The Promises We Make and The Commitments We Keep: making the right decisions in a confusing and unpredictable world

Again, you have heard that it was said to the people long ago, 'Do not break your oath, but keep the oaths you have made to the Lord.' But I tell tell you, do not swear at all: either by heaven, for it is God's throne; or by the earth, for it is his footstool; or by Jersualem, for it is the city of the Great King. And do not swear by your head, for you cannot make even one hair white or black. Simply let your 'Yes" by 'Yes,' and your 'No,' 'No'; anything beyond this comes from the evil one.

(Matthew 5:33-37)

In a world that is always looking for a loophole, a bailout or wiggle room, a life lived in God's grace calls you to a higher standard: Keep your word and your promises. Treat your vows and commitments seriously. Consider the consequences of your decisions, and follow them through. That was the lesson in church today, and it couldn't have come at a better time for me, in the midst of several major life decisions, an area where I don't have the best track record as we have seen. In years past I've made them rashly, stubbornly, or angrily, with predictable results.

I've decided to stay in Portland. This is my home. I want to be with Marie. In a week or so we should be getting a $1453 tax stimulus check, enough to get an apartment and make it a home, and that's what we'll do.

This time it just feels right, and I am going to do everything a man can do to make it work.

Marie and I went to church today, her third Sunday in a row and my second in the last three, so already we are making progress. We said hello to Elmer, the kindly old man who's survived three cancer surgeries, and William, a genuine and good man I judged way too harshly in my bitter wrestling match with myself over the summer, who still greets us with a welcoming smile. William runs the Recovery Group that meets at Beaverton Christian on Friday nights.

Afterward we had another simple day together. I feel a real peace right now, a certainty. We have been sustained and encouraged by the good thoughts and prayers of some very precious people, and it's as if we're surrounded by a hedge of protection, a tremendous sense of healing and hope. We went to Borders and read the Sunday paper. She had a gingerbread mocha and I had a green tea. We embraced each other and held hands, had lunch at Baja Fresh and took a nap in the car, then went to the gym. The last four days have been quiet and sure and full of grace. We belong together. There's a lot of uncertainty in the world, and a lot of gathering trouble. No matter what that brings, we are better together than we are apart.

The job in Oak Harbor was a safer choice, but it wasn't a better one. There's no guarantee if I went. A new manager would be in charge and we'd be joining from another unit, the new guys. The relocation money was contingent on a year of service, and would have to be returned if the year wasn't completed. What if he didn't like me, what if the economic downtown dictated a reduction in force?

I'll find another job, or create one. What I don't want is another wife. After 50 years I found the one who is everything I ever hoped for and all the trouble I can handle, and I want to be where she is.

I have never been more sure of anything, and that's worth a fortune in this uncertain world. It's a promise I intend to keep.

The Sweet Taste of Victory, Savored With Fine Wine

I'm too relieved too feel vindicated, because I was worried they would lose, but the Ducks rode a big-play offense to roll the Oregon State Beavers 65-38 in Reser Stadium this afternoon, ending the Beavers' Rose Bowl dream unless UCLA pulls off a miracle upset over the cheaters from USC. Not likely: the Trojans demolished Notre Dame 38-3 tonight, and their defense is stifling and fierce.

I watched the game at A Taste of Wine with Doug and Marie and we had a wonderful time. The wine was good and Doug's good humor is the perfect complement to any wine and any occasion. Even in defeat he was philosophical and gracious and remarkably good company.

The Beavers sorely missed their quick little running back Quizz Rodgers, easily the heart and soul of their team. Their strength this year has been ball control and balance, and his darting elusiveness and tackle-breaking magic lifted the play of his teammates all year long. He's probably the Conference Player of the Year, and missing a game only underscored how remarkable and valuable he was. Despite playing with a sore shoulder, quarterback Lyle Moavao tied a team record with five touchdown passes, but tonight the defense didn't have an answer for the formidable Oregon running game and gave up far too many big plays.

The Ducks improved to 9-3 with the win, a good record considering they started the season with five inexperienced quarterbacks before settling on Jeremiah Masoli, a sophomore JC transfer who improved every game after a shaky start. He barely managed 40 yards passing in two of his earlier games, but in the last three he's made giant strides toward becoming a perfect fit as the dual-threat spearhead of the Ducks' potent spread option offense. Next year may bring a new challenge though: they might lose offensive mastermind Chip Kelly, their talented Offensive Coordinator who tutored first Dennis Dixon and now Masoli and worked wonders with both. Syracuse is interviewing him for their vacant head coaching position, and after his offense racked up over 1200 yards and 100 points in its last two games, other overtures are sure to follow. The Ducks will likely play in the Holiday Bowl in San Diego on December 30, and Kelly may be a lame duck by then, a head man in some other corner of the football world. That's the trouble with hiring talented people; they outgrow their jobs and move on to bigger opportunities.

Marie was radiant tonight in a pair of jeans and a snug fitting little Duck tee shirt that hugged her delicious curves. Her hair was up with little curls dangling down her neck, a look that both stirs and delights me. Happy and loved, she radiates desirability, and sitting next to her was the sweetest victory of the season, with the possible exception of the concession phone call I got from Stephanie after the game.

Doug's son Tucker invited us over for pulled pork sandwiches after the game. I wasn't at all hungry but I ate every bite because they were heavenly, tender, marvelously well seasoned with sauteed onions and mushrooms. Doug's son Dmitri assisted in the kitchen and both cooks earned their praise. I'm surrounded by excellence and bowled over with blessings. Christmas doesn't need to come, because I couldn't want another thing.

The Best Dates Are Simple; the Best Lives Seldom Are

The best dates are simple. Friday night Marie picked me up after work, and we took the Max train from Gateway station to Pioneer Courthouse Square for the Christmas tree lighting ceremony, arriving just as the countdown reached twelve. The timing was kind of magical, and it made me consider that our timing might be better this time. We walked around and looked at shop windows, admired the wedding dresses and Christmas finery, watched the people and babies passing by. We wondered how anyone could spend so much money on expensive purses or luggage, merely for the supposed status associated with Coach or Louis Vuitton. Hundreds of dollars to wear a particular logo, to be "it" by association, for an item that's purely functional, lugging your stuff from one place to another. Image is everything, they say, but why do they say that?

We walked over to Old Town trying to find a Chinese Restaurant Marie said she'd visited last summer, somewhere near the lions guarding the Chinese gate, on a corner just off Burnside. We passed bums and drug addicts and prostitutes, the late stage alcoholics and homeless insane wanderers. Around every corner and doorway loomed a dark lurking figure or a lost soul huddled in a filthy blanket. We like to think of ourselves as far above such desperation and emptiness, but there's a thin line of blessing and circumstance that shapes our ends, and in a few quick disasters our lives can be rough-hewn in directions we never imagined.

Panhandlers of uncertain gender approached us for a dollar or a cigarette. I rarely carry cash and had none, but Marie lent out a smoke to one rougish-looking young man in a grey coat, a scarf wrapped around his neck and a small flower on his lapel. He gave us a sideways smile. "It's a nasty habit, I know, I'm trying to quit." Sometimes it's just easier to be a sucker.

We walked several blocks back and forth, not finding the place that looked familiar, until we went a little further down fourth avenue and there it was, the Golden Horse Restaurant. Some of the others had unappetizing-looking animals hanging in the windows, a roast duck with the bill still on, a pig crackled snout and all. Marie couldn't bear to look. I'll never understand the custom of displaying food that way; it couldn't be more unappetizing. But the Golden Horse looked more promising; inside the restaurant was simple and cluttered and they gave us a quiet table in the corner. We had chicken with black bean sauce and chicken with seasonal vegetables, with hot tea and egg flower soup, enough food for four people, delicious, just 18.95, cheaper than Burgerville and quite a bit less than Chang's Mongolian. We talked easily, the hot tea warding off the winter chill and cold germs, and made promises and plans the way lovers do. I want to be with her. I don't want to be anywhere else.

We walked back uptown to the boarding platform across from Sak's Fifth avenue holding hands, passing again by the windows of bridal dresses and snazzy Christmas outfits. On the train ride home at the Lloyd Center station Amber and Geoffrey got on, Marie's eldest daughter and her husband. They are two of the most intelligent and enjoyable people you will ever meet, particularly because of how much they enjoy each other. It turns out they had gone to the tree lighting and couldn't have been more than 50 feet away from us, arriving just as we did in the last numbers of the countdown. They had met Ashley and the granddaughters, Makenzie and Bryce. Makenzie hadn't had a nap today and she melted down when the tree was lit. She wanted to be in the center of the square when it happened, the magical princess place. They tried to explain that would have been impossible in the crowd, but reason had no place in this argument, a distressed and over-tired child in full wail.

We talked about Thanksgiving and Christmas shopping and tomorrow's Duck game. Geoffrey was in his Oregon sweatshirt. "Nice sweatshirt," I said. Amber asked if they had a chance tomorrow. "To be honest, I don't know. I hope so." I said, and went on to recite some of the storylines of the game, that Quizz Rodgers was out and the Beavs had a Rose Bowl berth on the line, the Ducks were coming off a bye and were a three-point dog. Most fans without a strong allegiance will be rooting for Oregon State I suppose. That's a lot of psychic energy in the wrong direction for a team with a history of disappointments and foulups in the clutch. The outcome might be a seminal moment in the history of the two programs, determining preeminence in the Northwest for the next several years. It feels like from this point they go one direction or the other. It feels like that for the whole country, and for Marie and I as well.

She drove me home and we kissed good-bye. She's coming today to join me for a workout and to watch the game at the Civil War party at A Taste of Wine. At the actual Civil War the Union supporters expected a quick victory and at the first battles there were picnics spread and outdoor bands, an atmosphere of festivity and anticipation. How we invite ourselves to a fool's party, thinking things will be pleasant and won without struggle.

Striving to Be Civil About the Civil War

Oregon residents get a little chippy about the Civil War, the over-the-top nickname we give to the annual football game between the University of Oregon and Oregon State. Even though it's only a football game, we live in a state where you are either green and yellow or black and orange, and most people wear one set of colors or the other. Flags are flown on doorsteps or from car windows. Jaws jut out. People make friendly wagers and unfriendly ones. Bragging rights are risked, and for one half of the state, the next twelve months are a little more uncomfortable to live, especially when the subject of football is brought up. You are either a Duck honk or a Beaver Believer, and life is either a little better or a little worse depending on who winds up on the big half of the score on Saturday afternoon.

I have always been a Duck, although there are times I wish I wasn't. The Ducks will break your heart in a hundred ways, and put your heart in your throat a thousand more. Things are never easy for Duck fans. Most games come down to the final play, and sometimes you're not even sure if it's really over even then, waiting for an official's signal. Last year they lost a game on the final play when a receiver, reaching desperately for the goal line with seconds to go, fumbled the ball into the end zone and out of bounds. The officials huddled. Anxious seconds passed. Still no signal. Finally, touchback: Ducks lose. We've won games in the same anxious and uncertain way. Wesley Mallard mugs a receiver in the end zone with time running out. No call, no flags: Ducks win. In an infamous game in 2006 the Ducks were trailing against Oklahoma with little time left and tried on onside kick. It didn't go ten yards before a Duck player touched it, and Oklahoma recovered, but the officials awarded Oregon the ball. They drove for a go-ahead touchdown, but the game still wasn't won: they had to block an Sooner field goal on the final play. To be a Duck fan means getting good at holding your breath, making excuses and throwing pillows at the TV. Defensive coach Nick Alliotti has taken years off my life with his maddening and predictable tendencies, rushing three on third and long, or leaving the tight end uncovered in the second half.

Elated over the victories, and agonized over the times we've just run out of time, I've always worn green and yellow, and shook my head over the times Nike has trotted out new uniform colors I didn't recognize at all. A further embarrassment of being a Duck fan is their quirky, cozy relationship with number one alumnus Phil Knight of Nike, which has led to all sorts of fashion-forward football uniform choices that are ridiculed around the country: mustard-colored pants and urine-yellow helmets, and the latest affectation, a ring of feathers on the shoulder pads that look more like a garland of Tampons, a garish and effeminate-looking creation that appears to have been inspired by Liberace or fat Elvis. Every telecast or mention on the national sports channels, the first thing they talk about is the uniforms. The Ducks are either innovative or a laughingstock, and sometimes they're both. I wish we would just play football, and stop collapsing in the November stretch drive. Maybe this is the year.

I say that every year, and some years we get close. In 2001 Joey Harrington led a team that finished 12-1 and number two in the country, pasting Colorado in the Fiesta Bowl. Last season Dennis Dixon ran and passed the PAC-10 silly on the way to another number two ranking before going down to a season-ending knee injury in the ninth game. Devastated by the loss of perhaps the best player in the country the Ducks fell apart and lost their last three games, missing a field goal at the end of regulation in losing to the Beavers in two overtimes, James Rodgers scooting around the corner for a touchdown on the dreaded fly sweep. I still have nightmare visions of Duck linebacker Kwame Agyeman penetrating four yards into the backfield but clutching air as Rodgers sprints for 25 yards. The year before they lost missing a field goal in the final minute. The Beavers always save their best for the Ducks, and the Ducks, well, sometimes they fly and sometimes they get shot down.

I love them just the same, and have ever since I was a young man and Dan Fouts was slinging touchdowns and Bobby Moore (now NBC NBA reporter Ahmad Rashad) was catching them. The hardest part is taking the ribbing and gloating that follows a loss of the Civil War. My friend Doug is usually pretty gracious about it, a Beaver fan since he rooted for them as a youngster. Two of his kids graduated from Oregon State and his wife and two of her brothers are also Beavs. Or, as they are affectionately called by Duck fans in private, Barkrats. Not a very gracious nickname, admittedly.

While Doug is gracious in victory, having been around long enough to remember when both teams were awful (one year they played to a 0-0 tie) Stephanie takes full advantage of her bragging rights. She is a merciless and formidable adversary, particularly when she has the upper hand, and for the last four or five years, she has had it a lot. The Ducks have mostly underachieved since reaching the heights with the 2001 team, and the Beavers have routinely exceeded expectations during the same time frame. They've won three of the last five Civil Wars, and two in a row, and I'm starting to feel a little uncivil about it.

Somehow in our state it's more than a football game. It's liberal versus conservative and country versus city. It's the bad blood of old misunderstandings and treachery and trickery and dancing on one another's logo. Everyone takes sides and someone has to lose. This year both teams are 8-3 and nationally ranked. If the Beavers win they go to the Rose Bowl for the first time in 44 years. If the Ducks win they get a vacation in San Diego and a very large monkey off their back. And I get to avoid a jubilant, crowing phone call from Selah, Washington, and the right to wear my sweatshirt with pride instead of embarrassment.

We'll see how it goes. The Beavers are favored by three but their phenomenal freshman running back has a bum shoulder and might not play. Already this season they've proven to be a resilient and well-coached unit, and the loss of Quizz Rodgers (fly-sweep artist James' little brother) is more likely to inspire them than make them wilt. The Ducks have talent and a deep-pocket sponsor, but Saturday we'll find out if they have the courage and determination to derail a Rose Bowl dream. I'm not optimistic, but I never am: I'm more of a Lou Holtz poor mouth worry and wring a kitchen towel kind of fan, this year in particular. The Ducks have had their stumbles and fumbles this season, and even after 11 games, it's hard to know how much resolve and readiness they'll bring to any game or any given play. After a bye last week they should be rested. Saturday at four p.m., the entire state will be watching, and Stephanie will have her cell phone ready.

I got an email from Doug tonight, and he says there is a Civil War party at A Taste of Wine in Tualatin. At least I know I'll get my phone call in a congenial and pleasant atmosphere and in good company, and that will be a victory all by itself.

A Titantic Clash Between Romance and Reality

Monday is the deadline to commit to the Oak Harbor Relocation at my company. If we sign on for relocation we are awarded a $5000 net relocation bonus when we take residence in Oak Harbor. If we stay till the end of business here in Portland we get a 4-week completion bonus and four weeks severance pay, probably about $3000 after taxes. Company representatives have indicated we would be eligible for unemployment. By policy the company does not provide reference letters, but they are arranging for outplacement assistance.

If you spend even a few minutes a day with the morning paper you know with certainty that these are generous options: every day 1000s of people lose their jobs with no notice at all and few resources. A week or two ago I read in the USA Today about a man who worked all his life in the mines, lost his job when his company shut down, relocated to Montana on the promise of a new one, and on his first day at the new place his new employer announced they had to lay off 5000 people. Unemployed, broke, and 2500 miles from home. Imagine having to go home and tell your wife.

When my wife was seven her father was offered a lucrative job in Alaska working for the department of Defense. He wanted to provide a better life for his family, so he took it. This was the early 60's when being the "breadwinner" was a role taken very seriously in our culture. He made the hard decision to go hundreds of miles away from everything he loved and knew to make enough money to secure his family's future and hopes. It wasn't an easy decision. He had three daughters and a son, Marie being the youngest, just started second grade. He was a very loving man. After many long talks with his wife he decided to go. He wrote long letters home, braving the cold of the Aleutian Islands. He sent home packages and pictures. And he worked, making thousands of dollars more than he could have in the contiguous fifty.

Marie loved her daddy and she was devastated by his absence. As an adult she has grown to understand it, but the hurt of being without him at a critical time in her childhood is the single most powerful experience of her formative years. Even now she has a deep fear of abandonment. It's a wonder she's put up with all my antics and rebellions. it's amazing how hard we've both fought to keep hope alive in this crazy relationship in this crazy world.

We've talked about it, and there is no way she will relocate to Oak Harbor. In the years before she knew me she was married to an abusive man, and she uprooted her youngest daughter and exposed her to all kinds of trauma in trying to make that relationship work, and now she is certain that she can't make that mistake again, that her foremost responsibility is to provide Austin with safety, stability and continuity. She can't ask her to move 300 miles from her brothers and sisters and her peer group, risking a new life and a new place with a stepfather who has failed her before. We can try, and we want to, but in Marie's mind it has to be here, in Portland, where her job is, where her four kids are, where she has lived for 25 years. She arrived at that decision carefully. Oak Harbor is not an option if we want to be together.

In my life I have seldom done the practical thing. Most times I've resisted practicalities altogether, opting for rebellion or adventure or change or independence or starting over every time. Indeed, I've never worked so hard on a relationship as I have this one. I was always moving on. I've always given up and struck out on my own. But this was different. No one has ever moved me or stirred me or inspired me the way this woman does. No one is as desirable or unforgettable, or will be. This is the last best good woman of my life, and it's either her or Oak Harbor, it's as simple as that.

The reality is, we need the money. For two people who have never saved a dime and worked for wages all their lives, five thousand dollars is a lot of money. It's a new start. It's a chance to get out from under the thumb of all your bad decisions. It isn't all the money in the world, but it's enough to make a difference. Even divided in half it is. Marie right now is essentially homeless, sleeping on her son's couch. She's working at Safeway for eight dollars an hour, part time. It's my responsibility to take care of her. With $5000 and a job, I could do a much better job of that. I could provide her with some real hope.

It's not a news flash to report that the economy is horrible right now. I've scoured the paper and the online resources, applied for a dozen jobs without a single phone call. Today Kaiser sent me a form letter indicating they had determined I had selected another position outside Kaiser and wasn't being considered as a candidate for their open positions. I don't know how they made that determination without talking to me, but it's clear I'm not going to be hired there, or anywhere, without some major luck. I'm 53. It's a lot easier finding a job at 23 than it is 53. Just being available makes you a suspect candidate at my age.

I want to be with my wife. I want to sleep with her again and have dinner with her every night, to be in the place where she is and make up for the lost time. She is the best company I have ever known, and more comfort and joy than a thousand Christmas carols. I need her. I want her. I miss her.

It isn't easy between us, though. We have a lot to overcome, and a lot to work on. Our prospects will be a lot brighter with $5000 and a job. But going against her wishes and hopes in such a critical matter might be the final misunderstanding between us. For her it would feel like another abandonment, and she'd feel every original hurt all over again.

Monday December 1st is the day we turn in our paper. The company will make staffing decisions and transfer arrangements from that date, and they need time to make an orderly transition of business.

I wish someone would call me Friday for a new position for twice as much money, or offer me a book deal or a seat at the final table of the World Series of Poker. But this isn't the movies. This is real life, where people have to make agonizing decisions that change their lives forever, and sacrifices are made. I'm torn between two uncertain prospects, and I have no idea what to do. Do I give Marie $2500 and a chance at a new life, or do I go to her and promise everything will work out and we'll find a way, without having any idea what that way is? It's a lot easier in the movies, where romance always triumphs over reality.

Football, great food and your favorite people: what's not to like?

I love all holidays except Halloween. I used to be grumpy about Valentine's Day until I met Marie. I've had the three greatest Valentine's Days of my life since we met: the girl really knows how to spice up a Valentine's Day. She is my favorite present, regardless of holiday. I mean that quite sincerely. She is endlessly desirable and delightful, except when she is being stubborn.

But I love holidays, everything about them. Especially Thanksgiving, because it combines three of my favorite things, food, football and hanging out with the family. Christmas is sometimes stressful or anticlimactic or marred by a scene. I don't know why. But we've all had the Christmas that has gone bad, with an argument or misunderstanding that left everyone staring at the floor in shame. Thanksgiving, however, is virtually foolproof. You drink, you eat, you laugh. You holler at Romo for throwing a crucial pick in the third quarter. You draw names for Christmas and take seconds. Or thirds. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, turkey gravy. Mashed potatoes. Stuffing. Fruit salad. My brother-in-law Richard's famous key lime pie. How can anyone dislike a holiday with so much going for it and so little pressure? Bring a bottle of wine, kiss the baby, chat in the kitchen and sample the summer sausage and cheese. Thanksgiving is an utterly perfect day. With many hands the prep and cleanup isn't overwhelming, and the pace is perfect. You'd have to be scroogier than Scrooge to hate Thanksgiving.

The deeper riches of the holiday seem particularly important this year. As a country and as individuals we've had a few setbacks in the last several months, and many of us are facing a mountain of uncertainty: a bigger bill stack, a leaner paycheck, a business that is being stretched and stressed, layoffs and rumors of layoffs. This week Buick laid off Tiger Woods. You know things are getting tough when Tiger Woods gets a pink slip, but I'm sure he'll land on his feet.

Thanksgiving is a great time for conversation. People congregate in the kitchen or the sitting room or around one of the ball games, and there is plenty of time to catch up. Most of us are blessed to be surrounded by some of our favorite people, so talk flows freely. Remember to take a moment to say a prayer for those who are half a world away tonight, far from their love ones as they protect ours. I hope they can all come home soon.

But conversation flows with all that good food and drink, and one of the things we'll all be talking about this year, along with the great deal we got on our last fill up and how good the turkey smells, is how we're scaling down expectations this Christmas. Most of the people I know are planning a smaller holiday, fewer gifts, a few things for the kids and nothing extravagant. Maybe we'll give more thought to being together. The tree might be shorter than usual. It's an opportunity to be a little more still this time, a little less rushed, to stop and really hear the words to Silent Night, my favorite Christmas carol. All is calm. All is bright. A night of a new hope born into the world, a hope that still lives, that makes all our most tender and noble wishes possible, a hope of redemption and peace and renewal. Thanksgiving is a glorious meal but in another way it's an appetizer to the holidays, an afternoon that invites us to begin the winter season with love, devotion and a deepening commitment to all the things that matter most in our lives, the people around the table in our favorite place on earth. Happy Thanksgiving everyone. I love you and wish you well.

Headed for the Danger Zone of Total Sloth

Friday night, the night lovers canoodle and old men hoist a pint, and all I did is play internet chess in my room. There's a pile of clean laundry in the thinking and reading chair and a pile of dirty laundry in the closet. The bed is unmade, and I stayed up way late and slept till 11:39. I haven't worked out since Monday. If I don't snap out of it soon my body is going to calcify or turn to suet and my brain will turn to mush.

I get like this sometimes, in the grey grip of the Oregon winter, and sometimes it takes a Roy Scheider "All That Jazz" pep talk in the mirror to get going. "It's showtime!" Sometimes you have to tilt your head back and squeeze some drops into your bleary minds' eye. Or slap yourself like Cher slapped Nicholas Cage in "Moonstruck": "Snap out of it!"

When I finish this entry I'm going to get in motion. I'll fold the laundry and start another load. I'll walk to the bank and deposit my poker check, and then to the gym, have a good workout, a long hot shower and a shave, put on clean clothes. I'll straighten up the room and vacuum, clean the bathroom and sweep the entryway. I'll get on the internet and pay my Best Buy bill and phone and car insurance, and I swear I won't play any more internet chess. The worst part I was playing badly, in a fog of unforced errors and rudimentary blunders. I'd start out with a solid position and then just fail to see a trap or a untenable move, and lose to a gloating idiot with an anonymous nickname from some remote corner of cyberspace. I should have canoodled or hoisted a pint; I would have been so much farther ahead. I've never made poorer use of a week of evenings. I've never been more disconnected from the world. But my goodness, it's my own fault.

On Monday I cashed out of the poker game because I was running out of food and fishsticks, having planned even less well than usual, and consequently I had less to do in this empty room. Tonight Marie are going on a date, and that will get me in motion, help me throw off this self-absorbed useless funk. I have to be careful: I'm a creature of habit, and this is just about the worst habit of all, doing nothing and going nowhere. Snap out of it, Dale. It's Showtime! Your life is calling, and if you don't answer soon, the phone won't ring at all.

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Weekend Update: 10:28 p.m.

What a much better day it turned out to be. I folded the laundry and did two more loads, straightened up the room and went to the gym. I leg pressed and bench pressed and did 250 crunches, 35 pushups and 15 dips. I rowed and did pulldowns and rode the elliptical, read an US Weekly and the Saturday paper, hamstring curled and calf extended, and walked there and back. Had two Italian ices and a chocolate milk and some nuts for lunch, came home and paid the Best Buy bill, and the cell phone. I'll pay the insurance on Monday, and I had enough left to buy in to the poker site for $60, and I won $76 in the $3 rebuy, finishing 116th out of 4500 players. Busted out with a pair of nines, an ace-queen and a pair of aces behind me. Shortstacked with four and half times the blind, it was time to try and get lucky. I churned along as long as I could. Still, $76 was not a bad night for the first night back.

I followed along with the Beaver game as I played, watching the play chart on ESPN game cast. You don't see the actual plays or players, just the results of each play on a drive chart, the football equivalent of a stock ticker. The Beavers came from behind to win with a field goal on the last play of the game, and now the Civil War will be for the Rose or Holiday Bowl as well as state bragging rights. I hope the Ducks play well and win, or Stephanie will make my life miserable for another year.

Marie had to cancel our date. She said she wasn't feeling well and had to drive Austin to her Winter Formal. She may come over tomorrow.

There's another Italian ice in the freezer. I'll think I'll have that for dessert and go to bed. I'll sleep a lot better knowing I had a productive day.

I'm not broke: there's half a box of fishsticks in the freezer

Sometimes, it comes down to the last box of fish sticks. I've never been good with money, as we have seen. Here at blog central we've been known to spend our last five dollars on a banana, a chocolate milk, the USA Today and a Red Box movie, and do so on Wednesday with two days to payday. Somehow I always make it, whether if it's scraping up the change in the sock drawer or returning the pop cans on the back porch. I've had some close scrapes on bill due dates but I've never gone hungry, and it's possible to do a lot worse.

They also tell me it's possible to budget and plan ahead, and not live with such small desperations, but where's the sense of adventure in that? I enjoy the creative financing and the small challenges. You haven't lived until you've discovered a dollar you didn't know you had, and celebrated with a hot fudge sundae at McDonalds. When Stephanie was growing up there was a $1 movie theatre downtown, and we went there pretty much every time she came to visit. We saw Top Gun 13 times, and had a wonderful time each and every time. The volleyball scene was her favorite, a ten-year-old gaga over Tom Cruise's washboard abs. Doug and Gretchen have been very successful in their life, and they've worked hard to get there, but one of my favorites of their stories is the time as young marrieds when they were barely scraping by on Doug's Air Force paycheck, doing laundry at the laundromat on a boiling hot Oklahoma Sunday, and they found a $20 bill in the parking lot. That is living, finding $20 when you don't have a dime. They've enjoyed meals since in some of the finest restaurants in Paris, but I bet nothing tasted as good as the goodies they bought that afternoon with found money.

Tomorrow is pay day and I'll be able to pay a few bills, buy next week's train pass and maybe join Doug for a bottle of wine. Marie and I will have a little date on Saturday and maybe some attention, and then it will be back to work, to trade in another 40 hours of my dwindling allotment of time in exchange for 10 trash cans of the company's money. It passes fairly well and I always feel I've earned it at the end of the day. We're all lucky to have jobs, even though some Mondays it doesn't feel that way.

Marie sent me some pretty good links for jobs in my field at a good rate of pay, which I'll respond to tomorrow. We're supposed to get our stimulus check in the mail in a couple more weeks, so we could have a new home by Christmas. If I can find work here I won't have to go to Oak Harbor, taking the severance pay instead. I'd rather have her to hold and not have to eat my fish sticks alone. I always forget to buy the cocktail sauce. She remembers things like that. And the Red Box movies are always more fun when you have someone to watch them with. Even if she falls asleep twenty minutes into the movie. She snores. But it's cute when she does it. In "Good Will Hunting" Robin Williams' character is reminiscing about his dead wife, and he says "it's the imperfections, the little quirks that endear you to a person." The quote isn't exact, but that's the essence of it, and it's true. You love someone in a hundred little ways, and there are all these strings of memory and appreciation and acceptance that tie you together, and that's a good, sustaining thing. It's wonderful to be with someone you would give your last fish stick for. It's wonderful to belong. I'd rather have that than $5000. I'd rather have that than $50,000. But I wouldn't mind finding a $20 bill tomorrow on the way to work.

There's no word yet from Marie's doctor, and I urged her to call and get an update. There may be a simple explanation for the discharge; she doesn't have a lump or pain or any other symptoms, but it would be nice to get some information and reassurance, the results of the mammogram and a little follow up. Doctors are too stingy with information, and the lack of information is what leads people to worry. We have Kaiser right now, and one of the things I appreciate about Kaiser generally is that they do a good job of empowering the patient and making them a partner in their own health care. It's a very patient-friendly approach, and I think a key to keeping health care costs under control. Give people choices and information and encourage them to make intelligent ones. Let them participate in the process, and spend their health care dollars wisely. For next year I chose a plan with a high deductible and a flexible spending account; it keeps my costs down and gives me more control over the money. It's the perfect choice for someone who never goes to the doctor unless he has a kiwi fruit growing out of his ribcage.

But I feel blessed. The lump wasn't fatal, I didn't lose my gloves or stocking cap, it's 10:30 and I'll get a good night's sleep, and my belly is full of fish sticks. Tomorrow night I'll live it up with a slice of pizza and a USA Today. But if I don't go to the gym I want you to shoot me: I haven't been since Monday. Lucky I walk five miles a day or I'd weigh 400 pounds.

Reports of My Death Are Greatly Exaggerated

I'm not going to die. At least not this week. At least not of any anticipated causes.

I went to my doc appointment on Monday and got a nice extra birthday present. The lump in my ribcage is not serious. Dr. J examined it and explained it's fairly common, a fat deposit, and it isn't likely to grow much bigger and doesn't have to be removed unless it causes some discomfort. Marie still hasn't heard from her doctor, however. Something that alarming, they ought to get back to the patient as fast as possible.

Stephanie invited me to Thanksgiving dinner but I can't really go: I have to work the next morning. Only the staff with the most seniority or the fastest draw on the PTO forms manages to wrangle out of post-holiday duty. There will be hundreds of confused Thursday garbage customers calling to complain about their can.

I'm relieved not to die, but when the time comes I hope you'll throw a party and sing the fight song for me. Be sure and serve good snacks. I highly recommend the Martinelli's Grape-Apple Sparkling Cider. It's on sale at Winco, 1.98 a bottle. Very festive. I may walk over and buy a bottle after my nap.

I forget who, it may have been George Burns or Rodney Dangerfield, but there was a comedian who used to say, "I'm at a wonderful time in my life. I was always taught to respect my elders, and now I'm so old I don't have to respect anybody."

The great thing about being old is, I can buy a bottle of Sparkling Grape-Apple Cider whenever I want, and drink the whole thing from the bottle, and no one can tell me "don't touch that, it's for thanksgiving." All anyone would say is, "Leave him alone. He's old."

And Marie says I look damn good for 53. And that's good enough for me.

Like the Pine Trees Lining the Winding Road: three lies I told myself

In trying to live rightly there were three lies I told myself. Not malicious, not intentioned, but lies nonetheless. The reality was right there before me but I chose the lie, wanting things to be a certain way, wanting life to conform to my misconceptions, my pride or my impatience with the slow march of truth.


Lie number one: "I'm done with the Ducks."

Doug was right. A couple of weeks ago, frustrated with a pattern of inconsistent and inept play I wrote I wasn't going to watch Duck football anymore, wasn't going to read or write about it; there were more important things, I sniffed. But those closest to me saw through my self-delusion and fit of pique. "You're either a Duck or you're not," Doug wrote. And Stephanie put a helmet to my gut in her straight-ahead, Earthquake Enyart style: "Do you want some cheese with your whine?" she said.

I couldn't stay away. My self-declared Duck boycott didn't last twenty minutes. It wasn't that long before I was sneaking a peek at Rob Moseley's Duck football blog. Furtively I followed all the reports all week, and a week ago Saturday I watched the Stanford game from whistle to whistle. In typical Duck fashion they fumbled four times but won in the last six seconds, and I was hooked all over again. Then this Saturday they sprung out to 45-17 lead, dominating and electric, but fell flat in the second half and held on for an unconvincing win, 55-45, a basketball score. Arizona closed within 48-45 with six minutes to play before a dropped pass on fourth and three and a late, clutch touchdown run by LeGarette Blount. Blount has powered his way for crucial late touchdowns in four of Oregon's wins, all close games that would have been lost without him. His jubilant dances with his teammates after these scores are my fondest memories of this season: the love of football, the love of competing, runs deep in this group. Players like Blount and center Max Ungar and defensive end Nick Reed have no quit. They might still lose to the Beavers, who have a shot at the Rose Bowl this year, but they've given everything they had, and that's all a fan should ever ask. Doug is right. I'm a Duck. I was a Duck when they were 3-8 in the bad old days, and I'll be a Duck forever. I'll ask the score on my deathbed, and Stephanie will kiss my forehead and whisper in my ear, "They suck, Dad." And that will be her final I love you, her way of not going gentle into that good night. They do suck. But I love them just the same. I have a fierce love for all the things I love, whether they suck or not. Because sometimes I suck too.

Lie number two: "It's nothing. It will go away by itself."

About a year ago I noticed a lump. Under my armpit, about the size of a almond. It's nothing, I thought. An ingrown pimple, a cyst, too much chocolate, a quirk of old age. I went to the doctor after several weeks of procrastination and he concurred. "It's encapsulated and regular in shape, and there's no cause for alarm."

But now the cyst has migrated to the side of my ribcage and grown to the size of a kiwi fruit. It doesn't hurt and I have no other symptoms, but whether there is cause or not I feel alarm: such a thing isn't exactly normal, after all. People don't have grapefruit-sized lumps growing out of their ribcage, and by now it's apparent that it won't go away. At some point I'll have to have some kind of procedure to remove it. I still don't think it's serious, but it could be. Finally I made a doctor's appointment. I took today off for my birthday and scheduled it for 1:30, my present to myself, some medical peace of mind.

I'm not alone. Marie went to the doctor Friday and had her annual mammogram, and as part of the procedure they hooked her up to a machine that compressed her breast, the breast that nursed her four beautiful, intelligent children for ten years. There was an ugly, greenish discharge. The technician tried but could not hide her alarm. She expects to hear from the doctor today or tomorrow.

Both of these situations could turn out to explainable and minor, or not. But the point is, nothing in our life is certain. Not a minute is guaranteed. Particularly for Marie and I, we've reached the age where risk factors mean something, and medical realities could change our lives forever. Working class lives hang by a medical thread. My job ends in 85 days, and with it, potentially, my medical insurance. If Marie, God forbid, had cancer, would she be able to work, and keep her health benefits? How much would the treatment cost? How much would be covered by insurance?

You can worry yourself sick, or make yourself sick with worry, and the two are not quite the same thing if you think about it carefully. There's no sense worrying about might happen because all kinds of terrible things could and a few terrible things will. We were blessed this weekend with two marvelous days. We went to Austin's play and rented a room at the Peppertree and had a night together in a warm room with a king-sized bed, a night free of all our troubles. She got up early the next morning and went to the grocery store for work. I slept in and had the complimentary breakfast, a Belgian waffle and granola, two hard boiled eggs and a crisp apple, two glasses of orange juice. Marie returned to our temporary home and we went to church. The music was wonderful. We sat in the pew after the service lingering to hear the band finish the last song, a modern hymn Marie particularly likes, and an old man shuffled down the aisle to speak to us. His body was weak and bowed and he could barely speak from a ravaged mouth. I had to lean close to understand him. Even then it was a struggle. English was a foreign language from his wracked and disfigured face. But the sincerity and purity in his eyes was unmistakable.

His name was Elmer. "I'm 86 years old," he said. "I've had cancer surgery three times. The only reason God keeps me alive is to be an encouragement to you and other people. I know that I'm on his schedule, and my purpose is to obey him." His voice was a hoarse whisper and the tweed jacket he wore was worn with age. But you could not mistake the clarity of his mission or power of his faith. There are no coincidences or accidents, there is only the truth waiting to be discovered, the voice of heaven waiting to be heard.


Lie number three: "If we're patient and faithful, we can come up with a solution that will work for everybody."

Marie is underemployed here, and my future is uncertain. Really, all of our futures are. John Lennon once said, life is what happens while you are making other plans, and then the end of his own life bore that out succinctly. Yesterday I suggested to her we could move to Oak Harbor and take the $5000 relocation bonus, that we could probably relocate for 1500 and she could use the other 35 to go to nursing school. She could get a two-year degree at Skagit Valley College, probably in 18 months or so with her previous schooling, and I could write, and between the two of us we could keep alive the hope of a better life, and that hope is the best any of us can have.

She listened carefully to my idea and said, "There is no way Austin would relocate. And I've put her through too much already." I understand her position, and Austin's. She's a sophomore at Beaverton High, a 4.0 student, active in drama with a group of friends, living just minutes from her three siblings and her father. Marie is right that it would be devastating and uncertain and painful for Austin to be asked to move, particularly for the whims and needs of two adults who don't have the best track record in getting along and providing her with a healthy home.

The lie was that this would be easy. A good friend of ours, Steve, likes to say, "life is simple, never to be confused with easy." The fundamentals of life, like the fundamentals of football, are simple and clear. It's the execution that's difficult. In life we have to pick up all kinds of blitzes. In life the turnovers can disrupt your game plan in devastating ways.

Marie and I haven't found a solution. We are still hoping for one, the right compromise of goals and needs and realities, the right mix of what she needs and what I need and what Austin needs. The right level of assurance and practicalities and commitment. When we are together and getting along the bliss and passion surpasses anything I thought possible in the world. When fear takes over or irrationality wins out, the shock and horror and sadness of it devastates me to the core.

I don't know what will happen. I don't know what should. I only know when I'm holding her my whole soul and being is in a quieter, better place. I only know the sight of her thrills me and makes me want to be a better man. With apologies to Jack Nicholson, who has played many better men but hardly lives as one.

"Happy birthday," she said
"I'm glad that you were born"
and I kissed her honey-colored hair
half abuzz with the fragrant scent of her,
good fresh earth and wild flowers
the curve of her hip imbued by heaven
with intoxicating powers
and I said,
remembering the pleasures of precious hours
"most days I am too"
And I kissed her where the lotions
and potions,
carefully chosen,
had made her so enticing,
"especially when I'm underneath you."

We don't set off to lie to ourselves. It starts because we want to be decisive and want to believe, so we set our minds onto a particular reality that turns out an illusion. There's no shame in believing or wanting or making a commitment to an idea. The essential thing is taking stock again, and recognizing the lie, acting on the realization you haven't been honest with yourself. So I'll ask you this morning, as you take your morning coffee or eat the sweet treat you said you wouldn't, what lies are you telling yourself today, and how will you replace them with the truth?

The Last Weekend of My 53rd Year

Monday is my birthday. 53. I am now just about to the age I started teasing my mother about getting old. I've spent about 2400 weekends (since weekends are not a meaningful concept until you start school) and I have, if I am blessed, maybe 988 weekends left, and roughly 50 weeks of vacation. Provided I stay ambulatory and sentient I'll earn another $570,000, about $10,000 of which I will spend on pizza and hot fudge sundaes. So it will not be a total waste, and the government will not get it all.

Nothing of course is guaranteed. We commit a hundred, maybe 500 acts of faith a day, and the graces and redemptions we are afforded in every breathing moment are innumerable, beginning with the act of breathing itself. On the way home from work I walk through a field just east of the Portland airport, and giant jet planes fly directly overhead, descending to land a couple of three woods behind me. As they approach from behind the big early evening moon they appear to be heading right for me, right for the field I'm walking through, and in fact as they pass over they are no more than a few hundred feet over my stocking-capped noggin. If a pilot miscalculated or a crucial rivet worked loose, there would be no way I could outrun a horrible death. Two or three planes a night pass over during my walk. In 19 more years of walks, who knows? The planes seem almost to brush the street lights on 82nd avenue as they approach the runway. So far every one has landed on its wheels and taxied to safety. But walking under their path is an act of faith, based on the belief that jet planes fly and land where they are supposed to. Yet it's impossible to have absolute faith in a man made machine, isn't it?

But we commit ourselves to unexamined acts of faith every day. Most are rewarded and confirmed. Every time we drive through a green light we are trusting ourselves to the lawfulness and good sense of 20 strangers. We practice a kind of faith when we hand our debit card to the pizza cashier making eight dollars an hour, and another kind when we turn on the nightly news. Occasionally our faith is tested. Right now the entire free world is undergoing a great trial of faith, our faith in the system. Markets are faltering and grave news dominates. Credit tightens. Investments dry up. Businesses fail. Cutbacks and layoffs are announced. Buyouts, bailouts, stimulus plans and investigations are enacted. A husband comes home to his wife with grave news of his own, and it hits home: "Honey, they're shutting down the plant" or "We're going to lose the house." A tent city grows outside Reno. A few years ago two jet planes crashed into a tall building, and now they are landing on our heads. And our faith is like a James Bond martini, shaken, not stirred.

It's clear that we have to have faith in something greater than the wheels of capitalism or buying a new car, because no one can afford one right now. We have to remember the essential things: we are better together than we are apart. We are better hoping than despairing. We are better praying than we are cursing or lashing out in anger. It's clear that the biggest challenge our new President faces is maintaining and restoring our faith in America and the American way of life.

At the same time it encourages me that the retiring President has done such a gracious and noble job of fostering a smooth and effective transition of power. He's put the country before party or partisanship, and I truly believe it is his finest hour, a wise and gracious effort that honors his office. Even the bluest of blue staters has to acknowledge this as an act of patriotism, an expression of the great strength of Democracy. In this George Bush has followed his father's example, and as a citizen I am deeply grateful that he has done so.

After work tonight I went to the gym and exercised, practicing another kind of faith, the faith that exercise was good for me and would improve the quality of my declining years, or least make my drop dead gorgeous wife want to be intimate with me. So far, to my deep and inexpressible joy, it has worked. I finished my routine and on the way out I ran into Randy Price, the hardest working man in fitness, one of the trainers at the gym.

Randy is 44, from Ohio, a clear-eyed dynamo with a chiseled body and a ready smile. I've seen him in the gym at five in morning and nine at night, six and seven days a week, working with clients, stopping by to say hello to a hundred different people, quick with a word of encouragement or to listen to part of a success story. He trains 200 clients a year, from 86-year-old grandmas trying to regain the strength and flexibility to open a jar and walk to a cafe to third basemen trying to break in to big league baseball, and he makes an Olympic effort for every one of them.

You should see the genuine passion in his eyes when he talks about fitness. At 38 he left a job in a bakery to make training a full time career. "I was making good money, about $25 an hour, but I hated it. I worked with these old guys and they were all so sour and defeated, and I thought no way man, I've got to find a better way."

Randy lives in a basement room he rents from one of his clients. He spends thousands of dollars on his own training and education and certification, taking online classes to improve his knowledge of training methods and techniques. He studies under JC Santana of Boca Raton, Florida, a master trainer renown around the country for his innovative philosophy, commanding fees of $250 an hour from some of the top athletes in the country. Santana stresses movement, balance and flexibility, the development of core strength through creative use of dumbbells, balls and combination movements. "Training for performance," it's called. Instead of stressing joints and tendons with heavy weights and machines, Randy follows Santana's guidebook that provides hundreds of intense, focused routines that build strength, coordination and endurance without tearing up the body.

"I can train anybody, people from all walks of life," Randy said. "I can take someone who is totally deconditioned and give them new energy and help them feel good and feel good about how they look. It's a great feeling." The commitment and energy he brings to his work is amazing, whether he is working with a pretty girl or a fat old man like myself.

Randy is a young man with a dream, and this is a country that needs people who are still working for a dream. "There are poor trainers, good trainers and elite trainers, and I want to be an elite trainer. I'm not there yet, but I will be." Top trainers make 80 to $90,000 a year, he says. He studies and works and talks fitness, 75 hours a week, in the gym every day. "I gave up everything. I used to have two cars, $30,000 cars, paid for. Now I take the bus."

I exercise a little every week and I have all through my adult life, because I want to look a little better and feel a little better. I've never taken it all that seriously, never had the desire to be a body builder or a serious fitness buff. I just wanted to feel free to eat more pizza and an occasional hot fudge sundae. My doctor, Dr. Gary Pape, one of the finest and most conscientious men I have ever met, told me once, "Whatever you do, keep moving, stay active. It's when people slow down and get sedentary that the real problems begin, the arthritis and stiffening and deterioration."

I'm not going down his road, but I admire Randy's journey. Here is a man committed to a vision, with a goal and a desire and a plan. We should all be so lucky, and strive to fill our next 1000 weekends with that much hope and purpose.

Embracing the Future

I fell asleep early and slept in my clothes, slept in, snoozed late and I feel great. Had a big Rome apple and five mini brownies for breakfast. Not recommended for six-pack abs, but they are not in my future anyway--I'm too much in love with the Gateway Breakfast House and Sparky's Pizza by the Slice, and somewhere there's a bottle of wine and a dish of hummus calling my name. So six-pack abs are out. Maybe I'll find someone who'll love me anyway. Anything is possible in the future. That's the beauty of it. Do you know there is a car, (actual prototypes exist) that runs on compressed air and a small gas or electric motor, that gets over a hundred miles to the gallon and emits no pollution? Or there are services like Zipcar that allow carless souls like me to use a Honda hybrid, gas and insurance provided, for 9.00 an hour and a small monthly fee? The future is a beautiful thing, and it's starting up all around us.

I'm sketchy on the details, but I have to believe the one great hope for our country is a thorough embrace of new ideas, innovation and technology. We won't get out of the morass we're in with the old politics and the same old solutions, and by dividing the pie differently. We have to create a bigger pie, and learn to be more fully satisfied with the slice we're given. Our new President ran on a promise of "change we can believe in" and while I don't believe government creates most significant change I hope it can do a better job of not getting in the way. Look back in the history books to 1908, and think of all the radical and life-changing innovations that would come in the next 40 years. Roads were paved, houses were electrified, airports and bridges were built. It's time for an explosion of building and creating in America. We need to stop talking and blaming each other and get back to work.

Here at Blog Central, we're going to begin the momentum by cleaning the bathroom and doing the laundry. I read through the Zipcar website and it might be a solution for me. The train won't run to Wilsonville and Tualatin for another year.

Marie and I are barely talking these days. The tendency of our relationship to take on the characteristics of high school is maddening. Thursday and Friday she wasn't picking up, and our conversations since have been tense and guarded, and I'm not sure why. It may have started because I mentioned here that coworkers occasionally stop to give me a ride in the rain. The logic is twisted and the fears are irrational. But the vast majority of our fears are. Embrace the future, and be as fearless as possible. And do something constructive, because your country needs you.

Resisting the Ultimate Sin

There is a stand of maple trees along the path I take to work, and the fiery red-orange of their leaves is the only relief from the gathering winter grayness. In a few weeks they will fall away, leaving the horizon of my little world stark and bare until spring. This time of year is a special challenge for those of us who are prone to melancholy. It isn't the rain, for I get used to that quickly. A pair of sturdy hiking boots, a thick sweater and knit gloves and a stocking cap are all that's needed to maintain equilibrium: not too hot, not too cold, not too wet, moving forward until I get to work or home. My coworkers are kind people and more days than not I get a ride partway. Sometimes I'm embarrassed at their generosity.

Nothing, however, relieves the grayness. This is the time of year when it's dark in the morning when you leave for work and dark when work ends, and it has the effect, if you let it, of suppressing your imagination, turning you into a joyless drone that merely sleeps, works and consumes food, a creature of sloth and gluttony. But the ultimate sin is indifference, not seeing those glorious red leaves, the forest and the trees, and not accepting the generosity with a gracious thank you.

Years ago Paul Simon wrote a song that sticks in my head every once in a while. "These are days of miracles and wonders--this is a long distance call." These ARE days of miracles and wonders: have you ever stopped to watch a jet plane land or take off, and stopped to think what a miracle of invention and discovery it is? A hundred and fifty years ago we were traveling across the country in horse drawn wagons. Indeed, it's been 56 years since the invention of the hydrogen bomb and frozen peas, 128 years since the patent for the first cash register was issued, and now I have a tool under my fingertips to reach the whole world in half a second. Remarkable.

The march of time and history is inexorable and wondrous. In early November 1842 Abraham Lincoln married Mary Todd in Springfield Illinois. In September of 1857 the Supreme Court ruled that a black man could not be a citizen and a slave could not become a free man. Fast forward another hundred years to the early 1960's, and men were burned and murdered in the fight to register African American voters. And today a black man has been elected President of the United States.

Martin Luther King once said:

If it falls your lot to be a street sweeper, sweep streets like Michelangelo painted pictures, like Shakespeare wrote poetry, like Beethoven composed music; sweep streets so well that all the host of heaven and earth will have to pause and say, ‘Here lived a great street sweeper, who swept his job well.'

Barack Obama has now won the hardest job in the world, a job two dozen men and one woman spent 150 billion dollars trying to win. It's not my argument to decide whether he was the best choice or the right choice, but now that he has it, I hope he does it with the passion, conviction and artistry of Michelangelo, Shakespeare and Beethoven, and the wisdom of Lincoln. The country faces an extraordinarily difficult moment in its storied history, with two wars to conclude and a faltering economy, a nation divided red and blue, and he will need all of that to govern well. May God grant him grace and wisdom, and save each of us from the sin of indifference.

A Duck Free Zone

I've been a Duck fan since the bad old days when three wins was a miracle season, but I've had enough. I watched every second of last Saturday's loss and read 3 papers online afterward, but I can't do it anymore: too many agonizing losses and knucklehead decisions. Fumbles, interceptions, false starts--it was a clinic on how to lose a football game, and they deserved to lose. The team is poorly coached and shows no progress, does things you can't possibly do and hope to win a football game.

This Saturday they play Stanford, and I'm not watching. I'll bike to Wilsonville and take Roger to Taco Del Mar. I'll do my laundry or send out my forwarding address forms. It's not worth the enormous investment of time and energy I've given it weekend after weekend.

I won't choose another team and I won't change my mind. For 37 years I've lived with the disappointment and the excuses, the woulda, coulda, shouldas, and this season I'm putting it away. Except for three glorious seasons when Joey Harrington was the quarterback, and the team showed true heart and won three straight bowl games and got better every season, Duck football has been an ongoing lesson in hype over substance, reputation over results. Our coaches can't pick a quarterback and can't adjust when things go wrong. And things always go wrong.

Maybe I'll go to the movies, or read a book. But I won't have to watch Jaison Williams drop another pass, or the defense give up another first down on third and long. I'll let someone else yell themselves hoarse screaming at the TV. I've got other things to do.

I Was Sitting in the Conference Room When the Bomb Went Off

The shockwaves were intense and immediate, rattling the whole building. People were dazed and numb and shaken to the core.

On Wednesday they shut down the phones and called us into the conference room for an emergency meeting, and the site manager announced that the decision had been made to close the call center on February 12. Our jobs were being relocated to a new site in Oak Harbor, Washington.

It's a scene that's being repeated around the country in ten thousand factories and offices: a tense announcement, shock and disbelief, and hundreds or thousands of lives and families have their worlds upended and blown to bits. A week ago the employees of Freightliner were notified their factory was being shut down. This week in Portland the students of Cascade College were told their school was closing its doors after Spring Semester. It happens everywhere.

We got more notice than most, and more resources. We were lucky. The company chose to handle this in a remarkably humane way. They offered us a $5000 net relocation bonus to move to Oak Harbor, or a 4-week bonus and minimum 4-weeks severance pay if we stayed on until the end. I have been involved in two similar closures where they just shut the doors and sent everybody home. Just like that your job was gone.

People were devastated. We spend more time at work than we do with our families, and it becomes the core of our identity. You meet someone new in a social situation and one of the first questions they'll ask is "What do you do?" And everyone understands immediately that the questioner is not talking about your interests or passions or spiritual practice, they are talking about your job. And if you were to say, "Well, I DID work in customer service, but my company relocated" your reply would be meet with downcast eyes and an awkward expression of sympathy. You've become one of the disappeared, the unmentionables, the lost.

Disaster reorders our lives in marvelous ways, as long as you maintain your resolve and accept the challenge. I could go to Oak Harbor easily enough. A new start in a new town might be good for me, and I could relocate for a tank of gas and a move-in deposit. Whatever is to happen between Marie and I, our prospects are better with $5000 and a job. But her daughter would be deeply reluctant to relocate. She loves her school and her friends, as 16-year-olds do. At that age her peer group is the most important part of her life. All of Marie's kids are here in Portland, and her grandbabies. She and I haven't talked about it. We went to dinner last night and rented a movie, but she was terribly tired and fell asleep. Facing decisions like these can make people tired. Often they're just exhausted by the grim responsibility to make difficult choices.

In my email today I got a message from Kaiser that my profile had matched six jobs. Membership services representative in Beaverton, $16 an hour to start. Our manager at my current job met with each of us individually on Friday and made herself available before work for questions, and the management team has made a special effort to circulate around our cubicles and in the hallways, to leave their doors open and ask us how we are doing. Every effort is being made to give us resources and information. We got a packet at the meeting. The company is hiring a placement and recruiting firm to assist us in job search, and resources are being shared about Oak Harbor housing and shops. Theresa gave us each a guided tour on Google maps, with a notebook of photos from the new site. The new building is in a strip mall three minutes from several condos and apartment buildings. There's a Teriyaki place and a gym across the parking lot. In some ways it sounds like employment heaven, all the things I would hope for in my dream job.

Oak Harbor is three and half hours from Selah, down Highway 90 through the Cascade Range. Stephanie sent me a hundred new pictures on Friday. Ethan is seven months now and sitting up and eating solid food. Kourtney is beautiful and learning handstands and flips. They have a new puppy.

The bomb went off and the initial shock is over. Now people have to get on with their lives and rebuild. Disaster reorders our lives in marvelous ways, if we have the will and resolve to accept it and move on.