, a friend stopped by the booth with her new great-grandson. I’d met him soon after he was born, but he’d been asleep in his buggy. This time, however, he was wide-awake and a few months older.

Let me just say right now, I had an attunement by a baby. You know how a piano tuner is able to get the instrument back in alignment, back in tune? Well, this magic baby did the same for me. As I squatted down to say hello, he grabbed my fingers with both of his little hands and smiled. Okay, that’s pretty normal so far.

But wait. He held onto them tightly, looked straight into my eyes and started singing to me. Well, no, he’s too little for lyrics, but there was definitely a tune. I’ve heard babies make gurgling sounds, tummy rumbles, or high-pitched squeals, but this was otherworldly.

The music this baby was creating was truly lovely and here’s what’s so cool, I felt my heart quicken. And then it happened. All the little crusty bits and scabs surrounding my heart melted. I felt like the Grinch when his heart grew two sizes that day. Yes, there was an actual physical sensation as the hardened shell around my heart gave way in the face of this tiny angel singing me his message. Bitterness is powerless in the presence of love.

Thank you Holden, for that amazing experience. Forget all those energetic healing sessions, a few moments in your beam of light and all’s right with the world.

As for the rest of this week’s photos, they are of the Eugene Celebration including our newest S.LU.G. Queen, Slugasana. Congratulations!

So I’ll close for now, leaving you to decide what is ridiculous and what is sublime.

Summer: Good To The Last Drop

A seasonal shift is taking place, little signs popping up all over to reveal the impending change of the weather guards. Yep, it’s still hot, forecast in the 90’s, but Summer is packing her bags preparing for her notoriously quick getaway. She’s antsy, that one, always on the move ready to get the party started. Apparently she’s got things to do and people to see on the other side of the world, for she never stays very long in our neck of the woods.

Autumn, however, is a generous fellow, always showing up early and staying for a long time. Not as long as Winter, for he’s just plain greedy, feeding on the waning light of Oregonians, getting a few souls stuck in his teeth now and then.

A friend recently sent an email and I’m including a brief excerpt from his lament. “We’ve had a pretty low key summer. I wish summer would last for six months ... I love the heat and the water. I dread the thought of another long foggy winter ....”

Dread the thought.

But before the light scatters, the fog settles, the rain falls and mildew lines our bones like green, fuzzy insulation, there’s plenty of summer activities to enjoy. On Saturday, Kimmmm and I attended a Hawaii Five-0 party, hence the floral print dresses. Her red muumuu, authentically “made in Hawaii,” was the hit of the party, while my blue sundress purchased at the Oregon Shakespearean Festival’s costume sale a few weeks ago makes a good story. I think Ophelia might have worn it in a tropical version of Hamlet.

At the Cuthbert Amphitheater on Thursday, Celtic Woman is playing while music lovers (i.e. we) are invited to sit on the grass and picnic at the outdoor venue. In addition to concerts, there’s still time to attend a movie in the park, catch a baseball game, go swimming, look at art, walk on the beach, garden, dance, run through the sprinkler and eat fresh organic berries.

This week, our newly crowned S.L.U.G. Queen (an acronym: Society for the Legitimization of the Ubiquitous Gastropod), will be presented on Saturday at the parade during the annual Eugene Celebration, a three-day block party filled with music, a classic car show, a Health & Well Being fair, the Mayor’s Art Show and the Salon des Refuses (this year called “Salon du Peuple”).

There’s also time to peruse the Farmer’s Market for fresh produce as the clock rotates from the high noon of summer and its corresponding fire element to the harvest of the earth. Corn is growing, acorns are falling, and sunflowers are stretching their solar powered necks toward the brightest star.

As Groom and I investigated our neighborhood on Sunday with our cameras, I was struck by how two things could be true at the same time, which reminds me of a very lively and helpful conversation a few days ago with God’s Minion. She told me it’s quite natural to hold simultaneous contradictory beliefs as does our current season.

Our photos for this entry reflect the height of summer and the early signs of fall taken on the same day in the same neighborhood. To do your own investigating of details, simply click on any photo to enlarge and then hit the back button to return to the blog.

I noticed a double-seated lawn chair, its orange cushions bleached by the sun while Groom captured a very autumn moment with the lone Adirondack chair sitting in the shade, shedding its apple red paint.

It was a veritable flower fashion show, this season’s colors ranging from bold pinks and purples with sassy attitudes to the more subdued tones of silver dollars and prickly whites. The bees were busy collecting last minute pollen while mosquitoes were getting drunk, turning skin into polka-dotted tents of flesh.

Hpnotiq? Well, I think the last photo reminds us to girder ourselves, to grab every last bite of sunshine and soak up those rays, inhale the warmth and relish it all, because sigh… leaves are being tagged by Autumn, his graffiti style signature undeniable.

Eunique Eugene

Every city, town or country village has its own unique flavor, but where we live, a phrase can be frequently overheard among locals, “only in Eugene...”

Each year in September, a city-wide party called the Eugene Celebration selects its campy monarch, the Slug Queen. The 2009 theme was “Strange we can believe in.” True to form, the panel of celebrity judges crowned Grand Duchess Anislugsia as our current Royal Gastropod, who reigned over the masquerade Slime Ball. Tee hee, our Queen, well, his majesty’s civilian name is Mark van Beever and Oregon is the beaver state.

Oui, Madames et Monsieurs, Eugene is a very unique place to call home.

Voila! a cross-section of our local town’s people. Don’t pass over this photo too quickly, for it deserves a second glance. Notice the variety of hairstyles and apparel. We’ve got a person with a blue coif, facial hair, jeans, a black shirt and a flame tie. Don’t assume that’s the child’s father. Here, that could be its mother. See the guy squatting down to the right wearing a pink shirt? He’s also wearing a green skirt and I saw him later holding the baby.

In the back row, there’s a dude sporting tropical shorts and a woman in Bo Derek braids, a style popularized by the movie “10” released in 1979, just a mere 30 years ago. However, that tri-decade old hairstyle is a whole ten years ahead of the game, because the third largest (or thereabouts) city in Oregon has an unofficial subtitle. Eugene: where it’s always 1969.

This is not too difficult to fathom considering the fellow on the lower far right is wearing The Uniform: Requisite Tie-Dye T-shirt, glasses, baseball cap and Jerry Garcia hair and matching beard. Half the population in Eugene looks exactly like this and I’m not just talking about the men.

While at the booth, I amaze tourists with my uncanny intuitive ability to guess they are from out of town. “How did you know?” they ask. But if they are not wearing a skirt, a skort, a utili-kilt, The Uniform, or Birkenstocks, their clothes tend to match which is a dead giveaway. That, or their hair is combed.

Speaking of Jerry Garcia and Dead giveaways, the car is typical of the luxury automobiles crowding our streets. Those and bicycles of every size, shape and configuration.

Eugene (pronounced yoo-JEAN, not YOO-jean), was named after Eugene Skinner, a New Yorker who decided to “winter in California” with his wife in the year 1845. Or maybe they just came west and got stuck there for awhile before continuing on to what eventually became the 33rd State on Valentine’s Day, 1859. How romantic. Ahem, mayhaps Oregon is actually the 29th state as four in the Union are considered Commonwealths (Kentucky, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania and Virginia).

Our burg, Track Town, is known for Phil Knight and his Nike Kingdom (ever heard of the University of Oregon?), the tragic death of distance running phenomenon, Steve Prefontaine, the Olympic Team Trials, and The Arts.

The Eugene Saturday Market has the distinction of being the oldest continuing outdoor Market in the United States, the one upon which many are patterned.

As you can see, there’s no place like home.