The last weekend in May

As I sit down to write, with 90 minutes left in the month of May, I find myself pulled in a dozen directions. Funny, when I started this blog three months ago, I wondered if I'd find enough fodder to sustain this little enterprise of mine.

Short answer: Yes.

Not everything has to be weighty and serious -- though I try sometimes to make a point that I hope resonates with those of you who are so kind as to give Rough and Rede any attention at all.

Nor does everything have to be funny -- though I sometimes wish I wrote with a lighter, breezier touch.

And by no means does it have to be about family -- if it were, I suspect it would come across as too insular.

So, with those caveats, I'll just give myself permission to roam here, there and everywhere my thoughts take me at this hour.

Good intentions. Way back in April, I wrote about the environmentalist David Suzuki and his passionate urging that all of us find ways to reduce our carbon footprint NOW in hopes of reversing the global warming trend. I vowed then I would do little things that were in sync with that message. I know it sounds trivial, but since then I've been taking the stairs a lot more at work and using the elevator a lot less; I've been more diligent about taking those canvas bags to the grocery store instead of using a new paper or plastic bag every time; and tomorrow morning, I'm going to start taking an insulated mug with me so I can avoid using a disposable cup every time I buy coffee. Small steps, I know, but things I should have been doing long ago.

Pushing myself. Yesterday, during the hottest part of the day -- high 80s -- I went down to the Springwater Corridor, just south of OMSI, and ran for nearly 50 minutes. Nearly everyone else on the paved path was on a bicycle (and, yes, it looked like fun), but I wanted to challenge myself a little -- not in a stupid way where I'd invite heat stroke, but in a good way where I'd take it steady, running alongside the river (above, a view from the east bank of the
Willamette River), occasionally passing into the shade and otherwise enjoying the sun beating down. When I was a kid, there was nothing better than playing a team sport. I'm no longer quick or agile enough for that, so I treasure the freedom and solitude that define running.

The pleasure of spontaneity. Today was the day I set aside to catch up on all I needed to do to send out information packets for the Rede family reunion in early July. At mid-morning, though, we got a call from our daughter and her partner, inviting us to come over for barbecued burgers and play time with our dogs -- their little rascal, Quimby, a Chihuahua/Pug mix, and our scamp, Otto, a Jack Russell terrier.

Otto wasn't feeling too good today (probably a combination of the heat and something he ate), so he was rather subdued. I could have stayed home and worked on the reunion stuff, but it was great to just spend a few unscripted hours with Simone and Kyndall and Kyndall's mom, Rena, who we'd met just the night before. (A great lady.)

After dinner, I could have dived in (no pun intended, as you'll see...). But, no...Instead, Lori and I watched the movie "The Diving Bell and the Butterfly," an amazing documentary-style movie about a French magazine editor who suffers a stroke and, after emerging from a coma mute and completely paralyzed, learns to communicate solely by blinking his eye. It is, as the Netflix capsule says, a "poignant film about the strength of the human spirit" and one which earned Julian Schnabel the Golden Globes' best director award.

So here I am, 45 minutes later. Normally, I'd be plowing through The New York Times at this hour. Instead, duty calls me to the Rede reunion details. We'll see how far I get...

Tommy? Is that you?

The e-mail arrived 10 days ago with a mysterious subject line: an old, old friend?

you may not remember me....esp. if you aren't the george rede from decoto (union city), calif.

but if you are, we were good (best?) friends in kindergarten/1st at decoto elementary....

i lived on 7th street....think you lived on 5th/6th....who knows now....

anyway, am enjoying your blog and just wanted to say hey....

And just like that, I was transported back to a time when Tommy Nunez and I were indeed best friends. A time when I was 6 or 7 years old, missing a tooth or two and loving things like playground kickball, the corner grocery store where I bought candy, the freedom to ride my bike or walk anywhere in our neighborhood of working-class Chicano families. (It would be another three years before my first kiss -- a quick peck on the cheek of the 4th-grade bronze goddess Stella Gonzales).

Tommy and I parted ways when one of us moved away from Union City. I was in 5th grade when we moved to Fremont (I honestly can't remember if his family moved before or after mine) but I do remember feeling crushed at the loss of my best friend. In any case, we never saw each other again, though I do remember a time as a prep sports writer for my hometown newspaper when I noticed a familiar name on the soccer team at a rival high school -- and, yes, it was Tommy. I ran cross country and track, so we never competed in the same sport.

After all these years, how did he track me down?

Simple, he wrote: "the all-powerful google....was feeling nostalgic the other day, when i do, i run
old friends thru google, if i can remember their names at this point....one of the entries was for 'rough and rede', and there is a picture, and the picture kinda looked like you...so there ya go. "

These days, Reunion.com, MyLife.com and Facebook are among the many social networking sites that make it easy to get in touch with long-lost friends, classmates -- even relatives. I've never been attracted to either of the first two; unlike my social butterfly wife, who still gets together with lifelong friends from San Francisco, I've maintained only two strong friendships from high school.

So it was gratifying to hear from Tommy and appreciate the amazing reach of Google. Like anything else, the combination of a few keystrokes and mouse clicks can transport you anywhere in the virtual world, from the workplace to the blogosphere, from familiar to the never-been-there, from the present to your past. (Decoto Elementary, by the way, is now the home of New Haven Adult School and Union City itself is celebrating its 50th anniversary this year.)

Even more gratifying? To hear that Tommy -- he's Tom now -- is doing well, living in the Bay Area and working from home for a high-tech company. He and his Significant Other have three kids, one married, and are expecting their first grandchild in October.

Turns out his S.O. has relatives in Oregon, and they've been up here a few times. Needless to say, I hope their next trip up here -- or our next trip down there -- allows us to get together. Trading childhood memories and catching up on everything since then would be so cool.

Until then: "take care, dude."

Quick Takes

It's Friday -- production day for the Sunday Opinion section -- so I suppose it's only appropriate that I borrow a concept for today's post.

We run a regular feature called "Short Takes," in which readers are challenged to offer an editorial comment in 35 words or less. By now, I'm pretty lukewarm about it; seems there are 20 to 30 folks who regularly submit and some of them try way too hard to be clever or sarcastic. At the same time, I recognize that some readers really do like the feature and will call or write when it doesn't appear.

So here's my first whack at George's Quick Takes, with no 35-word limitation. (Hey, I'm the editor here...)

1. Something I'd rather not see in the men's locker room: Fat guys who insist on bellying up to the sink and shaving in the nude. Happened again today at my gym. Yecch!
2. Something that drives me nuts: Excessively courteous drivers who stop for pedestrians, even though there's no crosswalk, no stop sign, no traffic signal and no frickin' reason these people on foot can't wait for the car to pass before they cross the street. Believe me, it happens only in Portland. And when you're not expecting this show of politeness, you've got to react quickly to avoid a rear-end collision.
3. Something I didn't know: Jon and Kate are having marital troubles. I wouldn't know them if they sat down next to me, but according to the tabloids and the network morning talk shows, this is a big deal. A couple with a reality TV show are rumored to have cheated on each other, prompting speculation about the effect on their eight (8!) kids and their contractual obligations with whichever network is broadcasting their lives to the public. Am I supposed to care?
4. Something beautiful: I was running in the late afternoon on a path around a small pond in the woods during my last trip to Orcas Island. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted movement: A great horned owl, flapping its wings powerfully as it flew from one end of the pond to the other. Total silence. Total majesty.

Two faces of Portland

If ever a single day could capture the extremes of daily life in Portland, today would be a worthy contender.

The city enjoys a national reputation, well deserved, for the vibrancy of its neighborhoods. I won't argue that. But what a non-resident might not realize -- or, for that matter, a resident who spends too much time in his or her corner of town -- is just how extremely different one part of town can be from another.

That sounds trite, but let me try to explain.

I began my day at a 7 a.m. meeting of Business Networking International (BNI). A group of small-business owners, including my wife, is trying to establish a chapter for the purpose of creating referral business opportunities for each other -- especially important in the weakened economy.

We met in the nondescript conference room of a local appliance dealer in Southeast Portland, at the intersection of much-disparaged 82nd Avenue and Foster Road. 82nd is one of those major arterials that runs for miles and miles, with used car lots, fast-food restaurants, mini-malls, discount stores of all varieties and, at night, a persistent prostitution scene.

It's easy to dismiss the area and its residents as unimportant -- and most of the Portland media does just that. (The nearby Lents neighborhood, often called Felony Flats, is currently in the news as the potential site for a new minor league baseball stadium.) But within the BNI group, there's no mistaking a business work ethic and civic pride that reminds you of Jimmy Stewart.

I've been to plenty of breakfast meetings where they serve up gourmet coffee, fresh fruit platters and an array of pastries. Here, you had coffee served in plain white cardboard cups, along with sugar and non-dairy creamer that you poured straight out of their 10-inch tall containers. No Starbucks for this crowd. They had networking on their minds -- not a desire to impress with fair trade, organic coffee.

One by one, they rose and spoke for a minute about themselves and their business: real estate brokers, life and conflict-resolution coaches, IT guys, massage therapists, personal bankers and more. Their shared vision of helping themselves and each other provided a welcome -- and refreshing -- glimpse into the mindset of the small-business person: humble, optimistic and self-confident without a trace of arrogance.

In contrast, I ended my day at Last Thursday, a once-a-month street festival on Northeast Portland's uber-hip Alberta Street that's evolved into a circus-like atmosphere way, way different from what the increasingly displaced African American community historically experienced.

You've got folks walking on stilts, wearing tutus (men as well as women), performing old-time vaudeville acts, playing live music of all genres (including hipsters with washboards and accordions) and nearly everyone visibly pierced or tatted -- or both. Folks are lined up on both sides of the street selling T-shirts, jewelry, vegan foods, candles and every type of art imaginable.

Of course, people bring their dogs and bicycles. Most of all, they bring a sense of entitlement.

No doubt they come from all over the city, and some even from the suburbs, but they all walk along Alberta as if they owned it. Now, maybe there's something to be said for someone selling D.I.Y. comic books on one street corner while another person sings (horribly, unfortunately) in hopes of raising money for bus fare. But my overall take is that you've got a bunch of unemployed or underemployed folks drawn like moths to a flame where literally anything goes. And, make no mistake, this is the side of Portland that gets played up in the local and national media.

Writing this, I realize, makes me sound older and more conservative than I think I am. For the most part, I'm one of those who's happy to embrace a live-and-let-live philosophy -- and I do appreciate that I live in a place where Last Thursday is even possible.

But the contrast between Southeast and Northeast, and especially between Lents and Alberta, could not be any starker than when you've experienced them at both ends of a single day. If only the folks who live, work and play in these two Portlands could walk in each other's shoes...

Adios, Luciana

With an alliterative name like Luciana Lopez, it's only fitting that "versatile" and "vivacious" come to mind in describing my colleague.

Make that ex-colleague. Sigh.

A day after saying goodbye to the retiring Frank Ragulsky (see Adios, Frank), today I said goodbye and good luck to Luciana.

After five-plus years at the paper, beginning as a suburban communities and education reporter and, more recently, serving as the paper's pop music critic, Luciana is headed to Sao Paulo on June 8 to cover the Brazilian economy for Reuters news service. Did I say versatile?

Luciana is of Brazilian and Puerto Rican heritage and speaks fluent Portuguese, so she'll be in fine shape linguistically and culturally, having also lived in Brazil for a year as a child and made several trips since then to visit relatives.

We met this morning at Besaw's, a fabulous breakfast joint in Northwest Portland, and covered lots of ground in a little over an hour. Luciana is a total East Coaster -- with a go-go personality, and plenty of ambition and drive to go along with a great educational foundation (University of Virginia, followed by the University of Maryland graduate journalism school). Did I say vivacious?

She came to The Oregonian through a post-graduate minority internship program that brought a rich stream of diverse talent to the paper starting in the early 1990s. Many of the program's graduates continue to work here as photographers and reporters, but we've also seen many others leave as professional opportunities beckon and family ties exert their pull from various regions of the country.

As someone who played a key role in shaping the program and recruiting the most promising candidates from coast to coast, I can say unequivocally that The Oregonian's readers and our newsroom have been exceptionally well served by the level of talent -- and the rich cultural perspectives -- that have informed the journalism done by these people (mostly women) of color. It's been especially important to have their contributions in a city and state whose demographics remain heavily tilted toward whites.

Some of those who launched their careers here in Portland have gone to The New York Times, The Washington Post, Los Angeles Times, The Boston Globe and The Associated Press -- all of them among the mostly highly regarded news organizations in the country.

It will be sad to see Luciana leave -- yet another superbly talented person of color moving on to bigger and better things. At the same time, it's exciting to join her in looking ahead to what comes next. Nothing she accomplishes in journalism will surprise me.

Check out a couple of essays she wrote for the Sunday Opinion section -- "The delight of democracy" and "On being a 'mutt' like Obama".

Also see this beautifully done feature -- "As teen recovers from shooting, two families pull closer togther" -- on an Italian exchange student who was shot outside a downtown Portland night club earlier this year.

There's a going-away party for Luciana early next week. One more chance to say thanks and wish her the best of luck.

Adios, Frank

I'm headed to Corvallis this afternoon to join the Oregon State University community in saying goodbye and fare-thee-well to Frank Ragulsky, who's toiled selflessly but effectively as director of OSU Student Media for 28 years.

Frank is one of those guys who's too good to be true -- versatile, dedicated, resourceful and relentlessly cheerful. Over the years, I've seen every one of those qualities on display as Frank moved seamlessly from advising the OSU student newspaper to staging an annual summer workshop for high school yearbook editors to coming up with money for a summer journalism camp for minority high school students.

He served as director of Northwest Scholastic Press, an association for high school publications advisers, and organized the annual Fall Press Day, which brought together professionals, teachers and students for a day of workshops and critiques. And he was always there, if not in person then certainly behind the scenes, in steering OSU students to regional writing conferences and skills development workshops.

During my years as The Oregonian's newsroom recruiter and internship coordinator, I grew to admire Frank's bottomless well of enthusiasm and support for students who gravitated to journalism at Corvallis, despite a decided lack of institutional support.

Oregon State eliminated technical journalism in the early 1990s following state budget cuts. Yet a talented stream of students -- including several who interned at The Oregonian -- threw themselves into the learning laboratory that is The Daily Barometer and now work across the country as professional journalists. Their collective success peaked in 2002, when the Society of Professional Journalists named the Barometer the best collegiate daily in the country.

Prior to the cuts, The Daily Barometer was often a regional winner in the SPJ competition but was never named among the national finalists. Since the early '90s, the newspaper has operated without the benefit of an academic major; more recently, it has joined its peers around the country in making the transition to new media.

This afternoon Frank will be the center of attention at the OSU Memorial Union, as colleagues, current and former students all gather to wish him well in retirement in Alaska. Even those whose lives he touched only briefly know what kind of an impact he made at OSU and beyond.

Consider the tribute from Saba Saleem, a student at Portland's Madison High School, following last year's minority journalism camp at OSU:

"[T]he biggest props go to Frank Ragulsky, the guy who held the piñata together like the paste, and all of us were the paper mache strips. He planned everything for us, got up early to get every thing ready, and went to bed late, cleaning up after our mess each and every day. He was this camp's back bone and we really appreciate what he did to get us all here for free."

Furlough Day No. 2

I'll be away from computers this weekend while Lori and I head up to our island getaway in the San Juan Islands.

There's nothing like the serenity that comes from literally getting away from it all. It's a day of travel, to be sure. Five hours on the freeway, one hour by ferry, 45 more minutes by car before we reach our destination: Eagle Lake on Orcas Island.

After a weekend of missed phone calls (again!), we hope to hear from Jordan sometime during the long Memorial Day break.

Looking forward to rest, relaxation and maybe a little bit of recreation as I take my second furlough day from the newspaper.

P.S. On the video bar to your right, check out the Serbian guitarist I discovered recently on emusic: Ana Popovic. Fourth song down ("Sitting' on Top of The World") is the best.

Two guys named Todd

One of the things I love most about Esquire magazine is the element of surprise. While I've come to expect an actor, athlete or beautiful woman on the cover (the editors know the formula alright), it's the inside features that often provide the more satisfying read and which resonate more deeply than the cover stories.

For instance, the April issue (sorry, I meant to write about this last month) has two great features on Todd Palin, a famous husband, and Todd Marinovich, a one-time famous football player.

Now, I'm the first to acknowledge that Sarah Palin has been treated as a punching bag, alternately scorned for her tone-deaf politics and satirized for her folksy ways and lack of intellectual depth. But that doesn't mean her husband is automatically a bad guy, maybe even a dude you wouldn't mind having a beer with. Check out Luke Dittrich's article and decide for yourself. Here's the lead-in:

His eighteen-year-old daughter is about to go into labor; his future son-in-law's mother was just busted for dealing OxyContin; his snowmachine still isn't ready for the two-thousand-mile Iron Dog race; little Trig needs to be changed; Willow needs to be picked up from school; his wife won't be home for hours; and now, for some reason, Wasilla PD is banging on the door. But fear not. He can handle this.

By the way, Todd is from Dillingham, where my younger sister lives. She says he's a decent guy.


Todd Marinovich, on the other hand, was raised almost from birth to be a professional football player by a near-maniacal dad, who had played for USC and had visions of greatness for his red-haired son. Todd excelled, for sure, in high school and college -- he also went to USC -- but he flamed out in the National Football League as a consequence of partying too hard.

Here's the intro to Mike Sager's excellent profile:

Twenty years ago, he was guaranteed to be one of the greatest quarterbacks ever to play the game of football. Engineered to be. He was drafted ahead of Brett Favre. Today he's a recovering junkie. This month he was arrested again. Scenes from the chaotic life of a boy never designed to be a man.

Splendid writing.

Small pleasures

Over the course of two decades-plus working in a downtown office building, I've fallen into two patterns around lunchtime.

One, head out the door, as if on autopilot, to one of several casual restaurants within walking distance. Two, eat at my desk.

In the first instance, the pattern is exacerbated by my taste for bento. Not that that's a bad thing, when there are so many tasty options nearby, led by the Saigon Kitchen food cart just outside the Portland Building.

In the second instance, it's nearly always a time saver when I eat in. It's not a problem to edit a story or respond to a writer's email between bites of a sandwich.

So on those still too-rare occasions when I actually take time to eat outside, I always come away mentally refreshed, physically relaxed and wondering why I don't do it more often.

Monday I ate in the South Park Blocks, pictured above. Yes, it was a bento -- but the experience was so nice. Sitting in the shade, with a bench all to myself and watching the noon pedestrian traffic pass me by like so many inner tubes on a lazy river. In that part of downtown, lots of folks are heading to or from the Portland State campus, wearing backpacks and serious expressions or, just as often, chatting on cell phones, seemingly carefree.

I've packed my lunch today. The forecast is for 66 degrees and mostly sunny. Sounds like another good day to break out of the mold and enjoy the fresh air. It's a small pleasure. And it's free.

Students grade the teacher

Early last week, I received an envelope I'd been waiting for: the course evaluations for the special topics media course -- Opinion and the Blogosphere -- that I taught during the winter term at PSU.

Although the communications department chair(woman) had emailed me earlier to say I'd gotten positive reviews, I looked forward to seeing the details. Nothing helps a person more than specifics, including constructive comments.

Some 29 students responded. The evaluations showed: "All students agreed that the course helped them learn to find and use information and that you responded constructively to questions. The vast majority agreed (98%) the course stimulated them to think, found the assignments clear, and help them evaluate ideas."

Though it's hard to say what pleased me most in the different areas where I was evaluated, I was especially gratified to see the students rated me highly in conveying enthusiasm for the subject and strongly agreed they would take another course from me.

I tried very hard to prepare well for the class and I know from experience what I would do differently to make the experience even better next time. I'll have to see if my colleagues, Rick Attig and Susan Nielsen, want to make guest speaker appearances again -- they certainly played a big part in helping to convey basic knowledge about blogs and the process of writing and editing opinion pieces.

I've been asked to teach the course again during the winter 2010 term, and there is a good chance I may get to teach a second course -- details to be determined.

Monday morning music

After several recent posts that have run on the long side, I'm starting the week with one that's short and sweet.

I've added a new feature on the right hand side of the page-- a video bar that will feature some of my favorite musical artists. I'll try to mix them up to provide a little variety. Knowing me, there will be more singer-songwriters and old-school folks than newer, cutting-edge artists but I do hope to provide a surprise -- and a pleasant one at that -- every now and then.

Enjoy.

Becoming a military dad

Slowly, but surely, I feel a change coming over me in how I think about the military and my own evolving role as the parent of a new Army enlistee.

If I think back to the mid-70s, I was no different than the majority of my peers at college. I wore my hair long and protested against the Vietnam War at the same time I tried to avoid being drafted. I got a student deferment, then a high lottery number (288), so I never served.

Years later, when I was in Washington, D.C., on business, I visited the Vietnam Veterans War Memorial and like so many others, was shaken to my core upon seeing the 58,195 names on The Wall. I knew no one who died in that conflict, but still...it still registers as probably the most humbling experience on my life, imagining those soldiers and their families and what they lost.

More recently, I've felt myself emotionally insulated from U.S. invasions of Grenada (what a joke) and Iraq (especially the first time, recalling the unreal experience of seeing a virtual war on CNN). I felt powerless watching GWB send our troops into Iraq and Afghanistan, believing we were fighting the wrong war for the wrong reasons.

But now that Jordan has followed up on his strongest desire -- to serve his country and be part of a team -- I find myself drawn inexorably to pay more attention to issues like body armor and equipment, veterans benefits and other support services, troop deployments and more. From a starting point of near total ignorance, I've begun to acquire a new vocabulary in hopes of discerning the difference between a squad and a company, a battalion and a brigade. I've begun to pay attention to where our domestic military bases are located and what specialized training is offered at each one.

Before Jordan shipped to Fort Benning, Georgia, the only reference I had for it was knowing that is where the notorious Lt. William Calley of My Lai fame received his training. Now, I know it's a big, sprawling base on the Alabama-Georgia border. Now, I have plans to attend Jordan's graduation is basic military training on July 3.

All this is a prelude to two things:

1) Expressing my gratitude (again) to the cast and crew of "Telling Portland." See the post below.
2) Expressing my gratitude to Jim Weisenburg, a dad from suburban Portland who wrote a poignant op-ed piece for The Oregonian on the roller coaster of fear that he rides in anticipation of another son deploying to Iraq. His first son was killed over there. His second son is going back for a second stint with the Oregon National Guard.

It was my privilege to edit Jim's piece and to ask him for photos of his sons, David (deceased) and Jason, to go along with his own. In a brief conversation with him Thursday afternoon, he came across as a decent, honorable man whose objective in writing the piece was to honor the 2,700 Oregon Guard troops who'll be sent to Iraq this summer and recognize the emotional impact on their families, friends and co-workers.

Only a person without a heart could read Jim's piece without being touched. As a new military dad, it resonated deeply with me -- and it left me with nothing but admiration for a man who's lost his son at war but who is there again for his other son.

May God bless Jim and the brave men and women who serve our country, no matter their politics, no matter their station in life.

Ordinary heroes

Last night, I spent two hours in the vestibule of a downtown Portland church, listening to eight men spill their guts. With honesty, emotion and vulnerability that mesmerized an audience of about 200, they spoke of their experiences in the military, including deployments in Iraq, Afghanistan, Kosovo and Vietnam. I'm grateful to each one of them, for I know I'm richer for the experience.

"Telling, Portland" presents eight military veterans telling their individual stories on stage. The script was shaped during interviews with members of the Portland State University Student Veteran Association and Saturday's performance was the middle of a three-day run at First Congregational United Church in the Park Blocks. My talented colleague, Julie Sullivan, previewed the production in a piece in The Oregonian, "Stagecraft born of warcraft."

Epiphany might be too strong a word, but seeing and hearing these men discuss the Before, During and After of their experiences -- good, bad and ugly -- gave me a sharper understanding of what it is that induced our son Jordan to enlist in the Army and spurred me to better imagine what he's going through and how he might change during his service to country.

The cast members represent the Army, Navy, Marines and Oregon National Guard and range in age from mid-20s to late 50s (actually, the Vietnam vet might be in his early 60s) and all but the older guy attend Portland State. The group included a Latino, a Native American (Cherokee) and one dude who's half-Iranian, who lives in a diverse neighborhood where each day he sees people of Middle Eastern descent who dress and look exactly like those he hates for having killed his buddies. (He's trying to get over his hatred for the sake of his two young children he's raising as a single father...)

Listening to these guys talk, it became clear that despite their serving in different branches, their shared military experience is a bond like no other -- something I will never know as someone who escaped the draft during Vietnam. For these guys, the camaraderie that comes from enduring the same physical training, from going on patrol together, from surviving and readjusting to modern U.S. society is plainly evident.

As one speaks, the others nod knowingly, at mention of drinking binges, of keeping loved ones in the dark about everyday dangers they faced, of black humor ("A big part of combat is joking about your own death") and of the anger they feel when clueless civilians invariably ask, "Did you kill anyone in Iraq (or Afghanistan)?" As if answering the question would allow that person to understand anything about the veteran's experiences and feelings.

I don't want to suggest that hearing any of this was new. I simply want to note that, unlike professional actors playing a part, the comments took on greater weight coming from regular joes who'd lived these experiences.

In fact, that's what impressed me most about the evening. The realization that these guys were so ordinary, typically coming from small towns and standing up there in T-shirts and jeans, polo shirts and sneakers. One wore eyeglasses, a couple had tattoos, a couple had goatees and mustaches, and all had short haircuts. None would stand out in a crowd.

Some clearly were more comfortable than others speaking their lines; but even as I strained to hear one cast member, I appreciated his courage -- both for serving his country in dangerous conditions and for telling his story on stage.

It was a powerful experience. Ultimately, I came away with a deeper reservoir of respect for these ordinary men, made stronger by their willingness to do what so many of us run from. Ordinary heroes, each and every one.

Find out more about The Telling Project, which produced the Portland show.

Portland: A 'youth magnet' city

Someone reading The New York Times' fawning account of "Frugal Portland" (see previous post) might be tempted to pack up and move, drawn by the city's marvelous food and casual vibe, reflected in the vibrant music scene and bike-friendly culture.

Before they do, they might want to slap both cheeks with this cold bucket of water from The Wall Street Journal: " 'Youth Magnet' Cities Hit Midlife Crisis" Today's story in the Journal is subtitled:

Few Jobs in Places like Portland and Austin,
but the Hipsters Just Keep on Coming

Those of us who live here recognize the truth in that article immediately. It's well established that Portland is one of a handful of cities -- along with Seattle, Charlotte, North Carolina, and Austin, Texas -- that draw college-educated, single people between the ages of 25 and 39 at a much higher rate than the rest of the country.

As the Journal's Conor Dougherty writes:

What these cities share is a hard-to-quantify blend of climate, natural beauty, universities and -- more than anything else -- a reputation as a cool place to live.

Trouble is, many of those dewy-eyed arrivals find out that jobs are hard to find. They end up plowing through savings, running up their credit cards and settling into jobs -- if they can find one -- for which they are overqualified. That's not a universal story, by any means, but you know it's true to some degree, judging from the number of laptop-lugging hipsters and overeducated servers in the city's coffeehouses (such as Stumptown Coffee, above) and brewpubs.

You might think that the weak economy and Oregon's 12.1 percent unemployment rate (second-highest in the nation) might discourage some folks from coming or nudge others already here to return to where they came from. Not so. But maybe there's a silver lining down the road.

"For now," the Journal notes, "an excess of young workers is adding to the ranks of the unemployed. But holding on to these people through the downturn will help cities turn around once the economy recovers."

Socialism, anyone?

It's become quite the fashion for right-wing conservatives, as their desperation mounts, to hurl words like "socialism" and "socialist" at the new administration. Somehow, they think, we're supposed to be appalled or frightened, as if a cradle-to-grave society, fueled by skyrocketing taxes, was the path Comrade Obama was intent in putting us on.

So, when I sat down to breakfast the other day with The New York Times Magazine, intending to read the cover story --about the way Obama thinks we will live after "The Great Recession" -- I found myself drawn instead to an inside feature, "Learning to Be Sort-of Socialist." I'm glad I let myself be diverted -- proof yet again that one of the best things about print media is serendipity (when you go looking for one thing but accidentally discover something else).

As someone who's never been to Europe, I've always had something of a fuzzy notion whenever I've read of the quality of life or way of doing things on that continent, knowing there have got to be considerable differences, beyond language, in the history and culture that define England, France, Germany, Spain, Italy and the rest.

So it was with mild curiosity that I read Russell Oberto's piece, from the perspective of an American who's lived in The Netherlands for 18 months. Titled "Going Dutch: How I Learned to Love the European Welfare State," Oberto begins the piece with a startling number: 52. That's the rate at which his income is taxed. Before you gag on your oatmeal, stop and consider that's pretty much on par with what we pay here in the U.S. when you combine federal, state, local, Social Security and property taxes. (The Dutch rate of 52 percent includes Social Security.)

In any case, Oberto, a professional writer, points out the benefits he receives as a Dutch resident, including government payments to spend on vacation (over and above paid time off), child care and schoolbooks for himself. Parents with small children also can get government reimbursement for up to 70 percent of day care costs.

The Netherlands has universal health care (where nearly all general practitioners make house calls to the infirm and the elderly) and a pension system that covers about 80 percent of all workers. A family of four pays about $388 a month for health care, with co-pays, and including dental -- roughly a third less than a comparable policy in the U.S.

Also, about one-third of all dwellings are part of the public housing system, in which qualified people get apartments at below-market rents. Unlike in the U.S., there is no stigma attached to living in public housing because the government believes there is a value in keeping a mix of income levels in the units. As an example, Oberto cites a psychologist who lives in the same apartment he's had since he was a student.

So what's the down side? Oberto points to a soul-sucking sameness that stems from a homogenous population.

He cites the tradition of limited business hours on Sunday -- where it's virtually impossible to pop into a shop or a cafe -- as an example of the conservative Dutch system, rooted in the mid-20th century collision of the workers' movement and the church. Most shops are closed because there's a social consensus in support of a day of rest. During the week, most shops close by 6 p.m., precisely when people leaving work might want to patronize them, the author says.

"A broad social-welfare system works if everyone assumes that everyone else is playing by the same rules. Newcomers, with different ways of life and expectations, threaten it. This is one reason the recent waves of non-Western immigration here have caused o smuch disturbance. Can such a system work in a truly multiethnic society?"

He continues:

"...one downside of a collectivist society, of which the Dutch themselves complain, is that people tend to become slaves to consensus and conformity."

I've only hit the highlights of this provocative article, which delivered a lot of information I didn't know about Dutch history and the details of the contemporary social-welfare state. For anyone else who wants to explore the differences between capitalism and socialism, I recommend it highly.

Remembering Max

I was less than a mile from home, running west in a light, late-afternoon drizzle toward Wilshire Park when I turned south onto Northeast 41st Avenue at Skidmore Street.

All of a sudden, I realized two things: I hadn't been on that particular block in two-plus years -- and the last time I was, I was doing an early-morning walk with Max, my big buddy.

After hurting my Achilles tendon during the 2006 Hood to Coast Relay, I'd seen a physical therapist who prescribed a set of exercises and regular neighborhood walks -- no running! -- to get me back in shape again. So, for a time I was rising early to head up the hill in the Beaumont-Wilshire neighborhood with Max to get the exercise I'd normally get from running.

I remember a certain two-story house on the east side of the street because it was so unusual in its architecture. (Sorry, I don't know enough styles to offer any details.) When I started to run past it Tuesday afternoon, the memories just washed over me.

Max wasn't nearly as lame then as he was during his last year of life. During that fall and ensuing winter when I was recuperating, he would walk with me for up to 45 minutes with no problem, tail wagging and enjoying the fresh morning air.

We have two cats and they can be finicky as hell. With Max, my Black Lab/Great Dane mix, there was never a question of loyalty or love. I miss the big galoot.

Furlough Day No. 1

You'd think that I'd get to sleep in. But no.

The alarm went off at 6, so I had no choice but get off to an early start. I had visions of a long run in Forest Park, followed by a late breakfast somewhere and then easing into the rest of my day.

Instead, I began with the breakfast -- treated myself to a meal at Zell's on Southeast Morrison -- and came home to a list of chores that kept me busy all day long. Washed dishes, did the laundry, raked and swept around the house, and finished the tedious job of assembling six chairs that are part of lawn furniture set we bought several months ago. (I'd devoted part of a recent Saturday assembling the table.)

You'd think it wouldn't take very long, but unboxing and removing yards of plastic from the chairs, followed by the actual fastening of nuts and bolts, began before 11 a.m. and ended around 3 p.m., with a quick time-out for lunch. It was only after all that I finally got around to my run on city streets -- nearly a full hour, from our house past three schools (Meek, Rigler and Harvey Scott) -- and got back just in time to barbecue some steaks for dinner.

My reward came later. While Lori was at a business networking event for women, I went to the mall to buy (drumroll, please) some new running socks and another Susan Tedeschi CD.

While it sounds mundane, yesterday was very relaxing. I didn't get time to take Otto to a dog park, but he did spend some time with me curled up on a pillow in the garage while I worked on the chairs. During a sunbreak, he laid on his side in the backyard catching some rays. Must feel good to a creature who spends most of each day inside the house.

I couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to regularly spend time at home during the week. The neighborhood is so quiet during the day. Young moms push their kids in strollers; an occasional hipster rides his bicycle past the house; traffic is so light as to barely notice it.

I have three more furlough days coming between now and Sept. 1. The next one will be one to remember -- it'll come on the front end of four days Lori and I have planned for a Memorial Day weekend getaway.

Portland's food carts

This is a short and sweet follow-up to Sunday's post on Frugal Portland. I'll leave it to you to imagine the smells and tastes:

http://video.nytimes.com/video/2009/05/08/travel/1194840085440/portlands-food-cart-scene.html

By the way, this photo (by Leah Nash) was taken a block away from my dentist's office at SW 10th and Washington. If you're wondering about the quality of the food, here are a few reviews for Sawasdee Thai Food, pictured above.

Frugal Portland

Once again, The New York Times is lavishing attention on Portland, this wonderful place I've called home since 1985. During that time, the city has evolved in so many quirky, funky ways that it's impossible to describe in a short blog entry.

If you're unfamiliar with Portland -- or even if you are -- let me just suggest you check out the latest splash of positive press, the sixth travel-related story in as many months in the Times.

Today's Travel section devotes most of the cover and two inside pages to "Frugal Portland" -- describing the free events, the cheap eats (hundreds of food carts, happy hours at local restaurants), the abundant entertainment and recreation (bookstores, bike rentals, skateboard parks, etc.) and the overall informal vibe that together define this place. Leah Nash's photo, above, gives you a hint.

Reporter Matt Gross spent a week here, exploring the city's neighborhoods, restaurants, cafes and museums. He writes:

Amid economic catastrophe — Oregon has the country’s second-highest unemployment rate — there was a general indifference to wealth. In its place was a dedication to the things that really matter: hearty food and drink, cultural pursuits both high and low, days in the outdoors and evenings out with friends. It’s the good life, and in Portland it still comes cheap.

Now, I don't want to minimize our economic difficulties. We've been hit hard by the collapse of the housing market and the fact that Oregon relies on the manufacture of durable goods to a greater extent than most states. The resulting job losses -- and sharply reduced state income tax revenues -- are blowing a hole in our next two-year state budget and are likely to force some combination of tax increases and program cuts to close the shortfall.

Even in good times, the urban-rural divide means far more job opportunities in the metro area than the rest of the state -- something Oregon needs to work on, for the sake of cities and towns across the state.

But back to the Travel article...

It's cool to see so many places I've patronized get mentioned in the article. Among them: Broder's (which serves a surprisingly tasty Scandinavian breakfast) and Bunk's Sandwiches (offering killer creations, such as a pork belly reuben), and ¿Por Qué No? (an excellent taqueria).

Even cooler? The map that ran with the story (click on it to enlarge) shows our neighborhood, anchored by Grant Park, as being close to all the action. It's four miles from our house to downtown Portland -- a trip I can make in 10 minutes by car or no more than 30 minutes by bus, which I ride to work most of the time, saving a lot of money on parking in the process.


We're hosting a family reunion this summer. It's a shame that more of my extended family won't be here for it. Heck, even for those who are making the trip, there won't be enough time to do more than scratch the surface.

Lucky us. We get to live here.

From the classroom to publication

I can't claim a shred of credit for this, but I can say I'm awfully proud.

Proud of Jennifer Knutson, whose op-ed --"Facing the recession: Picking up, start anew? No can do" -- was published online Saturday and in print Sunday.

Proud because Jennifer was a student in the weekend seminar -- Opinion and the Blogosphere -- that I taught recently at Portland State University. Check the March archives on this site for more...

Not only did she contribute greatly to class discussions, but she wrote a wonderful opinion piece for her final exam (a different one from the one cited above). I praised it as being worthy of publication and encouraged her to keep The Oregonian in mind if she were to pitch another piece. She did just that.

From an instructor's standpoint, it's great to see a student demonstrate initiative and follow-up.

A day for mothers

I know I'm lucky to be in this position. I rise early, while Lori sleeps in, so I can prepare a frittata as my contribution to a backyard brunch hosted by daughter and her partner. While the egg dish is baking, I call my mom in California and my stepmother in New Mexico to talk about their plans for the day.

Others, I know, are not as fortunate.

A co-worker of mine filled in last week compiling the Letters to the Editor that appeared in today's newspaper and online. On Thursday, he forwarded a letter from a reader that began "Why I Hate Mother's Day."

The author lost her mother unexpectedly, at age 80, less than a month ago and was feeling resentful at the barrage of Mother's Day advertising -- in newspapers and magazines, on TV and in store displays. For those of you with mothers who are still alive, she wrote, "cherish them and never take them for granted."

The sentiment was laudable but the bitter tone struck us as somehow out of sync with Mother's Day. Upon first reading it, I felt sorry for the woman, both for losing her mother and for the self-pity I felt she was expressing. Fortunately, my co-worker persisted...gently.

Neither of us wanted to reject the letter, so I suggested some minor edits and my co-worker e-mailed them to the author for her review, along with his own comments. Coincidentally, he wrote, he too was approaching his first Mother's Day without his mom. "So when I came across your letter about your mom," he wrote, "I was touched and sorry for your grief."

She wrote back to thank us for the suggested edits and attached a photo of herself and her mom (above). The end result is here and on The Oregonian's Opinion blog (fifth item down in the Letters to the Editor post):

Cherish your mom

My Mom, who just turned 80 on April 3, suddenly and unexpectedly died April 16. She was healthy, traveled, worked, played bridge at the senior center several days each week and continued her pool therapy after breaking her back 3 1/2 years ago, and then poof -- gone.

There were certainly some years growing up that Mother's Day was annoying with all the hype and pressure, particularly those years when I was younger and did not feel the need to honor my mom. The day my mom died, I started getting e-mails about Mother's Day things to buy, and radio ads and TV ads about not forgetting Mother's Day. I walk into a store, any store, and the first thing I see are Mother's Day promotions. Open a magazine or newspaper and again, more Mother's Day hype. Can you imagine what the first Mother's Day in 53 years without your mom will be like? I cannot, yet all day every day I cannot escape the inevitable, that I will truly have [to face] the fact that I am now a motherless daughter.

I am trying to find a way to honor my mom this Mother's Day beyond digging through her boxes of stuff, knowing I will not find her there no matter how much I wish it were so. Therefore, I have a favor to ask of all of you with mothers who are still living -- cherish them and never take them for granted, no matter how much they drive you nuts as only a mother can -- and please give your mother a hug from me.

LYNN ST. GEORGES, Beaverton

Here's a public thank-you to my co-worker, Mike Francis. And a suggestion that next time you hear someone talking about uncaring, dispassionate journalists you tell them about Mike.

Happy Mother's Day.

A four-star burger

Next time you're in the mood for a great burger, get your butt down to Wine Down on 28th, just a block and a half north of Burnside Street.

After one too many Thursday nights consuming cheap sushi (not that there's anything wrong with that), we broke from our routine and dropped in on our friend, Stuart Herold, proprietor and self-described "wannabe sommelier."

Even before I could scan the menu, Stu recommended a house favorite:

Laurelhurst Burger. A half-pound of Strawberry Mountain beef with smoked cheddar, caramelized onions, andouille aioli on a pub bun. Served with a side salad or, for $2 more, some tasty sweet potato fries.

From the first bite, I could see why. It's just three basic flavors -- the cheddar, the carmelized onions, the wonderfully seasoned beef -- having a party on a warm, soft bun. No tomatoes, lettuce, pickles, mayo or mustard needed.

Wine Down is one of those places that I like to think defines Portland: outstanding food, friendly service and a casual atmosphere. Even if you don't snag a booth or one of the comfy couches near the fireplace in the corner, the dining room has a warm, cozy feel to it -- almost as if you were eating in someone's house.

I know we don't get there often enough, but after last night I'm hereby pledging to become a more frequent visitor, with friends or family in tow. Even if it means less sushi.

A taste of blues

Here's a little something to get your morning off to a good start...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zs50uz3a_-M

Susan Tedeschi, backed by her husband Derek Trucks and his band, doing the Junior Wells/Buddy Guy classic "Little by Little." Trucks is the one with the blond hair and red guitar.

If you like that, check them out live in the KGON studios in Portland, doing Bob Dylan's "Don't Think Twice, It's Alright."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LepWePZpJGo

Susan is scheduled to play in Portland on Friday, August 21 at the Oregon Zoo Amphitheatre. Hope to see her then.

Small kindnesses

After a slew of longish posts, this will be short and sweet...

Yesterday I drove my car to work. Not a big deal, except that I usually ride the bus. So when I went out for the third time to put more money in the meter -- at $1.25 an hour -- I looked up at the automated pay station (they call them SmartMeters) and saw a parking receipt stuck to the device.

To my surprise and pleasure, it showed there was still about 90 minutes left on the receipt -- just about what I had planned to pay for myself. So while I saved a whopping $2.00 or so, the more important thing was thinking of whomever it was that decided to give his or her free minutes.

That's the sort of thing that puts you in a good mood and makes you grateful for the small kindnesses that soften the rough edges of daily life. I've seen other unused minutes passed forward in this way and it's invariably made me glad to live in a city where people would think to do to this.

I don't think I've ever done it myself, simply because I sync my time needed and minutes paid pretty well. But yesterday's little episode was a good reminder to pay it forward. If not with a parking meter receipt, then in some other way.

Another reason to celebrate Cinco de Mayo

Over the weekend and continuing through today, Portland's Waterfront Park has been the site of the annual Cinco de Mayo Fiesta. The event is sponsored by the Portland-Guadalajara Sister Cities Association and is the major fundraiser for a number of worthy causes.

This is the 25th anniversary of the fiesta, which is remarkable given Oregon's small population of Latinos and the overt hostility to brown people -- legal residents or not -- that surfaces all too often.

A lot of people mistakenly believe that May 5th is Mexican Independence Day. It's not. That's September 16.

Cinco de Mayo commemorates the underdog Mexican army's victory over French forces at the Battle of Puebla on May 5, 1862. (There's speculation within our extended family that our surname, Rede, came about as a result of some French soldier who was part of the invading army.)

But I seriously digress....

In our household, May 5th has an entirely different meaning. It's the day we adopted Jordan, 21 years ago. We drove to McMinnville, 40 miles southwest of Portland, with our caseworker to take custody of our little boy, then just four months old. Afterward, we had a memorable first meal at a local Wendy's while Jordan snoozed in a baby carrier that we placed on a table top. (Hey, maybe that greasy lunch explains his lifelong love of cheeseburgers.)

Today, Jordan is in Fort Benning, halfway through his basic training program, learning to be a soldier, while we're left with visual reminders of his absence. Not just the obvious stuff, like the broken skateboards hanging from his bedroom walls, but the less apparent ones, too. I opened the cupboard this morning and there, at eye level, was a box of Annie's Organic Shells & White Cheddar. One box would make enough for three people, but he'd wolf down the whole thing, typically while laughing out loud at some episode of "Family Guy" or "South Park" or something similar. I couldn't help but smile myself.

While the rest of the city observes Cinco de Mayo, Lori and I will have a quiet celebration of our own.

You know it's a recession when...

You host a poker game and you realize all four of your households have taken a direct hit.

One friend, an architect, has been working a four-day week for several months with a corresponding 20 percent pay cut. He considers himself fortunate, considering the number of architects in town who are unemployed.
Another friend says his wife, unable to find full-time work in her specialty, has had to go back to trade school to train for an entry-level job in another field that will pay her a fraction of what she formerly earned.
A third friend, recently retired, has had to refinance his home yet again to cover the cost of remodeling a beach house while his wife extends her planned retirement date to next January.
And me? Starting this month, I take a 10 percent pay cut and have to schedule four unpaid furlough days between now and Sept. 1.

No matter where you look, the economy looms, casting its shadow over our lives in ways both obvious and subtle.

Portland and its iconic Powell's Books (owner Michael Powell and daughter Emily, above) found itself in the national news again, courtesy of The New York Times. In a piece that ran in late March, "A downtown wraps a city in hesitance," reporter Peter Goodman deftly described the nervousness that was causing Portlanders to curtail their spending.

Throughout the American economy, retrenchment is begetting retrenchment. Falling home prices, weak consumer spending, diminishing investment and a fresh reappraisal of risk are combining to bring more of each. Grim expectations about the future are becoming self-fulfilling prophesies, as nervous companies cancel investments and households defer purchases.

Similarly, in a piece that ran in The Oregonian's Sunday Opinion section (commissioned and edited by yours truly), economist Joe Cortright said "contagious pessimism" has resulted in the loss of 42.000 jobs in Oregon during the past year.

Just as the housing bubble was inflated by widespread expectations that housing prices could only go up, our economy is now being dragged down by consumer and business belief that things will inevitably get worse. Consumers have cut back spending sharply, not just for houses and cars, but in retail stores and restaurants. Businesses are cutting back too. Wholesale, trucking and retail jobs are down, as are restaurant jobs. And temp agencies jobs are down 30 percent. Together, these sectors have lost about 42,000 jobs in the last 12 months.

I reference these articles not to compound anyone's sense of dread, but simply to offer some context (yes, we're all in the same boat), perspective (things could be far, far worse) and encouragement (if we haven't hit bottom already, I can't imagine it's not too far away).

Not to sound naive, but I'm like most Americans, who've told pollsters that they believe we're on the right track, thanks to new leadership in the White House. Obama inherited one hell of a mess, but I think he's going to pull us out of this. It may take longer and cause more pain than we'd like, but at least he's got the majority of the country pulling for and with him.

(A question for followers and other readers: How has the recession affected you?)

Reconsidering Facebook

In late March, I returned from vacation to a very well done article in the Business section of The New York Times: "Is Facebook Growing Up Too Fast?"

The piece noted Facebook's phenomenal growth from a startup five years ago. Last August, the social networking site registered its 100 millionth user. Barely seven months later, it expected to crack the 200 million user barrier. Amazing, no matter what you think of Facebook -- "an essential personal and business networking tool" (NY Times article) or soulsucking, timewasting diversion.

At the time, I was aware of a trend that was slowly becoming more apparent to me -- namely, that as much I enjoyed being on Facebook, especially initially, I was growing more comfortable with my own blog. The trend -- and my comfort level -- has only grown stronger in the past month.

After two full months of blogging, I've been as disciplined as I'd hoped to be, with a new post nearly every single day. I've ranged far and wide on my topics, even surprising myself sometimes from time to time. Along the way, I've also picked up some encouraging feedback, mostly as a result of Lori passing on a comment from a mutual friend but also as a result of a few comments that readers have posted on this or that entry.

The more I've done this, the more I realize I've created an online diary that's a pretty accurate reflection of my interests and whims, even if it's not a guts-out, reveal-all journal that crosses the line into self-absorbed. At least, I hope I haven't crossed that line. In the process, I think a fuller picture emerges than what someone would get from reading my blurbs on Facebook.

On Facebook, everyone (or nearly everyone, it seems) is witty and some folks are obsessed with their own navel, figuratively speaking. On Rough and Rede...well, I suppose it's up to everyone who visits the site to determine whether I'm doing that, too. What I like, though, is that this blog gives me more space to tease out my thoughts and feel like I'm making more of a personal connection with friends, family and -- hello, out there? -- any strangers who might come across it.

Somehow, it feels more intimate, even if still a predominately one-way conversation. I've sharply reduced the amount of time and effort I put into Facebook. Don't get me wrong, it's great in short bursts. But I think I've found a comfort zone here and hope to continue sharing my thoughts and experiences, for what they're worth. Over time, maybe I'll learn more about myself too.

If you like what you see, please feel free to pass along the URL: http://roughandrede.blogpost.com/

As of today, 11 followers. Yay!

Father-daughter time

With all the focus lately on our two boys -- one celebrating his birthday this weekend and the other a couple thousand miles away with the Army in rural Georgia -- it was nice to start the weekend over breakfast with Simone. (The photo is from 2005, her senior year of college.)

Funny thing...when I ventured into the kitchen this morning and looked out the window, the first thing I saw was a baseball-cap-wearing dad and his middle-school age daughter, wearing a hoodie and skipping alongside him on the sidewalk, no doubt headed to the neighborhood park. I took it as a good omen.

As much as Lori and I love our two boys -- gregarious Nathan and unflappable Jordan -- I've always valued my relationship with our only daughter, partly because I too am a middle child (wedged between two sisters) and partly because I think we share the same sensibilities and values.

While Simone (French for "she who listens") is more emotive and w-a-a-y more artistic than me, I think we have a similar worldview about politics, race, class and privilege, as well as a shared appreciation for certain authors (Jumpha Lahiri), movies ("The Wrestler") and music (Sarah McLachlan).

Of all of us in the family, Simone has traveled to the most farflung places (Cuba, Brazil, Australia, England, Scotland, Wales, Mexico) -- some of it with high school choirs and some of it due to her own intellectual pursuits (a semester abroad at the University of Havana, a post-graduate Fulbright Fellowship in Oaxaca, Mexico). Fair to say, too, she sets high standards for herself, whether it's preparing a dish from scratch, going the extra mile at work (she's a counselor working with youth at five alternative high schools) or thinking about career.

From the moment we sat down in a booth at Junior's Cafe, just south of Hawthorne, we eased into conversation that covered:

Literature. I'm reading "2666," the five-part, 900-page novel by Chilean author Roberto Bolaño, which she gave to me for my last birthday.
Film. She thought Mickey Rourke was fabulous in "The Wrestler" and gave the movie two thumbs up.
Career. She's applied for a summer job with a nonprofit that serves immigrants. After mulling graduate school in some aspect of public policy, she's seriously considering law school instead.
Music. A Grant High alumni choir group is just getting started. Their first get-together was Wednesday and doesn't conflict with the Tuesday practices of the other community choir she sings with.
Her brothers. She recounted a dream about Jordan, talking of his military experience, and brought along a cookbook, as she's planning to bake a cake for Nathan's birthday party tonight.

It's been wonderful to see Simone develop into the well-rounded young woman she is. Because she works full time and lives with her partner in North Portland, I don't see her as frequently as before, so today was a lovely way to spend an hour. Another one for the father-daughter memory bank.

"Goodbye cookies"

Today's intake: one white chocolate chunk with macadamia nuts; one regular chocolate chip. Yesterday's tally: one snickerdoodle, one oatmeal raisin. Earlier in the week, I passed on the homemade pastries someone brought in.

I wish I could say these workplace treats were celebrating someone's birthday or a journalism award. Instead, they've become a sad and all-too-common symbol of the slow shedding of newsroom jobs at The Oregonian.

Late last year, when 50-something full-time staffers -- every one of them a seasoned professional and some of them among the best people I've worked with -- we had sheet cakes, coffee and lemonade by the gallon and, in some cases, an after-work drink or two. Although painful to see so many talented colleagues leave at once, we all thought we were seeing the worst. By shrinking the staff, we were bringing the size of the payroll down to match current expenses in this fragile economy.

Little did we know that worse was yet to come. Along with a temporary pay cut, mandatory unpaid furlough days and freezing of our pension benefits came the news last month that we'd also have to lay off up to two dozen part-timers. Bless their hearts, enough people volunteered to accept the company's severance offer and move on. Some had been here a while and, I'm sure, saw it as a good time to wind down. Others, half their age, no doubt saw the modest pile of cash awaiting them, enough to launch into a new line of work or go back to school.

Starting a few days ago, they started leaving. Yesterday we said goodbye to a trio (two reporters and an editor). Today we said goodbye to four people on our floor (two designers, a clerk and a columnist) and to another seven on the floor below us (four in sports and three others from the copy desk, the listings desk and the political reporting team). With each departure came the well-intentioned e-mail from a supervisor or co-worker, urging the rest of us to come say goodbye to (fill in the name here) and swing by his or her desk for a cookie. Today's sayonara involved a noon potluck and the ubiquitous cookies.

I've taken to thinking of them as "goodbye cookies." When I think about their meaning, I can't help but feel:

Sad. Obviously. I know that each of these people took pride in their work and in the contribution they made to our community. To wind down -- or in some cases cut short -- their careers in these circumstances seems undignified.
Discouraged. It's no fun saying goodbye to good people. Of course, I wish them the best, and some of them do have some interesting plans. Everything from travel and massage school to contracted editing services to spending more time caring for aging parents. Still, the contracting of our industry is troubling because newspaper journalism is so vital to our democracy.
Relief. Let's be honest. Other companies, other industries have laid off massive amounts of people. So far (knock on wood), everyone who's left The Oregonian's newsroom has gone willingly, choosing to accept a buyout or layoff offer. No one's been forced out. In this economy, I don't underestimate the good fortune I have to still have a great job at a great newspaper in a great city.
Resignation. I know more people will leave in the coming months and years. I can only hope they will make their decisions on the basis of their individual circumstances rather than a worsening of our financial situation.

This week, I talked to a young, full-of-potential reporter who is starting to think seriously of medical school. She's that bright -- and her family is nudging her in that direction. Yet journalism is all she's ever wanted to do. I wish she could look forward to what I've had: a long, deeply satisfying career full of variety and the opportunity to grow my skills. But I also won't be surprised if, a decade from now, she walks across a stage to receive her medical degree.

"Goodbye cookies." I hope I've eaten the last of them for a while.