A Message from Sonny

NSP Meditations , , ,

The text message came late at night. I was trying to sleep. It was three or four months into the ordeal and Sonny the husky was dead, cremated, ashes spread upon the ocean. Waves had demolished the driftwood fort I built in her honor. I never felt more alone in my life. I went on crying jags not about the death of myself, but because I couldn’t bear living without my friend of almost 17 years.

I purged the house of almost everything connected to her, including a short story collection by James Baldwin that contained a story called “Sonny’s Blues.” Sonny was named for that story, named by my ex-wife who picked the runt of a litter and enlarged both of our lives.

At some point, the grief became unendurable and I began talking to Sonny aloud as if she was still alive. This went on for weeks until a message arrived from a number I didn’t recognize.

I got up from bed and found the phone in the kitchen. The message said Sonny had communicated with the text’s sender to contact me. Sonny wanted to tell me that she was worried about me. That was it—worried.

The text message was from a prominent pet psychic in the Pacific Northwest. I didn’t believe in such things. Indeed, I scoffed. But here it was, my agony, my conversations in a forlorn empty house, and an unsolicited communication from somewhere in the region. I texted the psychic for clarification. The psychic clarified and did not follow up with any commercial solicitation promising more communications, a move I anticipated.

It was pitch black in the kitchen. I hadn’t bothered turning on the light. I stood there for a few moments and then set the phone on the counter. I went back to bed and thought. Sleep never found me.

A message from my departed dog? I believed it. I kept talking to Sonny but the conversations took on a different tenor; I reassured her, I said her multiple goofy nicknames in multiple goofy voices. I built a new driftwood fort for her.

I never heard from the psychic again.

Thoughts on Beach Bill’s 50th Anniversary and Draft Resolution

NSP Meditations, Oregon Beaches, Oregon Coast_History , , , , , , , , , , ,

Several years ago I started promoting the idea of a grand celebration of the 50th anniversary of Oregon’s landmark Beach Bill, which protected the dry sand areas of our public beaches from private encroachment and exploitation. In fact, I published dozens of columns and a book, The Great Birthright, connecting to that idea. I also delivered 30 public presentations around the state urging citizens to mark the date and get ready to party. I started a promotional campaign via my web site and my print designer produced a hot logo and buttons and posters that I gave away everywhere I went. This was all done on my own because I wanted to honor Oregon’s legacy of publicly-owned beaches and educate people, particularly newcomers, how special we have it here. I consider free public beaches and guaranteed access to them as cornerstones of this state’s unique greatness.

Fifty years ago, politicians from both parties and an army of Oregonians saved the beaches for me to come along later and enjoy as a kid and adult. I’ve probably written a half million words on this subject and will probably write another half million before I die.

The exact date of Governor Tom McCall signing the Beach Bill into law was July 7, 1967 and thus the anniversary is coming up soon. As many of you know, I was going to take a prominent leadership role in this celebration, but of course, that’s over now and all I can do is keep sharing my thoughts about our beaches on this blog. I hope readers will share my forthcoming posts about the impending celebration on social media and get the word moving. I am also happy to donate copies of The Great Birthright to any book club or conservation group. Just contact me through my web site. I want this book out there!

A year or so ago, a coastal State Representative asked me to draft a resolution commemorating the 50th anniversary of the Beach Bill. I was honored to do so and wrote one up right away. I sent it the State Rep and never heard from this official again. I have no idea where the draft went or if such resolution has been proposed or adopted.

Below is that draft. Perhaps it helped out.

Whereas in 1967 the Oregon Legislature passed and Governor Tom McCall signed into law, HB 1601, the Beach Bill.

Whereas the Beach Bill statute read, in part: “to forever preserve and maintain the sovereignty over the seashore and ocean beaches…so that the public may have the free and uninterrupted use thereof.”

Whereas the Beach Bill was passed by a Republican House and Democratic Senate and approved by a Republican Governor.

Whereas there was a great public outcry when it learned in 1967 that the sacrosanct great notion of recreating in the dry sands areas of the ocean beaches was imperiled, and that this outcry helped the Beach Bill become law.

Whereas the Beach Bill strengthened the state’s unique legacy of publicly-owned beaches first established in 1913 by Governor Oswald West’s law that declared the wet sand areas of the ocean beaches a public highway.

Whereas Governor West declared Oregon’s ocean beaches the state’s “great birthright.”

Whereas Oregonians and visitors have enjoyed the free and uninterrupted use of the state’s ocean beaches for generations to build driftwood forts, sandcastles, bonfires, fly kites, run, walk, swim, fish and surf, among other activities.

Whereas Oregonians celebrate the 50th anniversary of the Beach Bill’s passage on July 7, 2017 and remember to always protect the “great birthright” for now and future generations.

 

OTA Mother’s Day

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

(This is an essay from my forthcoming publication, Oregon Tavern Age: Sketches from Coastal Drinking Life. This was a piece I discovered in the archives. It seems I’ve written a lot more about OTA than I previously thought.)

Sunday. Mother’s Day. Mid-morning. Rain. The Oregon Coast.

I drove slowly by a garden variety Oregon Tavern Age joint. I didn’t see the old familiar sign. A storm probably blew it to smithereens and no one bothered with a replacement. No one one even noted its absence. No one cares about signage in OTA country, unless the sign says “closed.”

The tavern with no name. I dug it. Anonymity is good. I crave it like I crave real representative democracy in America.

The parking lot was full There was a line 30 deep of OTAs waiting to go inside. Everyone held something such as crock pots or stuffed animals. I pulled into the parking lot to investigate. I rolled down the window. I smelled pot from two nearby pot shops. I smelled rain. I smelled pot mixed with rain, the old dank frontier in Oregon. I smelled new money.

I knew exactly what was happening inside: a Mother’s Day wake/potluck for a long-time regular, a recently deceased OTA mom, grandmother and great grandmother. In the middle of the room, iced down in a garbage can, a keg of Hamm’s, her favorite beer. Free Hamm’s all around. Chase it with Fireball or Crown.

There would be a raffle, too, raising some bread to pay off internment or cremation costs. The prize might be her shotgun or her pickup truck. They’d also be adopting out her three rescue mutts who were roaming around the joint. They’d find them good OTA homes or RVS.

The potluck would feature some of the best homemade cooking in the state and an assortment of retail pickled grotesqueries. The main entrees were killed or caught by OTAs. No small plates. Heapings of this and that. Lots of deviled eggs. A few chanterelles basted in butter. DIY corn dogs. Someone even whipped up a fondue. There was angel food cake and blackcap pie made from scratch. Pile it up. Pile it on. One paper plate couldn’t hold it all and the mutts would feast on the spills.

A half dozen or so of the woman’s brood would show up. They would understand the venue or they would not. She didn’t care. She was dead and wanted the final celebration in the tavern surrounded by members of her tavern family.

There might be Glen Campbell playing. She saw him perform in Vegas, in the 70s. Great show. He could pick. Or it could be Merle Haggard on the jukebox. She saw him at the casino a couple of years ago. He could barely walk but still delivered the goods and swigged George Dickel on stage.

At some point, someone would ring the drinks-on-the-house bell over the bar and roll out a special stool or plaque that commemorated her kindness and knitting. Everyone in the tavern was wearing her hats and scarves.

I’ve owned a few OTA knitted hats over the years. I commissioned them with embroidery, paid handsomely, and tipped with cheap beer. Original OTA fashion made in OTA country—at the bar. Top that corporate brew pubs and your bawling babies in Gap clothing.

I didn’t go in. I wanted to but I had to see my own mother, whom I pretty much owe everything too.

It’s a superb thing to gather for Mother’s Day, even if the mother is dead. It doesn’t matter where people gather, either. I do suspect, however, the availability of free Hamm’s might make the gathering a little more lively, as far as lively goes at 9:30 in the morning on a Sunday while white rain falls like knives from the gray sky. (That’s from Bukowski.)

What Friends Did For Me Last Week

NSP Meditations ,

Healed my sore shoulder via massage and metaphors.

Entered into a long discussion on the growing relevance of Orwell’s 1984.

Talked with me with me on the lawn about the physic dread present in Astoria and overtaking the country.

Brought me a wonderful lunch and asked, “How are you?”

Gave me a free hair cut.

Called me.

Returned my call.

Bought me books: One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, The Jesuits of Old Oregon, The Siskiyou Two-Step and Maigret and the Old Lady.

Listened to my idea for a PNW-themed detective novel/show.

Read The Snow Leopard on my recommendation and found it an enlightening experience.

Gigged my books in strange exciting places.

Bought me plum jam, blue beads and starters for leeks.

Appeared in my back yard (a raccoon).

Let me temporarily adopt their dog.

Wrote me a handwritten letter.

Brought me homemade apple sauce made from an ancient tree surrounded by asphalt.

Came over and helped me whip the yard into shape.

Wrote an email that he was attempting to employ magic to help me find a job.

Made a contribution to the blog.

Made a contribution the blog.

Made a contribution to the blog.

Sought my advice on a matter related to getting the history of the Beach Bill right.

Loaned me a weed whacker.

Loaned me a lethal rat trap that I am determined not to use because I am going to talk the rat right out of the garage by becoming his friend.

Dear Oregon

NSP Meditations, Oregon Beaches, Oregon Coast_History , , , , , , , , ,

A couple of weeks ago, University of Oregon’s student-produced magazine, Flux, asked if I wanted to contribute a letter to Oregon for an upcoming special edition. Here’s what I sent them, even though Sonny the husky passed away last year.

Dear Oregon:

I just returned from walking my dog on one of your publicly-owned ocean beaches, or the “Great Birthright,” as former Governor Oswald West memorably described them.

It was raining. I saw gulls, bald eagles, sanderlings, a decomposing whale, three driftwood forts and the remains of several bonfires. I didn’t see another human being for miles in either direction. Great notions for love and life emerged, as they always seem to do when I walk on the beach.

My experience didn’t cost me a cent. As long as You remain the state I love, it never will. If there ever comes a day when a fee is required to access beaches, You will have certainly died.

Please don’t die. The hot word is out about You again and people just keep coming and coming. Most newcomers have no idea about our unique legacy of publicly-owned beaches and the groundbreaking legislation that codified it into law. My job is to educate them. I will do this until the end of my days. It’s the least I can do. I owe Oregonians from decades and decades ago for saving the beaches from privatization. It has made the crucial difference in my Oregon life. It does every day I visit.

Sincerely,

Matt Love

A Visit to the Valley of the Giants with a Special Oregonian Part 2

NSP Meditations, Oregon Coast_History , , , , ,

To reach the Valley of the Giants in the safest manner, a visitor must access it from the east side of the Coast Range, through Falls City. We took Highway 22 and then the side roads to Falls City. We picked up a BLM map there and were on our way into the mountains. Somewhere along the way, Joe told me a story about chocolate pudding in connection with attending a hillbilly wedding of his best friend that took place in the woods near Nashville, Oregon, not far off Highway 22. It was a story that could have been an award-winning comedy routine or a great scene for an Oregon-themed reboot of Deliverance.

After a 90-minute drive up, down and around potholed logging roads, we found the trail head. No other vehicle was there. We descended a wet path into the Valley, into a shaded realm where it rains 200 inches a year, and I beheld the biggest trees I had ever seen in Oregon—300-400 year-old Douglas firs and other towering conifers. Some were split by lightning. Some the wind had dropped. Some were standing tall, 20-24 feet in diameter. No log truck today could hold a log this size. No mill today could mill it. These trees were never going to be cut but they would die one day, fall and rot, or perhaps even burn. All forests eventually burn. Even forests where rain falls 200 inches a year.

Joe and I wandered among the trees and found our favorites behemoths. We didn’t say much but, at one point we came together under a tree that just kept going and going, finally disappearing into the sky, (which we could barely glimpse) and I said, “Why did we ever turn away from this as a religion?”

“I didn’t,” he said

I brought along lunch for us and no longer recall its contents. We sat on some boulders in a creek and ate and talked of philosophy and religion as the water meandered by.

We took the path back to the trail head. We passed a a few people along the way. Near my truck, we met an older man and woman, Ed and Rose. He had logged in the area decades ago and wanted to see the Valley one last time. I asked him why the Valley was never logged. He said it was something about the steep terrain of this particular draw; they couldn’t get equipment in to get the trees out is what he had heard. It was before his time in the woods.

I don’t think that was the real reason and I don’t think Ed did either, but he didn’t want to articulate it.

An hour later, Joe and I drove out the other way, with no map, south toward Siletz, through the rugged canyon country of the upper Siletz River. The clearcuts in this area were the worst I’ve ever seen. It looked like a war had taken place. We got lost a couple of times, but Joe figured it out after some backtracking.

I dropped Joe at his girlfriend’s house. We shook hands and planned another adventure. That was the last time I saw him.

We’ve lost contact. I’m sure he’s heard what happened to me. I think about our unique bonding over all things Oregon and that trip to the Valley of the Giants. He taught me well that day. It was one of my finer days of being an Oregonian.

(If you found this post enjoyable, thought provoking or enlightening, please consider supporting a writer at work by making a financial contribution to this blog or by purchasing an NSP book.)

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