Bonnie and Clyde Files 7

Bonnie and Clyde Files, NSP Meditations , , , , , , ,

We made our way through the mowed pasture, Bonnie to the left, Clyde to the right. They were romping. I was noticing: a wasp nest the color of a rotten lime, streaks of mold decorating a solar panel, neon buds on new Sitka spruces. All three truly remarkable gradations of green that transfixed me until an osprey dive-bombed us and broke the spell. We had the pasture all to ourselves, except for the darting barn swallows and the mowing and baling machinery parked near a grove of 100-year-old willows that looked like a portal to a better realm. It was. I’ve took it.

Monday morning, Probation Meeting Monday Blues, sung off key for sure, but with down home conviction in a windowless room. Come to think about it: maybe more a country tune, with some gospel accents. Whatever the musical genre, hearing it will break your heart, I assure you. I Get My Heart Broken Every Monday Morning—what a song title! Now that I write it, definitely country.

Gray dominated the skies while drizzle fell. It also happened to be a summer morning on the Oregon Coast, or summer mourning as the tourists might say. Bonnie and Clyde were in fine form, hitting me up for treats, coming over for pets and rubs, and sniffing the wet earth for clues.

Thank god I found this crew when I did! They restore my spirit every time we hang out on the river. They chase away the line,“I tested hot for heroin,” or the image of dog food coupons fanned across a table in the lobby of the probation office—25 coupons. No blues or country song in that image, I assure you. Perhaps punk rock.

I took a gander at the river and whipped out the blue book and pen. I tossed treats to and from and Bonnie and Clyde bounded away. I took notes. I took notes on how much this pasture and these dogs reminded me of a mowed pasture and my dogs on the wildlife refuge so many years ago.

Get back I wrote. Get back to where you once belonged.

I’m working on it.

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NSP Correspondent / Matthew Sproul / Twofer

NSP Correspondents

It is 8 p.m. on one of the longest days of the year as a solitary older man makes his way down a 104-year old sidewalk in a quiet neighborhood of a large North American city. The air is calm and warm, welcoming. “I’ve made it to another summer and thanks be to God for that,” he muses.

Our walking man pushes down towards 16th Avenue where it terminates right up near the BNSF railroad tracks. The RR right of way created an open area at this spot. Herbert, as he’s known, looks through the Cyclone fence. He sees the towers downtown, and by holding his gaze can make out the slopes of Forest Park in the farthest northwest reaches of the city. It’s pleasing—a few blocks from home and he can see clear to the end of the big town.

Having reached the high point of his perambulation and taken it all in, Herb heads up 16th. The concrete pathway is moss covered, cracked, heaved and sloped, all attributable to the very tall, narrow beech trees that line the street. To his left there’s industry, a stonecutter’s warehouse. On the opposite side are houses, one of which is a duplex having a low pitched roof suggestive of an Arts and Crafts style influence.

 

Crossing Woodward Street, Mr. Herbert espies one of his favorite things, a house cat taking the air. It’s a Tabby variety he calls Scottish Rex as it has the small ears with bent tips characteristic of that breed. Rex is not a pal per se, but our man on the street considers domestic cats to be the nobility in his neighborhood. Their self contained dignity and ease of occupation is remarkably similar to their cousins, Siberian and Bengal tigers, the paragons of the animal kingdom.

Continuing along he sees Marmalade Tabby, a long time friend. This medium hair, polydactyl denizen likes to brush by his legs and turn barrel rolls on the pavement for him.

Thus cheered, Herb pivots at Taggart Street, and is headed towards home. Ahead, people are doing major yard work, so the sidewalk is in use. He moves into the street and decides to continue on to 20th Avenue. There he catches himself walking fast and thinks to slow down as it’s a place where he’s met a friendly cat. Presently, he sees Blackie, an American short hair, and gives his high-pitched call as he bends at the waist and wiggles the fingers of his left hand. It’s a skill, knowing how to have a goof with an outdoor cat. Blackie starts over and pauses before coming to him.

Then surprise and a joy to behold, a second feline has come forth from his porch and hastens to join his better half in greeting our cat lover. It’s a twofer.  Herb cuffs Blackie’s chin, greets the Tabby, then taps the former before closing the visit with a virtuoso move—stroking the backs of both animals at once. Nice.

As he makes his way back home Mr. Herbert feels a flare of joy and gratitude at having being received by a pair of the local gentry.

Matthew Sproul was born in 1960 in Barnstable (founded 1639), Massachusetts. He went to high school in Newport OR. Sproul studied at OSU and the U of O, and worked as a waiter and tree planter, prior to moving to Portland in 1988. He loves 19th century American painting, hockey and the Washington State Cougars.

 

Bonnie and Clyde Files 6

Bonnie and Clyde Files, NSP Meditations , , , , , ,

Sunshine spooked the gray skies. It could rain or could not. Bonnie and Clyde sniffed around the high grass and chomped sedge. Alder leaves floated down the river. No birds anywhere.

I fished my phone from my shirt pocket and placed a call to a dear old friend who had called me the previous evening and left a brief message of concern and encouragement that warmed my heart.

My call wouldn’t go through. I tried again and still, no luck. I wanted to call my friend from the river of the dog sanctuary because she is very much a person of the river, which only makes sense to people of the river. She has known Oregon rivers her whole life and takes her students to rivers, like I once did.

I wanted to tell her that I am surviving, imagining, searching, trying to manifest transitions and transcendence. I wanted to tell her that Bonnie and Clyde are assisting me and that one day I hope to have the wherewithal to adopt an old dog and reinvent Travels with Charley for myself, although my rig might be a 40-year old RV up on blocks and not going anywhere except a state of anonymity and rebirth. But at least the 8-track player works.

There was so much to tell my friend but a third call wouldn’t go through either. Had she answered, I would have told her of my new better life and all the new habits and philosophies I’ve embraced. I would have also told her of my new voice and obligation as a writer and American citizen. I would not have told her of the incalculable human suffering I’ve witnessed. I might have mentioned the official ventriloquism I’ve observed.

I gave up trying to call her from the river. I wasn’t angry or frustrated by the terrible reception. Terrible reception is sometimes the most beautiful problem in the world, especially when you are standing next to a river on the Oregon Coast.

Bonnie came over, then Clyde. I gave them some pets and rubs, set up the camp stool and TV tray and went to work. They flopped down beside me and we all looked at the river together.

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Bonnie and Clyde Files 5

Bonnie and Clyde Files , , , , ,

I turned slowly into the gravel driveway of the sanctuary and the crunching sound began. I rolled down the window and waited for something to pierce the crunching. It came, and the piercing was good: the barking and howling of Bonnie and Clyde. I couldn’t seem them yet, but I knew they were outside at the gate and I like to believe Bonnie and Clyde recognize the sound of my car and work up a special enthusiasm for my visits to the sanctuary.

Yes, I believe they do! The treats are merely secondary! It must be the warm personality exuded by a 53-old year man who has struck out on 47 job attempts and is rapidly going broke.

I greeted the crew at the gate, slipped them some treats, and we made for the pasture and the river. Chainsaws grinded away in the distance and a fresh clearcut in the Coast Range was undoubtedly making its way into a corporate spreadsheet that would tickle far flung investors who didn’t know what a clearcut was.

The “show.” Loggers used to call a clearcut the “show,” or did in Sometimes a Great Notion. I doubt a single logger in Oregon calls it that anymore.

Money dominated my thoughts. I couldn’t exorcise them no matter how hard I tried. The bills keep coming. What am I going to do to earn a living? How am I going to survive? What is the secret? Is there a secret? Is the answer staring me straight in the face? Maybe I should try to become a middle-aged logger and bring back the word “show.” I could watch Paul Newman in Sometimes a Great Notion and learn how to log. Wait! I’ve already seen the film 50 times so I think I can figure it out.

Better yet, I need Bonnie and Clyde to rob some kind of existential bank for me. The loot will tie me over until some door opens up for me, I kick one down solo or a new friend helps me shatter a door to smithereens.

We meandered in the pasture until we came to the electric fence that blocked the path to the river. Bonnie and Clyde went under. I inspected the wire. I wondered if grabbing the wire would shock some solutions into me. I moved closer to it. I could hear some cracking sounds that weren’t nature-generated.

I grabbed the wire. Nothing. No current. I grabbed it again. Still nothing.

I followed the crew to the river where they sipped from water. I looked at the current. I waited for five minutes. I put my hand into it. Nothing.

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Fort Vodka

Driftwood Forts, NSP Meditations , , , , , ,

I came across a plastic bottle of vodka, Blue Skyy brand, gallon size, dangling inside a driftwood fort. It hung from a colored rope, lost boat rope, and swung gently in the breeze with a real hanging knot, expertly tied. A hangman’s noose! I’d never seen a driftwood fort used as a gallows, but here it was, and I sort of dug it. There is always something new with each fort. That’s why I investigate every one I encounter and build them everywhere I ramble.

Mist and gray enveloped the area. Pelicans loped out to sea. A freighter approached the bar. The scent from the wrack line was heavy with decay. A few cormorants flew here and there, no doubt refugees from the nearby shotgun slaughter to save fake hatchery salmon from evil cormorant purloining. Did you know that there exists a human being, perhaps even doubling as a trained biologist, living in the watershed, who is paid by the state to shotgun nesting cormorants on a fake island at the mouth of the Columbia River? So far this human being as racked up over 2600 kills.

I’d like to interview this person in his home, see how he decorates it, listen to her tastes in music, learn what she eats for breakfast to fuel up for the murder spree. Stare into the face of their children watching animated movies featuring clever and adorable avian life. I’ll even pet their dog.

What a party it must have been around the beach bonfire, with cool people, with Blue Skyy, belting from the bottle, and retelling old fraternity and sorority stories they barely recall. I bet they never wondered why there was an extra “y” in Sky. A cunning ad man probably dreamed up while backpacking in a wilderness with decent WI-Fi.

I shored up the fort and left my cosmic fort calling card. I moved north down the beach and gathered up a few limpets to add to the 10,000 I already own. The mist picked up. I removed my stocking cap and let the moisture fall on me. I caught mist in my hands and rubbed it into my face. I sat down on a driftlog and ate a breakfast of cheese, pear and peanut butter. In the distance, I saw a bald eagle perched on a root wad. I looked down to my right and noticed a pint, liquor-shaped bottle buried halfway in the sand. I presumed more vodka. Driftwood Fort Vodka—damn! I liked the sound of that brand. But we would spell it right and put a fort haiku on the back label. No #.

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Oregon Tavern Age: White Wine Wednesday

NSP Meditations, Oregon Tavern Age , , , , , , , ,

I ventured up to the bar for a beer, looked left, and did a double take: an OTA man drinking a glass of white wine in an OTA joint! This was a first in my two decades of reconnoitering.

There have been many OTA women who favored red wine, but never an OTA man who favored white. I didn’t know what to make of it so I didn’t make anything. I also didn’t make anything of why I didn’t have a single reason for being in the South Jetty Bar on a late Wednesday morning but there I was hoping one would emerge.

It was the house white from a black box. The man sat next to another OTA man drinking Budweiser from a tall can. In the wings, a female bartender fiddled on her phone. Stanley Cup final highlights played quietly on the flat screen. At a nearby table, an OTA women drank coffee and ate clam chowder and dunked a peanut butter bar in both while reading a firearms magazine. She hacked an ex-smokers hack between dunks and turning the pages.

Two OLA, Oregon Lottery Age Men, entered. They ordered waters and went to the slots. They pumped in bills and went to work collecting taxes for the state while collecting disability.

I took my beer back to a table and waited for something to happen. My mind drifted to an ex girlfriend, a goddess, super high maintenance, and possessed of an incredible vocabulary. She only drank white wine, the high end stuff, and knew the Oregon wineries. She would infrequently accompany me to OTA joints and roll her gorgeous brown eyes when the bartenders recited their meager white wine offerings—one. When the offering was an airline mini bottle, my ex evinced a particularly wicked scorn.

In the end, she didn’t care. She would order five or six mini bottles at once and prepare for takeoff. She knocked the wine back fast, on a slum, lined up the dead soldiers, and laughed hard. I think she was actually having fun for the first time in her adult life and it wasn’t only the rotgut wine.

Unfortunately, it ended badly for us and she undoubtedly went back to the expensive wines in the suburbs and eternal discussions of real estate with good looking Oregon men who care deeply about the fortunes of professional sports franchises, but never make their girlfriends laugh nor drop the bombshell vocabulary word that turns their smart girlfriends on.

The Bud man broke up my dreamy reminiscence by telling a joke. It went something like this: two potatoes stand on a street corner. How can you tell one is a prostitute? It greets a potential customer by saying “Ida-Ho!”

That busted up the bartender. She came over and yucked it up with the two men. She asked the wine man if he wanted another glass. He picked up his empty glass, twirled it aloft, and set it down. The clock struck noon.

“Sure, why not?”

The Bud man joined him.

Somewhere, my ex was toiling in an office overlooking a filled wetland, miserable, diminishing, perhaps even dreaming of another life in OTA country, far, far from the suburbs and chain watering holes.

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