Bullies

My wife Marie and I are known to our grown children as a couple who spoil their dogs endlessly, ad nauseum. When they came for Christmas last year, and entered our foyer, to the enthusiastic yapping of two little white Bichon Frises, in their velvet red and green Christmas outfits, well, let’s just say, we got “the look".

However guilty we feel for ending up, admittedly so, as two of the most hideously doting doggie parents of all time, pales in comparison to the depth of our love and commitment to these little “live stuffed animals”, as I sometimes refer to them. “Pippi (for Pippi Longstocking), and Poppi (for Popcorn) give us so much love and pleasure, how could we do less?

At the pet store, we buy the requisite “Greenies”, and a beef tendon treat they love called “Flossies”. Pippi will sit, and whine quietly, forever, at my office closet door, where I keep the Flossies, until I enter and pull one out of the special plastic drawer I keep there, labelled “dog treats”. But at $1.99 a pop, and since our dogs are small, I cut the Flossies into four pieces each, with a sharp “nail puller” tool I have placed in the drawer for just this purpose. Many times, working on my knees somewhere in the house, discovering a nail to pull, I have walked to the closet and to the dog treat drawer to retrieve it. Pippi will take her piece of Flossie immediately to the open area in my office, and begin to toss it wildly, up in the air, and then chase it, retrieve it, and do it again and again. Folks, trust me, it’s too damn cute.

Another treat our dogs love, but which we seldom buy anymore, since they reek, is the much touted “Bully”, or length of dried bull penis, also available at your local pet store in a variety of sizes. Apparently, they are quite yummy, as the bulging bins of bullies suggest, and I have seen our dogs, as Marie and I watch TV, gnarl one for hours, occasionally looking up to us to say, “Dad, Mom, yer the best”. The first time I bought some, a teenage clerk spotted my quizzical fondling of the bullies and announced, without discretion, “THEY'RE BULL PENISES”, and then, as an aside, she suggested, “dogs love’m. But don’t leave’m out in the yard, cuz they’ll reconstitute, and then, they’re totally gross!” I have noticed that not all bullies we have taken home are equally pungent, but most, to put it mildly, might require the additional purchase of one of those tacky plug in style air fresheners, the kind that can beat down any raunchy smell in favor of some scent like “”Overwhelming Pine” or “Wildflower Fields My Ass”.

We employ a wonderful Ukrainian couple, who come to our home twice a month, for several hours, to help us keep our house in order. They clean, especially giving our son Blaine’s room a thorough going over, which would be worth the money even if they didn’t do anything else. We deeply appreciate their help.

Each time they arrive, the dogs swarm them, in our foyer, as Cyrillic nouns and adjectives fly. Some minutes later, after the dogs have calmed, they go about their business, and as a rule, I guess you could say that they pick up their share of dog toys, which have been strewn anew, around the house, since the last time they cleaned. We have several baskets for said toys, and by the time they leave, each basket is in it’s spot, neatly teeming with toys. Within hours of their departure, however, someone, some dang dog, has tipped the baskets over, and the cycle begins again.

I am certain that our Ukrainian friends, who come from poverty in Eastern Europe, must think we are out of our minds, with this pet obsession of ours, including all of our dog toys and pampering. They are so kind, and are obviously fond of us, and we trust them implicitly as they move from room to room, collecting dust bunnies and restacking my lyric sheets. Sometimes, if they have run out of a product, or, perhaps, need a new package of vacuum bags, they will call me from my office to assist. “Reek”, they might call, and when I arrive, they relate their need, in ever so broken English. For the most part, given the language barrier, we do a pretty good job of understanding each other.

On one recent visit, however, I must say that I fell out of my league, out of my cultural context, in the understanding department, when I was called for a consultation. As I sat at my office desk, our female housekeeper stood at my door, and uttered my name. I turned to give her my complete attention. I could see that she was holding a “Bully” in her left hand, and one second after our eyes met, raised the bully up toward me, and posed the question....”Ees nah-chew-rahl?”, and then, before I could say one word, and I swear this actually happened, raised the bully further, up to within about one-half inch of her left nostril, and without reservation, put a humongus and deeply drawn nose hit on that bully, it’s gnarled end still dripping with dog spittle, slimy and white, and surely bearing the utterly gamey fragrance we have come to recognize from several rooms away. As she placed it back to her side, awaiting my answer, I think I saw her eyes tear up. “Yes”, I replied, and then, as she retreated, I thanked God that she had asked no further questions. Anyway, in my two years of Cyrillic study in college, I don’t believe I ever came across the translation for bull penis.

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The Airstream Chronicles.............Umatilla Indian Reservation, Oregon

When we travel as a family, Marie and I, and our son Blaine, we usually start with a loose itinerary, something we can all agree on. Maybe I propose that we go east of the mountains, since it’s May, and we will find better weather there. Agreed. Maybe Marie has been itching to see some museum or other attraction, maybe one that received a grant from the trust she works for. Sure, Blaine and I say, we’re up for that. And then, in an effort to sweeten the pot for Blaine, we might find a sporting event, or a chess event, or maybe..........a CASINO!

Such was the case in June 2005, when we trekked, with Marie’s mom, and Marie’s sister’s family, to one of our favourite spots in the world, Eastern Oregon, to visit a few museums, and the “Wildhorse Casino”, on the Umatilla Indian Reservation, near Pendleton, Oregon.

The drive to Eastern Oregon, down the Columbia River Gorge, past Multnomah Falls, Hood River, The Dalles, Arlington, and others, is a beautiful straight and flat drive, just right for pulling an Airstream. However, this time we had decided to first stop at the Warm Springs Indian Reservation, further inland, to see the Warm Springs Museum there, so we drove some mighty hilly backroads to get there. We stayed at the less than scenic KOA in Madras, but we had time to visit and barbecue, and stare into
space, so who’s complaining? Plus, there was a comfortable, accessible cabin for Blaine. But because we had booked there, specifically for the accessible cabin, we were rather shocked to find that the campground’s main bathroom was totally inaccessble. There IS a ramp at the bathroom....leading up to one tall step.....oops! During our first day there, we struck out for the Warm Springs Museum, which we found very well done. And then, Blaine bought everything he could find in the gift store which contained huckleberries, don’t ask me why. The second day, we stopped at the Sherman County Museum in Moro, Oregon, smack in the middle of wheat country. The Sherman County Museum has received multiple awards for being a thorough and interesting museum, and we were not disappointed.

We travelled more backroads on our third day out, and ended up at the Wildhorse Casino RV park. Blaine and his Grandma got a room in the hotel, and Marie and I pulled into our space at the park, which is a new park, and although the ammenities are complete, at this time, with immature plants, it lacks privacy. But who cares, we came to GAMBLE!

Having been disabled since birth, with an assortment of disabilities, my step-son Blaine is a hero to me, with all he has to deal with. No one is really sure exactly how his brain works, but it seems okay to me, and if you have a math problem, give it to Blaine. And when it comes to any kind of math based game, chess, poker, blackjack, the man is good. As in great. So I get a kick out of watching him wheel into the casino, and pull into the low wheelchair accessible blackjack table (thank you very much Wildhorse Casino!), and as some of the other players let him wiggle in, I can sometimes feel in the air an attitude of, oh, the poor disabled kid, here to lose his money, awwwwwwww.

Strictly speaking, those guys don’t know who they’re dealin’ with. I have very seldon seen Blaine leave a casino without some of the casino’s money in his pocket. While I throw away my money on the slots and maybe a bit of Roulette, Blaine is busy takin’ the house down. Disabled my ass.

And before we hit the road for home, we made one last stop at the Tamastslikt Cultural Institute on the Umatilla Reservation, http://www.tamastslikt.com/press.asp?id=98, one of the finest museums I have ever encountered. There are original treaty documents. There are fascinating displays of all kinds and including the true stories of the Indian’s struggle in Oregon as told by Indians. The building itself is stunningly beautiful. Out back, they are creating a real Indian Village, using skills handed down for centuries. There is a reference library, and a performance hall, where we watched ancient dances performed by Umatilla tribe members. Of course there is the requisite restaurant, and a very nice, large gift shop. This one gets thumbs up from Ric and Marie.
Some photos of our Airstream are here

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The Institute Of Sanitation Technology

Sometime in 1971, my buddy Cac, who was the official leader of our band, The Morning Reign, announced that he was leaving the group. Cac had graduated from Willamette University, and he had received an offer he couldn’t refuse, working in concert promotions.

I had been contemplating the future myself, since I was not all that happy, travelling as much as we did. I was so in love with my baby daughter, Stacey, that I thought it might be a good time for me to move on too. So, Cac and I quit the band together. It was a bit sad, since we had both invested our hearts and minds so deeply into that endeavor for over 5 years. But we both knew it was time.

We were living in Seattle, and my wife at the time, my daughter’s Mom, Donna, was working for Safeway. But for the first time ever, I was going to have to get a real job. I was 24 years old, I had two kids, and absolutely no idea what to do.

In reading the want ads, I spied an ad that read, “Come to The Institute of Sanitation Technology, Guaranteed Job After Graduation”. In the days that followed, I drove there to check it out, and found that the people who owned the school also had a janitorial company. That was how they guaranteed jobs. I signed up.

I must say, one would think that being a janitor isn’t much more than emptying waste baskets and cleaning toilets. And mostly, I was just after that guaranteed job. But I was surprised to discover that there actually was a curriculum, hands on experience with machines, and lessons about cleaning agents and other substances. There was a section on all the different types of flooring that one might find in a building, and the correct way to clean them, which agents to use, etc. What I thought was going to be sort of a joke, was actually quite a good learning experience. I finished the school, which was about a month, got a job with the company, and for the first time in my life, was supplying my own health benefits. I remained a janitor for about a year, and then found a job as a baker’s apprentice.

In the years to come, it was remarkable how many times I came to need the experience I had gotten as a graduate of “The Institute of Sanitation Technology”. For example, when I built my first bakery, I saved a ton of money by buying my own floor machine, and stripping and waxing the floor on a regular basis by myself. And believe it or not, there is a right way and wrong way to mop, with a big 28 oz. mop, and that little bit of knowledge made my job so much easier over the next twenty years of owning a bakery. Of course I passed on my knowledge of how to clean things properly to my employees.

My friend Stan, who came to work for me as apprentice in 1977 and ended up buying my bakery from me in 1995, used to make light of my “sanitation education”, when I would brag about it to him by stating, “Oh yeah that’s right Ric, I forgot, you did attend "The Institute of Sanitation Technology “At” Seattle”. Very funny. But all in all, I think my experience there suggests that, if you are learning something in school, just about anything, it will probably come back to help you later.

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The Rustler

In the Summer of 1975, a few months before I opened my first bakery, “Richard’s Bakery”, in Tualatin, Oregon, I was hurtin’ for work. It was taking longer than I had planned to get the bakery opened, with construction and legal issues, so I was ready to take just about any kind of piece work, a day here or there, just to keep a few bucks coming in. I worked several different jobs, not all of them as a baker. But for several weeks, right before my bakery was ready to go, I worked at an Albertson’s Bakery in S.E. Portland, at 39th and Holgate, which is currently a Trader Joe’s. I replaced vacationing staff, even including the manager of the bakery, whose name was Hubert Smiley.

I was still quite young, 27, and although I was capable of most of the requirements of that job, there were a few difficult moments, even in the short time I was there. For example, when I was called on to decorate a wedding cake, I admit standing back and looking at it and pitying the couple who had ordered their wedding cake at a grocery store bakery. Later, I became a much better cake decorator.

But one certain faux pas is especially worth mentioning, as I recall here.

One Sunday, working alone, I found an order on the spindle for a few hundred “poor boy” or “sub sandwich” style buns. Apparently this was a standing order for a Portland restaurant named “The Rustler”, who picked up these buns once a week, froze them and pulled them out as needed during the week, for steak sandwiches and other delights. I remember having to call Hubert Smiley at his home to ask a few questions, like, for example, where is the recipe?

The “formula” (the baker’s word for “recipe”), was a rather standard white dough, and also called for a small addition of “egg shade” which is a powder or liquid, and is used to color the dough to a rich yellow, as it might look with the addition of eggs. But when I got to that part, there was no egg shade to be found. I called Mr. Smiley back to ask him what to do, but there was no answer.

Ok, I sorta freaked. I should have just left the dough white, but instead, I found a regular yellow food color in the cake decorating department, and squeezed the bottle into the dough. A little looked pretty good, but too light. I squeezed again, and then again. Suddenly, as the dough spun in the mixer, I realized I had a bit of a problem on my hands, as in, yellow Easter egg colored bread dough. 100 pounds or so of, well, flourescent yellow dough. Shit.

What to do? Damn. If I start over, I will be here all day, given the necessary fermentation time, plus I will have wasted all these ingredients. Shit. Okay lessee. I could add something to tone down this yellow. Hmmmm, okay, I’ll use the “caramel color”, which is usually used to make the whole wheat or rye bread darker, and sometimes used in maple bar icing. I put a “glug” into the dough, and spun it again. Not enough. Another glug. And there, before my eyes, in the shiny 80 quart bowl, was.....

I don’t know how to explain it really. I guess it would be fair to say that the color went from Easter egg yellow, in a matter of seconds, to a color, well, a color unknown to nature. Sort of an eye popping yellowish burnt sienna, something, but, oh, not a color one might relish biting into.

The amount of work it takes for one baker to take a dough this big to the bench and make several hundred buns is daunting. But I had already made the doughnuts, iced the cakes, made the french bread, the wheat bread, the danish, several icings, brownies, on and on, and so, there in the Albertson’s Bakery on 39th and Holgate, on that sunny Summer day in 1975, I made the decison to continue. I went ahead and made the buns with that awful dough. For The Rustler.

When they were done baking, they didn’t look half bad. They were a nice golden brown, indistinguishable from the Rustler’s regular order. But when you looked inside, uh, there was that color, that tan bread, all ready for a nice piece of medium rare sirloin. NOT.

In the days that followed, I recall that the Rustler made a call to Hubert Smiley, to make their disatisfaction known. However, they did use up all the buns. And in the Fall of that year, just after I opened my store, The Rustler closed down. I have always hoped that the demise of that eatery, and my yellowish burnt sienna colored poor boys, was just a coincidence.

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Michael Jackson

My Michael Jackson story contains no shattering news about seeing him fondle someone, as is the custom, lately, for those who tell their stories of Michael. Mine is from the much more innocent and positive Michael days, circa 1969.

My old band, The Morning Reign, had a recording date set up at Don Costa Studios, in Los Angeles, to do vocals on a few tracks, most notably, a song titled “Can I Believe In You”, written by Dennis Lambert, who already had many hit records to his credit. We were excited to be doing a project with him. We met in the morning, and recorded for most of the day. As vocal sessions go, we sang, sang, and then sang some more, trying to get it just right. I sang the flip side of the record, which was called “Tomorrow Morning’s Love” (Nelson-Fink), and our guitarist Gene, with his a great sounding pop music voice, sang the Lambert song, which we were certain was our ticket to stardom. Or one-hit wonderness anyway.

When Gene was singing his part, over and over, I went from room to room in the building, checking it out, trying to stay out of trouble, but snooping nonetheless. In one room, which was about about 12’x12 ‘, I came upon a music stand, holding a large piece of poster board, with a passage from the Jackson 5 song, "ABC". It was the verse where Michael, as a boy, sang the part that went “TEE-TEE-Teacher”. It was written out, by hand, in large print, so someone could read it easily from a distance, five feet or so. I was dying to know what exactly had gone on there, and later asked one of the engineers. “Oh yeah”, he said, matter of factly, “Michael did the vocals for that song here." I probably could have taken home that crummy poster board with a polite request.

Gods of eBay, where were ya when I needed ya?

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Chestnut

In late 2000, when I was recovering from a heart attack, Marie and I began to discuss the merits of dog ownership. Mostly, we just felt like we wanted a dog. We also spoke of the value of having a dog for our son Blaine, who, at the time, was home almost exclusively, given his disabilities and the fact that he loves it at home too. I mean, with DSL, and oodles of cable channels, (and a step-dad to razz constantly), what more could a guy want? Besides a dog, I mean.

I once owned an Australian Terrier, who I named Toffa, after a childhood friend of one of my daughters. I love Terriers, but we thought we might go for a more calm, big lug of a dog, like a Lab. We dug out the dog book to do our research, to find a dog that would fit into our world, and yep, we decided a Lab would be the way to go.

We found a Lab breeder, and went out to visit her kennel, where she had a new litter of Chocolate Lab puppies. Talk about cute! The puppies weren’t quite old enough to leave their Mom yet, so we made a plan to come back later in the month. We put a sold sign on a little male. We kept quiet at home, intending to surprise Blaine.

On the appointed day, we loaded Blaine up in the van with the promise of a drive in the country to be followed by lunch. But oops, we detoured to the kennel, and before long, there Blaine was, sitting in the rear of the van, one smiley twenty-something, with a Chocolate Lab puppy in his lap, and me, the guy who cries at commercials, with tears in my eyes.

We all three contributed then, as the days went by, to the “name the dog” conversation, but I think it was Marie who ultimately came up with the winner, which I thought was a great choice, “Chestnut”. We went forward then, buying every dog toy known to man, a bed, a kennel, on and on. Don’t let anyone tell you it isn’t spendy to have a dog. And then we fell in love with him.

Chestnut was a great puppy, totally cute, rambunctious, hungry, all things Lab. A typical Lab tennis ball chaser, a dog who loved his walks, and a dog who could waste your shoes with the best of ‘em. As the house husband with a heart to heal, I was appointed chief dog walker. Chessy and I left the house several times a day. As he grew, our walks became longer, and by the time he was 6 months old, he was dragging me, as my heart got stronger, to the dog park about a mile away, twice a day. That’s 4 miles, every day. I am sure it was one of the things that contributed to my improving health. One might say, in fact, that my relationship with Chessy was a major factor in my recovery. I remember thinking, as he pulled me along 24th, past Lincoln and over to the park, how lucky I was to have my dog.

At 14 months old, however, Chessy got sick. He had just completed obedience training, and he had done well. But he was exibiting several different nasty symptoms of illness, and our worst fears were confirmed. Chessy, at such a young age, was going to die, from cancer.

At first, when you find out that your dog is going to die, you can’t believe it. So on the day that we were advised of Chestnut’s fate, we took him home. We made an appointment with a specialist, and I took Chessy for a walk to the park. He was still able to walk all the way, and he even pulled a bit. I knelt to praise him a bunch, as he basked in my approval. At the park, I tossed the tennis ball as usual, and he would run for it. But when he got there, about 30 yards away, he just stood there, and then turned back to look at me, long faced, energyless. It broke my heart.

Several days later, at the specialist’s office, we put Chestnut to sleep. For those of you who have never put a dog you love to sleep before, it sucks. For those of you who have, I offer my sympathy. We drove home silently, Marie, Blaine and I. These days, we speak lovingly of Chestnut often. I know that Marie and Blaine had a special bond with Chestnut, and that it was ever so difficult to see him go. But for me, it almost feels like he came into my life to help me recover from the heart attack, and then move on. We loved him so much, and he is deeply missed.

When he was a puppy, I wrote a song titled “We Got A Lab” which appears on my 2002 CD, “Useful Information”. Blaine “calls the dog” during the solo of the song. Click here to listen.

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Where Bitches Pee

I tend to not be especially PC, as in politically correct. I do recycle with the best of them, but if I am in The State of Washington, where they do not have a bottle bill, and I know I saw a pop can in the bottom of my van’s garbage bag, before someone else, never me of course, filled that garbage up to the brim, with coffee grounds and fishwrappers, I will likely toss the whole thing in the dumpster, not only legal, in Washington, but one whole hell of a lot more efficient, and way less icky.

But this pickin’ up your own dog’s shit sucks. I am committed to not fouling my neighbor's lawns, er, allowing my dogs to do so, and that’s why I am one hell of a stellar citizen, but here’s the deal.

When I was a kid, say, oh, 4 to 17, before I went away to college, I was the chief shit remover in my family. So I get it that people don’t want huge omega clumps of nasty Bull Mastiff feces on their putting green pristine lawns, and neither did my folks, who would dispatch me to my task with a wave, whenever we would see Rover having his way with our turf. “Ric”, my dad would holler, “that damn Frenchy pooped on the parking strip”, and off I would go, trowel in hand. In those days, it was homeowner beware, in lovely Portland, Oregon, in the 1950s, 60s, and later. Those who would take responsibility for their own dogs, well, most of them hadn’t been born yet.

I come by my green thumb honestly, having been the gardener at my folk’s house for much of that time too, and after awhile, one grows to check for dog shit on the lawn before one takes the Toro to it, since, though doo can be smelly and unpleasant to remove, sliced doo is potentially overwhelming. So there I would be, as a ten year-old, already fully capable of breaking down the Briggs-Stratton, on my knees, scraping feces from fescue, before returning with the lawnmower to comply with my parent’s wishes. And even into my adult years, as I began buying houses, it was still the job of the homeowner to remove any doo he might find on his property. Seems like I have spent my entire life removing dog shit.

We have a lovely turn of the century six-plex next to our home, and occasionally I will run into the owner, who shows now and then to do maintenance. His lawn is full of those little brown patches, where bitches pee, burned by the much heavier nitogen content of a female dog’s urine. I am sure it pisses him off. The last time I saw him, walking my teeny tiny dogs, with my bone-shaped doggy doo plastic bag dispenser tethered to my yuppie dog leash handle, one of them shit on his lawn. As I began to fumble for my poop bag, he was quick to remind me, “you’re gonna pick that up, aren’t ya?’. Being responsible for removing your own dog’s shit, is, i think, in all honesty, a very good thing. Still, I almost popped him.

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Guy Talk

I came along to join this family about 8 years ago, in 1997, just about the time my step-son Blaine was graduating from Wilson High School here in Portland, Oregon. I was still the new guy on the exact day of his graduation, so I didn’t feel as though I was entitled to go. But suffice it to say that, even then, not knowing him very well yet, I was impressed and amazed that, given his disabilities, he (and his Mom) had pulled graduation off.

As time went by that summer, Marie and I continued our courtship, staying up too late at night to watch the sunset from her front porch. Many times, Blaine would wheel out, and we three would tell stories and giggle as the moon drew near.

It didn’t take me long to figure out that Blaine liked having me in his life, and as he approached his 20s, we became great friends, talking sports, participating in things we both enjoyed, as guys, like, for example, teasing each other mercilously about all manner of things, while Marie hung her head in disbelief. In fact, I would proudly go so far as to say that I have had a significant impact on Blaine, teaching him the ways of manhood, like making him treat his Mom right, showing her the respect she deserves, and other things, like how to put a new electronic device together without reading the instructions. He is a great student, a natural.

About a year after I had moved in, we were all watching TV one evening, a National Geographic special. Each time they broke for commercial, the show would pose an animal question, like, how fast does an ocelot run, and then give you three answers to choose from. We would each choose one, just ‘cause we are typical TV watching suckers who won’t change channels during a commercial when there is a big burning question to be answered. Each time, we would wait patiently to find out which one of us got the answer right.

On about the third question, which was something like how many quills does a porcupine have, I went into a rant, as the commercial played, about how smart I am, about how I was certain I had chosen the correct anwer cuz, well, “Some people are just brilliant, smarter than others. Some people actually READ now and then, something besides stupid chess books and bodice rippers, something where they might LEARN something, like how many quills a porcupine has”, on and on, just to make them both squirm, especially Blaine, as Marie laid on the couch and Blaine sat, arms folded, not saying a word.

When the show resumed, the announcer came on and, much to my feigned embarrassment, tipped his hat to Blaine, whose chosen answer was correct. Suddenly, as quick as a jackrabbit, and without mercy, as he sat perched in his wheelchair, Blaine turned, and from the very depths of his being, shot up his hand and middle finger my way, forming the universal sign for FUCK YOU RIC, right there in front of his mother, to my dismay and approval.

Marie, whose former relations with her son had been, shall we say, less worldly, opened her eyes about as wide as dinner plate dahlias, and sat there totally silent for a moment, before shouting, B L A I N E! At that moment, I knew I had been playing the role of step-dad to perfection.

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Love It Or Leave

My nephew Max Angell is becoming a good songwriter. I love to hear his songs, and watch him as he crafts them. He is already writing mature and interesting lyrics, at his tender age of 21, and his Uncle Ric is about as proud as is possible. I find such joy in listening to his songs, as I can see some similarity in our writing style. After all, we are related. I was there, watching him come through, on the day he was born, in my sister’s bedroom. Keep your eye out for Max Angell.

When I was Max’s age, and in my old band, “The Morning Reign”, I was writing songs for the band to learn and perform, by myself, and with the advise and consent of the other members of the band. Since I was the most prolific writer, we ended up doing a lot of my songs, and to this day, I feel most grateful to those guys for being accepting and enthusiastic about the material I was handing out, which, looking back, was at nowhere near the maturity level of say, Max Angell.

I love self-deprecating humor, and I could go on and on about the crappy, inane lyrics in some of the songs I talked those boys into performing. I would bring them a song, perform it for them on guitar, and they would almost always say, okay let’s do it, pick up their instruments, and away we would go. Before long, we had a rockin’ version of some song of mine, pumped out through a wall of Marshall and Sunn amps.

Songs like “Feelin' All The Things I Did”, written from the perspective of an old man, which, since I was only 21 when I wrote it, could be called into question as a bit of a stretch. Or the ever meaningful and downright literary song about those who left for Canada rather than be drafted to fight in Viet Nam, titled “Exit Us”, and it’s more pop offspring, a ditty called “Love It Or Leave”, a title taken directly from a bumper sticker produced and sold by The Elks Club circa 1967.

Here, for your twisted pleasure, I offer one verse:

“Got a letter from my Grandma, said I oughta join the BPOE
They got stickers for your car now boy
Gonna set our country free
So I got a sticker, and read the message there....
“Love It Or Leave” gonna make me heave...
I sent her a lock of my hair”

God I hate it when my masochistic side raises it’s ugly head. But I offer this verse as
evidence of The Morning Reign’s willingness to play and record the music I was generating at the time, and I continue to offer my heartfelt thanks to those boys for their contribution and zeal.

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The Remote Controlled Fart Machine No. 2

I dunno how I got there, but a few weeks ago, I ended up on a gadgets for sale website, on the page where one can buy the new and perfected “Remote Controlled Fart Machine No. 2,” also known as the “Boom Box Blaster”, for around 20 bucks. I ordered one straight away.

This past week, the fart machine arrived, and I have been having a ball with it. It uses a 9v battery, in the machine itself, and the remote control is about the size of a key fob. I tore the machine from it’s plastic packaging when it arrived, and got it working. Next, I went to place it somewhere near my perfect and sometimes proper wife Marie, who is mostly not known for a love of bathroom humour. After cleverly and slyly placing it near her butt, I stepped to the other side of the room, remote control in my pocket, and began to play the neverending plethora of amazingly realistic and varied loud fart sounds, as she sat, eyes closed, in, shall we say, utter amazement. Some minutes later, as I continued to use all my energy in an effort to keep from splitting a gut, as it were, Marie remarked, eyes still closed, in an understated sort of way, ‘You’d think a wife would have the right to expect that, at some point, her husband would grow up”. Which of course, only made me laugh all the harder.

A bit later, two of Marie’s filmmaking associates rang the bell. Tony and Peter are in their 20s, an upbeat duo. As Marie prepared lunch, I introduced them to the fart machine, by placing it on the table on our deck, among the Doritos and guac. There I demonstrated the fart machine’s repertoire, and before long, oh, say, 4 or 5 farts into the demo, I thought I might have to take them both to Emergency. I was right behind them, tears rolling off all our cheeks. As I entered the kitchen, I caught Marie’s eye, and although it is nearly impossible to not laugh when those around you are in hysterics, drooling, and expelling a suitable beverage out their nose, she had remained calm.

I tell Marie, in my most sadistic moments, that I am going to put the fart machine in my back pocket, and use it relentlessly at say, the bank or the grocery store, when we are there together. Or that I might need to bring something to her at her work this week, where she holds a most responsible and respectable position, packin’ my new toy. I promise her that, after I have furtively blared out a few tear-ass creepers from the rear pocket of my shorts, I will act as though nothing is wrong, by looking directly and stoicly into the eyes of my various victims, and announcing, in my most assertive and challenging voice, “whut?”. She remains unamused.

Click here to see The Remote Controlled Fart Machine No.2.

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Stayin' Alive

I wholeheartedly recommend modern day helmets for childhood sledding

I know it’s not the same for all of us, but I think there is a good portion of men, who, when we get older, sometimes wonder how we possibly made it this far, given all the physical disasters (and mental too) we experienced in our lifetimes. At 57, I have had my share of broken hearts, failures and disappointments, which sometimes threw me into a mental state, supplying me with plenty of angst and loneliness. But the physical stuff, the potential for some sort of physical tragedy, rising out of one’s male “go for broke” way of being, one’s attitude of invincibility, that’s where I mostly got myself in trouble.

As a kid, maybe 10 years old, a friend and I were sledding down the side of snowy Mt. Tabor, near my childhood home in Southeast Portland, Oregon. We spied a long snow covered downhill run, near one of the several water reservoirs on the hill. I recognized the spot as the usually ivy covered hillside, next to the stairs and handrail, which we would sometimes use as we travelled up the side of the mountain. I do recall having a teeny bit of apprehension, since it was incredibly steep, as I approached with my sled. I thought it might be a little scary, and dangerous, due to it’s steepness, and since, as I recalled it, the ivy patch was quite deep in it’s unsnowy state. I steeled myself for a fast and hairy head first dive into the abyss. GENONIMO!

Dude, what a ride. It was over in just a few short moments. I remember being fully aware that I was totally and completely out of control. And unfortunately, as the ride was coming to an end, I hit something, something that was never really identified, something that, looking back, I am sure nearly killed me.

It was probably a steel post. There was a handrail there, supported by 4” diameter steel posts, back then, along the stairs which meandered up the side of the hill, and cut through the ivy. My wind completely gone, I stood up, unable to gasp, and walked a few steps toward my buddy, my older next door neighbor Mike Hornbeck, and passed out cold. And get this......just the second before I passed out, my life flashed in front of me. I know it sounds weird, but I have heard others speak of this feeling before, and it definitely did happen to me. It's hard to explain, since it is just a quick flash, but as I was passing out, there was a flash of some sort of all knowing feeling about one's existence, a summary of one's life on earth. I have never forgotten that feeling.The next thing I knew, Mike was reviving me by smearing snow on my face, and calling out my name, probably a smart boy scouty kinda thing to do, as I awoke, prone on the snow. He pulled me home on my sled. I was weak.

I soon realized that I had little feeling in my upper left arm, and over the next few weeks, was given a battery of tests, as I recovered, but nothing was ever diagnosed. Ever since then, I have had a numb upper left arm, except if you slug me hard there, when it will sting more than my healthy right upper arm. It’s bizarre. However, it is not a big deal, and I have never really thought of it much.

I could go on and on, how I myself created dangerous situations for myself, especially as a young man, and barely escaped disability or death. And once, travelling the paved and winding back roads of Eastern Oregon with a friend in his maroon 1959 Ford Fairlane, he thought it would be fun to scare the shit out of me by driving, around blind corners, into the oncoming lane of traffic, time and time again, as I begged for mercy. Sheer luck permitted my survival, and allows me to be here today, writing this story. I feel blessed, having endured a lifetime of bein’ a guy, and runnin’ with guys, that I am still alive.

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The Airstream Chronicles............Cape Disappointment State Park, Washington

In early Spring 2005, Marie and I (and our two perfect Bichons, Pippi and Poppi) had made a plan to vacation for a few days, somewhere, anywhere, for some alone time. Of course, when you have two needy little dogs travelling with you, there is only so much true alone time to get. But we love them so much we would still rather have them with us. We found a window of opportunity this past week, with Marie’s mom ready and willing to stay at our home with our son Blaine. We made reservations at Cape Disappointment State Park, on the Washington Coast.

Marie has been attending a documentary filmmaking class, and actually making a ten minute short for a class project. Since it is due to be completed for showing on June 10th, we took all of her filmmaking gear with us, her camera, two laptops, (one for me and one for her), an additional hard drive, and various and sundry other devices and connections.

Our time here has been lovely, quiet, peacefully uneventful. Since we arrived in the middle of the week, the park has been rather unpopulated, the sound of those three wheel vehicles kid’s ride kept to a minimum. Just the way two old people like it.

We rose each morning, to the smell of dark and rich Columbian coffee, strained through our plastic campin’ french press, oh yeah. Then, for the morning hours, and into the afternoon, Marie worked on her movie, and I did a variety of things, writing, fishing, dog walking. I drove into the City of Iwaco, a quaint little coastal town, and fished Black Lake, iin the middle of downtown. No luck, but a beautiful spot. I sucked up a couple liquorice ice cream cones, and went exploring in the hills next to the city.

i shant bore you with a menu of each meal we enjoyed here, but suffice it to say, I did get my Pinot and chateaubriand.

We walked the dogs on the beach, and let them run without leashes for the first time ever. They were in dog heaven, there among the smells of the ocean and sand hills. I was afraid they might just run off into the sunset, never to be seen again, but after a good hour of non stop fun, they were ready to come back to mom and dad, and go back to the trailer for some rest. I don’t they they moved once all night long.

Cape Disappointment is a huge and unforgettable state park. They are gearing up here for a very busy summer, since it is the 200th anniversary of Lewis and Clark’s journey from St. Louis to Oregon, a journey taken on the orders of Thomas Jefferson. There is a recently completed interpretive center, ready to greet people from all over the world. But we’re gonna get outa here today, and it has been a blast.
See photos here

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Arch Enemy

I am not, generally speaking, what one might refer to as “fashion conscious”. Basically, I get up, toss on jeans and a white tank top, year round. If it’s cold, I wear a soft flannel shirt over my tank top. If it’s hot, maybe I will wear a short sleeved shirt in the morning, but by the time I’ve run the stairs a few times, it’s tank top weather. For shoes, I go with a slip-on cloggy shoe, maybe tennis shoes. I do have slacks, and a suit. Call me up for a wedding. I’ll show you the suit. When it comes to fashion, I’m that guy, on his haunches, hosin’ down his driveway on a sunny Northwest day, Starbucks cup nearby. Nothin’ too dressy.

There was a time, though, perhaps when I was a bit younger, when I might go for a look, oh, black leather boots, leather vest, or poet shirt. But those boots........oh man, they hurt like hell. And they were expensive boots, and I broke’m in right, all that. In my fashion conscious days, I went for the look, not for comfort. Well, them days is over.

Several of my songs address the issue of comfort over fashion, like “Marginal Style” from my second CD, “Regards From The Roombar”. Later this summer, there will be two new CDs, and one of them features a fashion related song titled The Fa".

But there is one song, “Arch Enemy”, that didn’t make the cut for either of the forthcoming CDs. In a nutshell, it explores my very deep feelings about shoes that kill. I offer it here for stream or download. It’s a bit on the risque side, so don’t crank it if your younger kids are there.
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June 21, 2005

It’s my birthday today. I am 57 years old.

Sometimes, Father’s Day falls on my birthday, and that’s cool. Some might say it’s not fair, having two special days fall on one, like having your birthday fall on Christmas or something. To be honest, the older I get, the less I like the fanfare. Take me to dinner, but don’t get the big flaming dessert and the singing waiters. Ugh. On Father’s Day, Marie and I ended up in Hood River, Oregon at a greasy spoon called “The Charburger”. Right up my alley. I missed having any of my kids around, but the atmospere was perfect for a guy with an artist’s heart and a taste for beef. There, beneath the long shelf displays of antique clothes irons and coffee grinders, sitting with my sweetheart, I quietly enjoyed one of the best ribeyes I’ve ever had.

When I had my bakeries, I always liked working on my birthday. For many years I was the head cake decorator at my bakery, so I got to decorate many cakes for those who shared my birthday. It was fun to go out into the sales area, to see who the people were who were celebrating their birthday on June 21st , as they picked up the cake I had just finished, and give them a special greeting. “Yo”, I might say to a 13 year-old. “Dude, it’s my birthday today too, and here’s the cake I just made ya”.

Last night, at some friends, Marie coyly and blatantly announced my impending birthday, and many wished me well. Someone said, “Oh, it falls on the summer solstice, cool!" I have always liked that part. In my cocky days, I might have said, “See, that’s why I have such a sunny personality.” But I think our friend Nancy said it best, and most graciously, when she commented last evening, “Ric, that’s where you get your mojo!”

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Father's Day 2005

I miss my Dad, Bob Seaberg, who passed away in 1993. It seems like forever ago.

I miss his boisterous phone calls, his loyalty to the Portland Trailblazers. I miss his booming voice, even his insistance that I come over to his house to fix something, the lawnmower, or tend to my mother or grandmother, do something for one of them that he felt he did not want to do. Relationships were not his strong suit. But while I have sometimes lamented that my Dad saw me as more of a resource than a son, especially as I got older, I still miss the big galute. He was basically a kind, generous, honest man, and I feel grateful for that.

And I feel blessed to have been given the chance to be a father myself, first, to my perfect thirty something daughters, Stacey and Amy, who live in the Seattle area. Then, 8 years ago, when I met Marie, and I met Marie’s son Blaine, when he was 18, a new father-son relationship was also born.

I spend a lot of time with Blaine. Since I don’t work away from the home these days, I am almost always here to help him with any needs he might have, during the day while his Mom is at work, and we hang out a bit, maybe watch a movie, as we did yesterday, yucking our way, like a coupla' dorks, through genius Will Ferrell’s terrible movie, “Anchorman”.

Blaine is a chess fanatic, reads chess books like he does mysteries. He and his mother both can read a big book in a day. Sheesh, how’d I end up living with these MENSA people? Having gone to work as a volunteer at FreeGeek a year and a half ago, he has learned how to break a computer down and rebuild it, and a great deal about open source software, or LINUX. He is dynamite on crossword puzzles. When I get stuck, I sometimes have to call in Da Man. He is a sports nut, and spends some of his time as a moderator on the Portland Trailblazers Forum (Hear that, Dad?) And just for chucks, give him a math problem, like this number plus this number minus this number times this one divided by this one. He will do it in his head, crunch that thing up and spit out the right answer, everytime.

For Blaine to be such an achiever is an inspiration to many, since he is disabled. Blaine has had spina bifida since birth, hydrocephalus, other disabilities. Being paralyzed from the armpits down, he requires a bit of assistance each day when he rises, and uses a wheelchair.

I paused to say goodnight to Blaine last night, as I passed his room, before heading upstairs. From his wheelchair, he handed me a Sports Illustrated, with an article on the last page by Rick Reilly. I thanked him, and glanced at the article as I climbed the stairs. After seeing what the article was about, I tossed a box of Kleenex on the bed before I slid in and began reading to Marie.

The article is about Dick and Rick Hoyt, a father-son marathoning “team” (www.teamhoyt.com), from Massachusetts. Rick Hoyt, who is 43, has been paralyzed since birth. His father Dick, who is 65, has spent his life caring for his son, and, get this.......running marathons with him, pushing him in a specially made wheelchair, and ..........they have also completed 212 triathlons!!!!! At the end of the article, Rick Hoyt, who communicates by computer keys, calls his Dad “the father of the century”. Marie and I finished the one page article, held hands and wasted a few sheets of tissue. I caught my breath, and returned to Blaine’s room.

“You butt!”, I spoke as I entered his room. “Whut?” he giggled, fully knowing the effect the article would have on me. We embraced, as we do, me bent over his chair, and Blaine slapping my back as we hug. “Wow”, I said, “that’s quite a story, what a guy, taking his son on all those triathlons, helping him have a full life.” “Yeah”, Blaine replied, not known for being overly emotional, unlike his Mom and Dad.

I finally rose to return to bed, after much hugging and slapping. As I reached the stairs, I hollered, “Love ya man”, and Blaine shot back, “You too”.
A few photos of Blaine

NEWSFLASH: A clip of Ric's song "I Need A Car" will be played on NPR's "Car Talk" radio show this weekend. Check local listings. Thank you for your support.
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The Airstream Chronicles............Champoeg State Park, Oregon

In late Summer 2004, we were in a rush to find a nice, and nice close campground to visit, with our newly refurbished 1964 Airstream Tradewind. In cruising the Oregon and Washington State Parks websites, I was paying particularly close attention to wheelchair accessibility, since one of the goals of our maiden voyage was to determine how well the Airstream might accomodate us all, two adults, one adult in a wheelchair, ( our 26 year old son Blaine) and two small dogs. We had already detemined that Ainsworth State Park, with its lovely accessible paths, but completely inacessible bathrooms, was not going to work.

I decided to take a short trip out to Champoeg State Park (Sham-poo-ee), by myelf, one sunny September day, to check out the campsites. I had read about Champoeg on the web, and had been there several times in the past, for day trips, group picnics, other events. According to the website, accessible sites are available, and including several in a newly constructed campsite area, with all of the standard RV “full hook up” ammenities, water, electric, and sewer.

The older section of the park, with it’s stands of Alder and other old growth, though beautiful, does not have accessible bathrooms. I drove on to the new sites, which I had noted on the web. As I entered, the newness of this part of the park was immediately apparent. There are great paths, all pavement, perfect for wheelchairs, and, in the accessible sites, large pavement pads for wheelchair users. Excellent! The charm of old growth is not there, but among the rolling hills of green grass, many different varieties of deciduous trees have been planted, and, in ten years, it will be a beautiful, time honored setting. I pulled into one of the vacant accessible sites, to have a look around. The bathroom was close by, so I walked over to have a look. Wow. Not only does this building have comfortable stalls and fixtures in the bathroom area, for a wheelchair user, but...get this....there is also a separate wheel-in shower stall, so that a person who uses a wheelchair could use a waterproof shower chair to shower there.....and....what’s more.....a hand held shower sprayer, just like we have at home for Blaine!

It’s the little things, folks. When someone you love is in a wheelchair, and who, many times, is forced to struggle with inadequate accomodations, this kind of thoughtfulness in making a camp setting more inviting and accessible, well, honestly, I get tears in my eyes.

So we ended up taking a weekend trip to Champoeg, and, to make a long story short, a 125 lb. young man who uses a wheelchair, which will not fit through the door of a 1964 Airstream, a door which is already 2 feet off the ground, is a bit of a challenge. We worked with it. We had fun anyway. But as Marie and I get older, I admit, we look for ways to eliminate as much of the lifting as possible. All in all, I think it’s safe to say that our trips with Blaine, where he, and his chair, are inside the Airstream with us, will be limited. But there is other news!

Many state parks these days have either yurts or little cabins, one or more of which has been build to accessiblity standards, and including one such very nice cabin, at Champoeg State Park! Next time we go, we will rent the cabin for him, and he will be able to have his privacy, and also transfer from his chair to the bed, all of that. We will meet to take our meals at the Airstream picnic table, do a few crossword puzzles, (one of Blaine’s many talents) and walk (or roll) along the picturesque and smooth pavement path which edges the Willamette River at Champoeg. I mean, if I can get him out of that shower!

Giant Erections

Ever since I can remember, for reasons that I have not been able to grasp, giant erections have frightened me. Generally, it’s some huge industial erection, like a dam, rather than say, a skyscraper, with it’s friendly architecture and windows to the top. No, it has to be austere, cold, unpopulated, like the massive grain storage unit I spied in Moro, Oregon, when we stopped there, in May, 2005, to visit the popular, renowned Sherman County Museum, which houses the amazing stories, artifacts and history of Oregon’s “dry land farming” community. After our visit, we stepped into the Airstream to make lunch, and as I walked outside, to the rear of the coach, I saw rising, in the four or five football field sized parking lot we were in, the grain structure, many, many many stories high, as tall as a skyscraper, round, grey, and giant. Dust clouds swirled by in the dry sun, and there was not a soul in sight. I am getting pretty good at this, since it has been bugging me forever, but a sight like this, if I am caught unawares, can actually send shivers down my spine.

When I was very young, and had not yet put a face on this phobia, I once found myself picnicking at Bonneville Dam, in the Columbia River Gorge, with my family and others. I suppose we were seated as close as one can get to the dam’s “falls,” because I can still put myself right there, and see the view I saw that day. It wasn’t terrifying, just sorta scary, the hugeness of it, something, the sound, the size. Let’s just say, that moment in the movie “Vegas Vacation”, where Chevy Chase is lost inside Hoover Dam, and then opens a door and rushes through it, only to realize that he is somewhere in the middle of the backside of the dam, dangling for his life, flailing about on a sea of brick, they coulda left that part out.

Have you ever seen a movie or TV show where, at some point, there is an actor in a small boat , a dingy, and suddenly, out of nowhere, comes a huge ship, which nearly capsizes the actor’s boat, and maybe it makes that huge Beeeeeeeeee-Ohhhhhhhhhhhh horn sound as it goes by? Ack! Fishing as much as I have, and being in smallish fishing boats in the ocean, I have occasionally seen some huge cargo ship pass, and though I have always been several hundred yards away, it’s creepy. Even being that far away, it’s easy to see how fucking huge they are.

There is an amazing “blimp hangar” in Tillamook, Oregon. As one who was raised in Oregon, and has lived here for most of my life, I have been to Tillamook many times. After all, that’s where the Tillamook Cheese Factory is located. When I was in the band, we played there several times. Later, I stalked the mighty salmon on the Trask and Wilson Rivers, which flow through Tillamook, on their way to the sea.

Two huge blimp hangars were built in Tillamook, in 1942, by the U.S. Navy, to house many blimps, which were used for military purposes. In 1992, one of the hangars burned to the ground. The remaining hangar is now a privately owned aerospace museum, with a significant number of planes and artifacts, a restaurant and a gift shop. The last time I went there, maybe fifteen years ago, the museum had been conceived, but wasn’t yet up and running. The hangar was, however, being used at that time to house a specially rigged small industrial blimp, which was being tested as a new method for removing big timber and logs from Oregon’s coastal forests. I had a small chat with the manager, who then showed my travelling companions and I a short film about the project. After the film, I wandered off into the hangar. Holy shit. First, I must say, it is a remarkable structure, all wood, in the shape of one massive quonset hut, open beamed. Secondly, I admit to getting a bit queasy, standing there, absolutely dwarfed by the thing, it’s height, length, and width. I learned later that six regulation football games can be played in there at once. It is 1072 feet long, and 15 stories high.Marie tells me she’s never been there, so I have to take her to see it, maybe pull the Airstream and get a place to stay at Cape Lookout, one of the great state parks in the area. But after we go, I hope she will agree to calm me down with a nice hunk of sharp cheddar.
See the Tillamook Blimp Hangar Museum here

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The Airstream Chronicles............Ainsworth State Park, Oregon

In late Summer of 2004, after we had finished the refurbishing of our 1964 Airstream, we were a’hankerin’ t’go somewhere. Not only had we spent a lot of time and money on the trailer itself, but we had put together a state of the art trailer hitch package too, sway bars, stabilizer bar, a runaway braking system, all the extras. We were so ready.

Of course a 1964 Airstream, with it’s 1964 architecture, is, shall we say, the antithesis to the concept of accessiblility. As some of you know, our 26 year old-son Blaine, who lives with us, uses a wheelchair. So we wanted desperately to do a dry run, at least, to see how it might work out, with the three of us, (and our dogs), doing our usual bending and stretching and other creative methods as we cope with the fact that the world is mostly not made for wheelchairs.

The State of Oregon, and many other states, are doing a great job, these days, bringing parks, and park ammenities, like bathrooms, up to ADA standards, to make them accessible to disabled citizens. Gravel paths, in many cases, have given way to nice smooth pavement paths, much more suited to wheelchair use. Gravel paths, for the wheelchair user, totally suck. If you have a person who uses a standard wheelchair in your world, and you see gravel, you usually go the other way. If there is a way.

We thought we might find a nice park near our home, travel 25 miles or so, just go for an overnighter, see how it went. First, my nephew Max and I, as we neared the completion of our Airsteam polishing, took a break one afternoon and drove out to Ainsworth State Park, in the Columbia River Gorge, just a few miles past Multnomah Falls, to see what the accessiblility conditions were like there. We pulled into the park, and I was immediately encouraged, when I saw several RV sites which were designated as accessible sites, complete with blue wheelchair logo signage. Since there was no one parked in the site, we pulled in, to check it out. “Wheelchair Accessible” campsites are a fairly new innovation, and are distinguished from other sites in that there is no gravel, the picnic tables are sometimes extended on the ends such that a person in a wheelchair can easily sit up to the table, and many times the sites are located fairly close to the park restrooms. Very cool. Very welcoming. We walked about the site a bit, optimistically, and decided to walk up the brand new pavement path to the bathrooms, for a bit more research. The path was swell, a gradual incline, approximately one inch incline for every foot of distance, which is the ADA requirement. Very doable for walkers and rollers. But when we got to the bathroom, a large green structure with showers and many stalls............oops. It was completely inaccessible. Not even one bathroom stall was large enought to fit a wheelchair. The showers were even smaller. I could tell by the age of the building that it was probably slated for replacement. Other recent improvements, to make the park more friendly to the disabled, like the great pathways and the accessible campsites, led me to believe that the plan was being implemented, but not yet complete. One day, we’re gonna give ol’ Ainsworth a try.....but for now, uh, no cigar.

We may not have found the result we were hoping for at the campsite, but undaunted, and hungry as hell, Max and I visited the restaurant at Multnomah Falls Lodge next, a lovely old stone building built during the Roosevelt years, (and accessible!) for the most succulent Halibut fish and chips I know of. See pictures of our Airstream, here, at the “Photos” section of my website .

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The Airstream Chronicles...........How We Got Our Airstream

My mother used to scoff, many years ago, when, as a grade-schooler, I would brag about how, someday, me an’ Scotty Haskins were gonna grow up, and then live in a trailer. Something about trailers fascinated me, even then. I think it might be the fact that, in such a small package, one has everything one needs, and mobility, too! Like, my home is my castle, and my castle is attached to the bumper of my car. “Ah, sweet youth,” Mom would tease, “fuggedaboudid”.

I watched with great interest any TV shows featuring trailers, as a kid, and that wacky, slow movie, “The Long Long Trailer”, starring Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz. ( I guess the video ad for that show would have been the trailer trailer).

I bought a little red Coleman tent trailer, which slept four, as a young adult, to accomodate my family my wife and two daughters. It was the first thing I ever bought on contract, and paid off, so I guess my good credit, now that I am an old guy, began right there. But I sold it to get the money for, I dunno, braces, something, and spent the most of my adulthood trailerless, that is, until last summer.

I have no idea what would make a person, who has $3000.00 set aside for emergencies, wake up one morning and decide to buy a vintage Airstream trailer. Not any old silver trailer, (though there are great other vintage silver models, including, most notably, the Spartan), but specifically, an Airstream, those styley retro toasters you have loved forever. A little silver home on wheels, with everything you need in it, stove, fridge, shower, maybe a cute housewife in a 1950’s lookin’ apron, bangin’ out some homemade, crispy and garlicky fried chicken, or fresh trout.

I started cruising the Oregonian, our local newspaper, and watched the “Travel Trailer” section for maybe a month, before a possibility surfaced. It was a friday, in April, 2004, and I was on it. I went about my chores for the day, did some errands, and wound up, about 4pm, in the backyard of an Oregon City couple, whose Airstream had seen better days, as it sat on the “north forty” portion of their property, in very tall grass, lookin’ like a Wyeth painting. It was listed in the paper for $4850.00. Apparently, there had been some confusion between husband and wife, regarding price, because the husband, who was very nice, as we looked the old trailer over, volunteered a sale price of $3000.00, with a bit of guilt in his voice. Perhaps it was the rodent droppings under the oversize and smelly mattress that was lying slumped over the dining table in the fore section of the coach. “I’d let this thing go for $3000.00”, he spoke, “it’s a bit of a mess. And it’s jus’ too much work fer me t’bring’er back. Alls we need is a little Prowler ‘er somethin”.

I wrote him a check for half right then and there. The body looked pretty good, and I knew I was in for some major repairs. But just as he was agreeing to deliver it to my place in Portland, his wife came out and reported that “there are ten messages on the answering machine honey, did you sell it?”. I got the feeling that there were others who would have gladly paid the $4850.00. “I just sold it for $3000.00, the husband replied, to her surprise. “And the deal is done. I am a Christian man, and we have a deal.”

Marie likes to tell the story of my cell phone call to her, driving home, after buying the trailer. She was shocked to hear that I was calling her, at her work, from Oregon City, at almost 5pm. “YOU WHAT?” she replied to my purchase announcement.

The trailer, our 1964 Airstream Tradewind Land Yacht, arrived at the parking lot of my commercial building, where I store it and work on it, the following monday. I got to work. My nephew Max helped me with the demo and rebuilding, the spitting and polishing. My wife Marie handled the decor. The refurbishing took all summer. We spent thousands of dollars doing it. It was hard, but it was so much fun. The trailer is our pride and joy, and as a huge bonus, I got to spend time with and get to know one of my terrific nephews much better. And Marie and I took so much pleasure in the final touches, as we placed the newly made cushions and throw pillows, and began to load it up with our own personal touches.

At Summer’s end, it so happened that my 2004 CD, “Santa Monica”, was ready for release, at the same time that we felt that we were ready to reveal the progress on the Airstream. So we threw a killer barbecue at our commercial building, flung open the doors of the Airstream, and released the CD all on the same day. We named the party “Refresh, Reveal, Release”, peddled a few CDs, and generally, a great time was had by all. I still have some party favor CD openers, which are pictured here, one of which I would be delighted to send to you, dear reader, for free, if you email me your name and address.

Website: http://www.ricseaberg.com

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Santa Monica's Not........My Home Town

There are approximately 13007 songs in the world which espouse the virtues of one’s home town. Songs with lovely, altruistic and melancholy lyrics, songs from deep in the heart of the writer. Songs that aim to take the listener back to his or her own cherished home town. Many of these great songs do just that. Songs like “My Little Town” by Paul Simon. Or one of those “heartland” songs by John Mellencamp. Or one of the hundreds of songs simply titled “My Home Town”, by writers from Bruce Springsteen to Paul Anka to Tom Lehrer. And don’t forget all of those masterpieces of cityism, “New York, New York”, “I Left My Heart In San Francisco”, “ I Love L. A,” and so many others. I love all these songs, and I love my home town. Portland, Oregon. I can identify.

But when it came to writing my own song about “my home town”, dang, I couldn’t go there. It’s surely not that I don’t truly love my hometown, with it’s fantastic range of people and places. And it’s not that I don’t have some wonderful childhood memories, scratching my way, bush by bush, straight up the side of Mt. Tabor, or sliding into second on one of the immaculate Little League diamonds at Alpenrose Dairy. Or that I don’t deeply appreciate our wildlife and proximity to the mountains and the ocean. Nope, none of that. I just had this overwhelming feeling, that, well, as far as songs go.....it’s been done.

So when a little melody popped into my head a couple of years ago, and it seemed like it might work for that kind of song, I wrote the words.....Santa Monica’s NOT........my home town. And my own brand of “home town” song was born. Santa Monica is, in fact, the title of my 2004 CD. Click here for a clip of the song.

LATE BREAKING NEWS! Marie and I are taking a week off, splittin' in the Airstream for parts unknown, get a little R&R, throw a couple overly fatty chateaubriand on the barby, maybe fill up the well. See you in a week or so.

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