The photograph is old. But the condition is as current as Jesse Jackson, Jr.'s resignation.
As long as I can remember my mother has shown an inordinate concern for the condition of my hair. Usually, its length. To be fair, my father was usually the prime target.
So, when Darrel, Mom, and I got together a week ago to attend a funeral, I knew my head topping would come up at some point. It had been four months since I had it cut.
After the memorial service, we went to lunch at Lew's Coney Island -- one of our family's favorite neighborhood drive-ins. While we were sitting there waiting for our food, Mom kept looking at my hair. I knew what was coming.
"Who cuts your hair?"
Well, that was subtle. Not at all what I had in mind.
I ducked and dodged. "It has been so long since I had it cut, I can't remember who did it."
And then came the shiv. "I was just wondering. I thought it might be my hairdresser. It is cut just like mine."
My Mom. The Subtle Wit. Oscar Wilde could not have delivered a better quip.
For the past decade or so, my family has not celebrated Thanksgiving (or Christmas) on their designated days.
Work schedules. Travel. Availability. All have conspired to keep us from setting down together on a day designated by some stranger as the "correct" day. But we eventually get around to celebrating.
And our celebrations verge on Norman Rockwell. Somewhat. With Thanksgiving in February. Or Christmas in May.
This year we are in danger of being labelled as "conformists." Thanksgiving dinner will be on Friday. In Bend.
On Wednesday, my brother and his wife (the two people who induced me to retire to Mexico) drove over to retrieve my niece from Oregon State -- and picked me up in Salem in the process.
I am glad Darrel was driving. As beautiful as the Cascades are during the day, driving through mountains at night in the snow is not my favorite pastime.
So, even though we will not be joining you tomorrow to thank God for the bounties he has bestowed on us, we will join in on a second round on Friday.
I hope you all have a great Thanksgiving. No matter where you are.
About a year ago my landlady showed up at Casa Nanaimo with a rather sad-looking plant.
The gardener lashed it to the flamboyant tree with ropes -- like some Roman Easter ritual. And there it sat. Through the dry and rainy season.
The only activity was a matrix of long white roots -- right out of a gothic film -- that girdled the tree.
I know this plot. It was Little Shop of Horrors all over again. One morning I anticipated a giant alien would be tied to the tree.
But I was wrong. Instead, the plant started putting out columns of fresh green leaves during the summer rainy season.
Then one morning there was something new. A thin spike. That grew longer and longer. When it was nearly five feet long, it started forming buds.
And there it sat for a couple of weeks. Until I was greeted one day with delicate purple flowers. Orchids. Perfectly fit for a Lilliputian high school prom.
Unfortunately, that is when I headed north. My landlady informs me that the display goes on.
This year I will miss its best performance. And, as long as the plant is not aware of my herbicide history with orchids, we may be able to coax a reprise next year.
I write quite often about my efforts to keep the surface of the laguna clear on my inlet. Most recently in green is my pond.
But I am not alone in the work. My neighbor has cleared far more water cabbage and hyacinth than I have this year. The guests at his hotel enjoy sitting ion the veranda and watching the wildlife attracted to the cleared area.
There is also a local group, Prolatule, AC, organized to clean larger portions of the laguna. To do that, they need to raise money to take on what is an almost sisyphean task.
This season's fundraiser is an art calendar. A fourteen month calendar to be exact. Centered around the fauna of the laguna. Each month contains a photograph of local wildlife -- with a local dancer in body paint representing the spirit of that animal or bird.
My favorite is at the top of this post.
The calendars are available at businesses and homes in Melaque, La Manzanilla, Barra de Navidad, and Cihuatlan -- displaying this poster. If I was there, there would be a poster on my gate.
150 pesos each. A good deal for a quality calendar. And the proceeds go to a good cause -- to help clean up at least a portion of the laguna.
Cleaned up, it could be a draw for birders, boaters, or people simply interested in the local wildlife.
For additional information, take a look at the organization's Facebook page: Prolatule A.C.
After two full weeks in Oregon, I finally had my first home-cooked meal here.
My friend and former work colleague Nancy invited me to her house where her daughter Molly whipped up a great meal of stuffed pork chops, roasted potatoes, and salad. And an amazing home-made cherry pie.
I caught up on what was happening locally. And, because we are attorneys, the topic turned to the cost of higher education. Law schools, in particular.
Several young attorneys have told me their tales of financial woe involving they debts they incurred in law school. One friend has a student loan of $160,000. Amortized to pay off when he is in his 70s.
Those obligations make me feel like a space alien. I knew that I had student loan debt when I left law school, but I was not certain how big the debt was. Certainly less than $160,000.
As a result of my donation project to Salem's land fill, I now know. When I graduated in May 1979, I owed $2,500. The first monthly payment of $90 was due a year later. The interest rate was ridiculously low at 3% during the height of the Carter-Ford-Nixon inflation years.
Even though the last payment was not due until 1988, I paid it off in three years just before I bought my first house.
Why the big difference? Between living at home, financial support from my parents, a part-time job, and short-term loans, I graduated college without any student loan debt.
My financial support in law school was similar. Two years of GI Bill benefits, a part-time job, and summer work kept my debt under control.
So, what happened between 1979 and 2012? Why doesn't the "putting yourself through college" formula work any more?
The big difference is tuition increases. I have seen the statistics, but I do not recall the details. But education costs have increased almost as much as medical costs.
There are lots of reasons for the medical cost increase. But the prime cause of tuition increases is linked directly to the increase of education loan availability. The more loans families are willing to undertake has freed educational institutions to increase their costs. Student loan debt is now targeted to be the next housing and .com bubble to burst.
During the past year, I have read several policy proposals to reverse the education cost spiral. But most of them seem to have about as much hope of being implemented as do reforms to Social Security and Medicare.
I am just glad I am a consumer of home-cooked meals, and not education, these days.
I had lunch with my friend Beth and her mother Saturday morning at one of our favorite eateries in Salem -- Busick Court. Some of the best Eggs Benedict in town.
My stir and toss method of divesting myself of possessions has resulted in some interesting coincidences. And my lunch was Beth was another in that category.
Nine years ago Beth stopped by my work office to ask me if I was interested in taking up sky diving. It was not an idle conversation point. She was on her way to the Mulino airport and wanted to know if I would join her on another of her adventures.
She had just recently bungee-jumped out of a hot air balloon. All she needed was an accordion to make it a trifecta.
Even though I had parachute training in the Air Force, I had never experienced a free fall. But I was about to.
We had a rather lengthy briefing on safety and parachute packing. After donning our gear, we crowded onto a small airplane and enjoyed the flight until we got to our jump altitude.
I recall our instructor asking me what was the most important lesson I had learned in the briefing. My response? "The moment I step out of this airplane, I am dead. Unless certain things happen in a certain order."
He thought I was clever. I thought I was merely accurate.
On that first jump, I was not afraid. Even though my pilot training made me wonder why I was leaving a perfectly good aircraft in flight.
But there was very little sense of being several thousand feet above the planet. It was too high for my brain to form a fear of heights.
The few moments I was in a free fall were some of the most amazing of my life. I felt as if I was driving a motorcycle at 120 miles per hour -- without the motorcycle. It was a libertarian dream of physical freedom.
Beth and I made a second jump. We even talked about becoming certified, but the cost and other circumstances got in the way.
As exciting as those two jumps were, I had almost forgotten about them until I found my log book and first jump certificate. Both of which are now in garbage bags.
But it was nice to revive those memories.
Someone commented a few days ago that the memories are in my head, not in these pieces of paper. That is true. But rediscovering these little memory jabbers has been the best part of clearing out my closets and file cabinets.
Yesterday was theater wing day.
I have been collecting theater programs since 1966. I am not certain why I kept as many as I have. They are designed to be of limited use. But there they were.
From Broadway. London. Los Angeles. Oxford. Portland. Seattle. Salem. Paris. Athens. And with a range of plays just as broad.
All the way from the usual tourist schlock. The Mousetrap. Evita. Cats. Phantom of the Opera. Starlight Express. Les Miserables. Miss Saigon.
To the more unusual. My Fat Friend with John Inman of Are You Being Served. The full series of D'Oyly Carte (de mortuis nihil nisi bonum) Gilbert and Sullivan productions. A Little Night Music with Jean Simmons (the actress, not the tongue guy) and Hermione Gingold. Billy -- when Michael Crawford was a comedian with a character actor's singing voice instead of his current false Caruso. The amazing Chita Rivera in the pedestrian Kiss of the Spider Woman, And Victor Borge.
Then there are the treasures: Harvey where I met James Stewart -- a tale already told in harvey the croc. A Walk in the Woods with Alec Guiness and Edward Herrmann. And The Importance of Being Earnest with my favorite actress, Maggie Smith.
Some of the programs contain the autographs of the stars.
It was fun to look through them. But I have not seen most of them in years. They were prime targets to head to the dump.
But reprieves come in odd ways.
On Friday night, I attended a local high school production of Little Shop of Horrors. It was not very good. However, when I was introduced to the drama teacher, an idea hit me. Why not pass on my collection to someone who would really appreciate it?
I made the offer. The drama teacher accepted. The collection will have a far better home than I have offered it over the past five decades.
If only it was that easy to divest myself of some of my other goods.
