The art of giving presents.

Written on the 10^th day of the 12^th month in the year 2008.
(My Birthday.)

For as long as I can remember, I have been – well — a little weird about the time-honored tradition of giving and receiving presents. Here it is in mid-December and I can already feel the grinchiness setting in. One of my psychologist/psychiatrist brothers-in-law could probably pinpoint why. I deny, completely, that it has to do with gifts-given-with-strings-attached experiences from my childhood, or because my birthday happens to be in December and I never felt special when everyone else had their own special day and I didn’t.

Arghhhhh!!

OK…I’m better now… I think.

I’m sure my brothers and sisters would attach two words to my style of gifting: “sporadic” and “surprising.” I have been known to give thoughtful things to ten out of fifteen people on any given year, skipping the others. Then, there have been lean occasions when I have given nothing at all, and others where I arrived like St Nick himself, sleigh fully loaded. I know this has made it hard to predict my behavior (and, subsequently, what reciprocal gifts are appropriate each season) but there are reasons for this.

It seems to me it isn’t much of a gift at all if the item at hand isn’t appropriate and well-conceived. Just going out and buying something/anything for someone cheapens the notion. To truly find the right item for someone for whom I carry a fondness, time should be taken to carefully consider and understand what might add something to his/her life. This involves a degree of risk. I mean, if I think that So-and-So needs to be better organized, So-and-So might be offended if I presented the book, “Seven Habits of Highly Successful People.” There’s always the problem of picking out a colorful sweater for the drab friend, or buying a set of tools for your fumble-fingered next door neighbor.

I guess my sporadic
habits make me hard
to predict; my brothers
and sisters probably
don’t have a clue how
to reciprocate.

I think gift certificates are a cop out. It lacks imagination and it leaves the selection process to the recipient. I’m bothered, too, by the couple whose idea of a gift exchange consists of asking each other, “What do you want me to buy for you?” Heck, why not just go out and buy it for yourself! Sorry for those of you who have certificated me in the past; I’m thankful for the Starbucks card and the meal at In-and-Out Burger, but those things hardly left a lasting impression.

I have taken up the habit of buying things year round, snapping it up when I see something that is exactly right for someone I know. That eliminates the long holiday season lines and parking headaches, and there’s no pressure to meet a deadline, either. That’s fine, but where I go wrong is I go ahead and present it randomly, too. I try to wait until whatever occasion it fits – Christmas and a birthday, usually – but more times than not I simply present it without the structure of an actual special event. This is probably selfish and self-serving, but I have been known to do things that way.

The gift exchanges between my son and me, through the years, has had highs and lows. As a woodworker and Mister Fixit all my life, I know the value of tools, and have made it a tradition to buy him one really good item each Christmas. This is, for the most part, a low-risk venture, because tools are practical, right? Right now, his tool chest is filled with better equipment than I own, even though I doubt he uses any of it. I refuse to give up. I know that, eventually, the mechanical bug will bite him and he will be the envy of his neighbors when he hauls out his top-of-the-line torque wrench or personally engraved Craftsman wrenches. I may not live long enough to witness it for myself, but it will happen!

I usually get him at least one other “major” gift, and that’s often of a riskier nature. I search for something that might spark a new passion or be a life-changing influence. These have been varied and far-fetched, and many of them have fallen flat. Consider: a tennis racket, thinking he might end up at Wimbledon one day; or a remote control helicopter, to inspire him to be mechanical or take up flying; a unicycle, because it’s simply fun to do something physical that others can’t do. I’ve made him furniture and given him electronic gadgets, but I suspect that some are still stuffed in their original boxes in his closet. That’s the chance you take by giving risky gifts.

God knows, I am completely unqualified to purchase clothes for him!

I wonder which of my gifts he cherishes? The laptop? The vintage leather jacket? The high-tech baseball bats? The authentic Eric Gagne Dodgers jersey? The gold watch? The hand-made boxes? The pellet gun?

He’s much more practical, and has great skills when it comes to giving items that are both clever and useful. The things he picks out for me are certainly interesting. I mean, I love this kid so much almost any gift he passes on has a place in my heart. I have the usual assortment of strange-looking flowerpots and knick-knacks from his younger years, and I keep some of them in plain sight in my home.

As he has gotten older, his resources have improved. He bought a pair of Dodgers-Mets playoff game tickets a few years back – I imagine they cost him dearly – with money he earned on his own. After I had taken him to literally dozens of Dodgers games through the first 15 or 20 years of his life, I sensed he was particularly proud of hosting me at the ballpark, a sort of closing the full circle thing. I have to say that day touched me deeply, although he probably wasn’t aware of it at the time.

My son bought me a
plumbing fixture for
Christmas. That makes
me chuckle when I bathe.

I look around my house and I see other things: a small New Testament, a Lakers Jersey (“O’Neil”), and a certificate showing that I now own a plot on the Moon.

One December he purchased me a fancy shower head; a compound-angle, five hundred hole water-spraying contraption that completely changed the experience of getting clean. Now, buying your father a plumbing fixture is a slightly odd thing to do, but I have to say that I think of him often when I’m washing. I confess I spend an inordinate amount of time cleaning and polishing it every few months, since it carries a special meaning beyond any other bathroom equipment I own. It brings a smile to my face, probably because it’s an odd, but thoughtful, thing to do. Thank you, Son.

Last year, knowing that I am a coffee drinker who occasionally leaves the near-empty pot on the burner too long, he bought me a great pour a cup-at-a-time coffee machine. No more sticky black gummy stuff in the bottom of the pot for me. I use it nearly every day, and the java is always hot.

My youngest sister, Shirley, is the best gift-giver I know, and it isn’t because she has a great deal of money to spend. She simply has a knack for it. Some of the best things ever given to me were hers: a CD with excerpts about baseball from PBS, three or four jars of home made jams, a box of assorted mustards, a belt buckle, and a strange little book about punctuation. She gave me one of those old-fashioned rabbit hair-shaving brushes with a mug of soap, attaching a note that her husband thought that shaving with it was a semi-spiritual experience. It is. These are small, thoughtful items that reveal her insight into my life. She sees an object and thinks, correctly, that “Russell will enjoy this.” Thank you, Shirley.

My reputation for giving surprising gifts probably began with her. Years ago, in my hippie days and when I was known to smoke hand-rolled cigarettes filled with leaves that weren’t tobacco, I showed up on her doorstep with what is now known as “The Mushroom Lamp.” This is something akin to the leg lamp featured in the movie, A Christmas Story, a monstrous white elephant. It was a great big lump of moss-cover redwood burl stump, with several resin-cast toadstool-shaped pinkish lampshades, and the light clicks on and off with an early version of those touch-on, touch-off switching device. As I recall it carried an odor similar to that of a newly-made surfboard.

The mushroom lamp,
much to my chagrin,
sits in their den to this
very day. What was
I thinking?!

You have to wonder what will become of it and how long it will knock around the family. I understand that the two daughters are fighting over which one inherits this little treasure.

I especially enjoy making things with my own hands and presenting them to people I like. Mostly, I make things from wood. I have made dozens of chests, boxes, and bowls, signs, frames, carvings, and decorative ornaments. I turned a pair of bats once, and gave me to two coaches who helped me win a baseball championship. I built a cradle for my step-grandson, and built an altar for a church, and built a baptismal font so that a friend’s baby could be baptized in it. I thoroughly love passing these things on, usually with my name written on the back or a note attached, stating that Russell Neyman made this for this other person at a particular time. In fact, the best things I have ever created have been given away. It’s a fanciful thought, but I imagine that, decades from now, someone will examine one of these objects, realize that is a one-of-a-kind handcrafted object, and wonder about the man who took the time to shape this piece of tree into a piece of furniture or art.

Gifts ought to be special!

While I don’t do well waiting in lines and fighting for parking spaces, I have grown to actually appreciate the process of holiday shopping. Still, there’s a mood deep inside that makes me resist. It’s a naughty-or-nice thing I go through every year.

See, here’s the truth about all of this: I’m selfish. Giving things to other people within the when-I’m-damn-ready style is a really self-centered thing to do. I haven’t done a good job of acknowledging all of my family and friends for being so patient and forgiving of my end-of-the-year quirks. Thank you, All.

Needless to say, I will not be giving out gift certificates this year.

The Songs of the musical, “Hair.”

Love the music of "Hair" and recall, fondly, my hippie days when we all smoked funny-looking cigarettes and listened to it. I thought I'd share some of it I found on YouTube: . Aquarius: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EhbxI5eVnM4 Manchester, England: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m4lvdlP-BhQ I'm Black / Ain't Got No: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EaeD-QfuTfE I Got Life: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-1LRD3DtFAo Hair: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7dyl0j3WU6Y Electric Blues / Oldfashioned Melody: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VyYTz-r52QI Walking in Space: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7jO99LxBSy8 Easy to Be Hard: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gj4vfrPdfdo Good Morning Starshine: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YMyDJMAlHGI The Flesh Failures / Let the Sunshine In: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fhNrqc6yvTU

A view from the rim of the great canyon.

It was so splendid and overwhelming, but humbling, too. The countless layers of sediment that had been built up and, through the ages, tilted and jumbled by shifting geology, then cut away again by the relentless river.  It was an inspirational sight, and I thought I was alone there on the canyon rim when I asked, rhetorically:

“Geeze, when did it all begin...?”

I was startled when my question drew a response from a man — I think he was a man — who appeared beside me.

“What makes you think all this began?”

I sputtered from my surprise, but he stepped so easily into my train of thought that I engaged him further, as though the conversation had been taking place all along. ”Well, everything has a beginning, doesn’t it?” I replied, a bit cautiously, a bit intimidated by his confident manner.

“—and an ending, too. I mean, all of this; the rocks, the stars, the space….”

“No,” said the stranger. “This has always been here. Only you begin and ends.”

RN

The Eagles Have Returned to Yukon Harbor.

By Russell Neyman.

 

There are mornings when I feel especially connected to Old Colby and the morning rituals that date back hundreds – more likely, thousands – of years.  The place simply sings.  I feel like sharing what things are like here this September day.

[A bit of background: Having lived in Southern California since my early teens, I pulled up roots last fall and relocated to the eastern outskirts of Port Orchard, Washington. The neighborhood is the former site of an 1800's lumber mill town, Colby, just south of Manchester. My new home is an 1801 traditional "foursquare" with hipped-roof, porch, and balcony, and it faces due east with a view of Puget Sound. The town of Colby is long-gone, with only a few of the original residences -- including mine -- remain. ]

I got up about sunrise — as I always do — and drove to the small market at Woods Road and Mile Hill Drive to get a cafe latte and a newspaper. It was a bit chilly last night, perhaps forty degrees, a sure sign that the Alaskan wet air is creeping toward us and the Fall season is close by.  It was the first time since spring that I turned the oil-fired heater on. Some of the broadleafed trees are already orange, but summer is trying to hold on. A warm rain hit us over the weekend, giving the lawns and flowers another burst of green. But you can see that our warm days are numbered. I’m actually looking forward to winter — but not yet.

“Eagles are not particularly

hard-working creatures;

They’re opportunists.”

Six-thirty. A good-sized foggy/cloudy mass is stuck over Seattle and the hills beyond, wrestling with the Eastern Sun. I love rainy days, but today I’m rooting for the sun to win the struggle. Above me and to the West are patches of blue sky.

The four fir trees in front of my house are the only ones left along Cole Loop. All the others have been hacked down by someone wanting to “invest” in a better view. Even my small stand has had their lower branches removed by some greedy viewmonger, allowing a clear view of the city lights to the East. If I had lived here then, I wouldn’t have allowed it. I’m proud of those trees, sparse as they are, and refuse to cooperate with anyone who wants to have them removed. Trees can be political, especially when there’s a view to be had. Everyone up-slope thinks they’re an eyesore, and everyone down-slope thinks they’re beautiful. These trees are favorites of the eagles.

The street along the shoreline in Colby has looked like this since the late 1800's. Mine is the hip-roofed "foursquare," center.

It’s almost always quiet along this stretch of Yukon Harbor, especially in the morning. Hardly a car to be seen or heard here; but less so across the bay on the Harper side, where bursts of ferry traffic rush by every 45 minutes. Still, except for the birds, it’s always quiet. There are the usual people fishing or crabbing in the stretch between my front porch and Blake Island. I don’t think there has been a single time since I moved to Colby that I haven’t been able to spot a ferry or two. Right now, the boat from Vashon is pulling into Southworth. Ferries are really the ugliest of ships, the two stubby ends lacking the grace of the old Mosquito Fleet steamers. The modern ferry is a sort of machine-like craft without a hint of sleek anywhere to be seen. I see these ships and others around the Sound, realizing that this chugging of activity has been going on here every single day since the 1860’s.

The ships on Puget Sound are a constant, like the tides and the weather. Despite Nature’s resistance, Mankind is here to stay.

I can tell the time of the year by where the sun rises in relation to Blake Island as viewed from my porch. At the peak of the summer, in June and July, Old Sol burns through over the Northern End, with Seattle’s Space Needle behind it. When I sit in my favorite spot on the living room couch, the July sun blasts in my face when I read the paper. I really don’t mind; it’s a very small price to pay for such a view. In a couple of months — December and January — the sun will rise over the tip of Vashon Island, off to the right, and lose many of the struggles with the weather. Right now it’s coming up near the Southern Tip of Blake, just about where the Fauntleroy Ferry landing lines up behind it, and winning.

The local burn ban was lifted last week, so this morning I was finally able to start a fire in the stone ring at the top of my beachfront slope. Well, I can’t really call it a slope any more, since December’s mud slide has made it into more of a cliff. The tides have washed away the pile of roots and mud, and all sorts of plants have re-established themselves down below. The mud slide, caused by a faulty storm drain and a very wet winter, was a mini-tragedy, but I realize that it was just Nature rearranging her petticoats. It has happened before, and will happen again.

In any case, I set up a Boy Scout style fire, with dry kindling and newspaper (I never took the time to read it) and when it got going, threw on some brush I had wanted to burn. I added some pieces of scrap hardwood from my wood shop, too, to give it some heat. The Madrone and Oak, especially, are hot-burning trees. I looooove watching a fire and smelling the wood burning.

All sorts of wildlife were out. Some type of large fish — salmon, I imagine — were feeding right off my beach. It was hard to see them because they only jumped every now and then. I should say that I heard them and saw the results of their high-flying act more than actually saw them, just a loud splash and a wake spotted out of the coner of my eye. Whatever type they were, they were BIG. Smaller, foot-long fish jumped, too, perhaps trying to escape the big ones.

The fish suddenly disappeared when five or six dolphin roamed through at a very slow pace. I watched them for, perhaps, twenty minutes, spotting them for the first time when they passed the two posts that remain from the 1800’s Colby pier. They cruised past my buoy, rising to breathe every five or ten yards, and eventually disappeared in the direction of Manchester, to the North. It’s hard to realize that these animals are actually feeding, given how calmly they pass through. Around them, I’m sure, are terrorized fish. Picturesque as leaping fish might seem, there’s a chance that death is involved in some way.

There’s a large starfish, perhaps 12 inches across, clinging to a piece of wood down on the beach, right were the rocky bottom starts turning to mud. I suppose the eagles and seagulls will eventually find it and tear it up. If I change to my boots later, I might go down to investigate. I know better than to wander among the sticky mud and slippery rocks without special all-terrain gear.

The raccoons have been on the bank. I know this because of the funny star-shaped footprints in the mud and because the fruit from the lower branches of my apple trees are all gone. The ‘coons lost their favorite habitat when the lady on the corner lot cut down her trees this summer to make room for a new house, but I know that these animals will adapt. They are tenacious, gritty creatures who meld with humans well. I suppose they might be living under my back porch, but am afraid to look.

One of the neighbors says a river otter greeted him last week, meandering past his deck and slipping down to the water. I hear they’re very shy animals. I haven’t seen one myself, but hope to. I suppose they compete with the eagles and birds for the starfish and crabs.

Speaking of eagles, one of the local pairs is back. They sat in the trees just in front of my house on a daily basis back in June and July, entertaining the neighborhood with their awkward courtship. The male would ka-ka-ka his request for favors, and the larger, less vocal female would occasionally allow the fumbling male to mate. From what I know about bird anatomy, which isn’t much, it seems that the various components necessary to reproduce aren’t well suited to treetop romance. I admit I haven’t examined the procedure closely, but it seems to be an awkward struggle.

One day two months ago there were five white-headed, adult bald eagles in these treetops, with a larger brown-colored “golden” eagle nearby watching the action, all within sight of me at one time. For months, their visits were almost daily during the early part of summer. I could depend on their early morning, distinctive calls and their arguments with the crows. I don’t know why they tolerate the abuse the smaller, black troublemakers (certainly one of Nature’s most annoying creatures) who dive and peck the eagles as they fly by, like German fighter planes buzzing a slow-flying formation of B-24’s over Berlin. You get the feeling that the eagles could easily turn and knock the crows out of the sky, but for some reason they don’t.

I suppose it’s a pure coincidence, but it seems like the eagles make a point to arrive at the stand of trees here on Cole Loop when I build fires at the top of the slope. That happened this morning. Perhaps they equate a fire with scraps of food, a component of their relationship with mankind nature has been wired into their DNA.

In August, they suddenly disappeared. I suppose a naturalist would know exactly why this happened, but I can only speculate that they have a estuary or creek elsewhere where food is more plentiful this time of year. Not that there’s any lack of prey here, but I think they might find easier pickings in places where young chicks and old fish collect. Having observed the baldies, in particular, for many months, I can say that they are not especially hard-working birds but, rather, opportunists. They hang around, looking for an easy meal. When the tide goes out, they grab the stranded crabs and starfish, and in the midsummer they nab the weaker ducklings that hatch in the bushes a half mile up the shoreline. I wonder how this pattern of opportunism fits into the fact that the bald eagles are our national symbol..?

But they’re back, greeting me as I lit the fire. I suspect that I will see a few noisy, brown fledglings pretty soon, the results of the June mating dances held here. Last winter the youngsters would sit on the treetops, shrieking at their parents to bring food. I have heard that they don’t get their white crown for three or four seasons.
The only downside to an otherwise picture perfect morning was a berry-blue glob of eagle poop one of the visitors deposited on my truck. I should know better than to park it under those trees.

The sun is fully up now, and seems to be winning the shouting match with the clouds. My fire is fully engaged, pumped up by a large chunk of tree I just tossed on top. That should provide entertainment and a smoky aroma for several hours. The place has a rhythm that is pleasing and something I can count on. It’s a nice morning.

The Pennant Drive Surge of the 2008 Los Angeles Dodgers.

 

The 2008 National League West Pennant Drive (with postseason shown in black). Team records are tracked individually, with wins indicated with an upward line, and losses downward. Note percentages (thin red lines). Click to enlarge and view details. Copyright 2008 by Russell Neyman

 

Dodgers continue their surge, silence the Cubs;

 Sweeping the NL Division Series Three-Zip!

Now, it’s on to Philadelphia.

.

Continuing a surge that began with about 25 games remaining in the regular season, the Los Angeles Dodgers swept the heavily-favored Chicago Cubs in the first round of the National League Divisional Playoffs Saturday night. Having won more games than any other National League team, the Cubs were

heavily favored.

The Dodgers outplayed and outperformed the Cubs in every category– hitting, pitching, and fielding. In the series finale, which was a 3-1 victory played in Los Angeles, Japanese-born pitcher Hiroki

Cubs Fans. Click to Enlarge.

Kuroda frustrated the heavy-hitting Cubs, coaxing ground ball outs throughout his six-plus innings of work.  First baseman James Loney delivered the key hit, a first-inning double that scored Russell Martin and Manny Ramirez.

The Dodgers knocked around the Cubs in the first two games, winning 7-2 on the strength of Derreck Lowe’s strong pitching effort and a Loney grand slam, followed by a 10-3 rout that featured a skillful effort by righthander Chad Billingsley, both games coming in Chicago. LA outscored the Cubs 20-6, and had a wide margin advantage in extra base hits.  The normally supportive and boisterous Cubs fans were reduced to a smattering of boos as their team lost the first two.

James Loney was named the series MVP.

———-

Sportsgraf, shown above, is a copyright-protected system that depicts standings, trends, and streaks for baseball, basketball, football, as well as other sports. It was developed by Clinton Andrew Neyman and later refined by Robert and Russell Neyman. The regular season is shown in colors, with the postseason shown in black.

The First Street Foursquare: Goin’ Semi-Rural in the Pacific Northwest.

 

By Russell Neyman.

My new home in Washington is the perfect blend of scenery, vintage architecture, and proximity to transportation. It feels rural, but I will be close to everything I need. I’m really excited about the move, and should land about Christmastime. My household items will arrive a few days afterwards, so I should be fully functional by about New Year’s eve. You’re welcome to visit.

The structrue is a traditional “foursquare” design, which means is is roughly a two-store cube, forty feet on a side, with a symetrical pyramid-shaped roof. It is located at the Northern edge of the harbor of the same name, which was at one point known as Colby, Washington. The street was once known as First Street from when the city founders optimistically thought there would be scores of streets lined up to the west. Needless to say, there is no Second Street, so nowadays the house sits on a small avenue known as Cole Loop. 

The place just feels like it has a history that goes long before there were paved roads nearby. More than one ”tin lizzy” and, before that, horsedrawn carriage passed through during this house’s lifetime, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find a few horseshoes hidden on the property. If you look around the inlets and rocky beaches, you can see faint signs of old piers and docks. The mailing address is, technically, Port Orchard, but you wouldn’t know that you’re part of a “city” of nine-thousand people by standing on my front porch.

There once was a small city, Colby, here, but barely a trace remains. It was built in the early 1880’s but withered away as progress passed it by, finally yielding to the wrecking ball in the 1960’s. Only my new home and three or four others remain, all private residences. 

Blake Island is right there
off my front porch–
475 acres of raw beauty,
camping, and history
reachable by rowboat. 

I have a view of Blake Island, Downtown Seattle, and various parts of the expansive Southern Puget Sound. I’m less than two miles from the Southworth ferry, and the Bremerton ferry is just across from the town of Port Orchard. My lot includes a beach below the front porch, and Roy can simply bring his boat down and drop an anchor to visit, since that would probably be just as quick as driving.

This is a classic house design that can be found in all regions of America. The overbuilt balcony, however, was added in the 1970's and is an intrusion to the house's beautiful lines.

There are two or three major state parks and forests within walking distance, plus some raw wilderness. I can’t wait to row or motor over to Blake Island State Park and explore the Northwest Indian artifacts and historic sites there. You could call the relatively narrow channel of water that lies between Blake and the house “my moat,” if you wanted to. Slightly less than 500 acres and just two miles from my front door, it was the ancestrial home of the Suquamish and Duwamish tribes, and currently has fishing and camping. Skipping over with a sleeping bag and tent will be a must, and I’ll do it first thing when the weather turns fair. Old Port Orchard, just around the point to the north, has some interesting antique stores and turn-of-the-century buildings worth looking at, too. Manchester State Park, a day-use hiking, fishing, and picnicing area, is about two miles to the north, adjacent to Rich Passage.

A view of First Street (now Cole Loop) with the Foursquare House, center, as it appeared in 1908. Click to enlarge.

The house itself is quite old – built in 1905 before indoor plumbing and electricity – with hardwood floors and paneled walls. Two of the four bedrooms are small, but large enough for guest beds.  For those smartalecs in the crowd, yes indoor plumbing and a shower have been added. Barbeque and seating on the back deck and about five fruit trees. Lots and lots of sloped lawns. Most important, I will have a full, dedicated workshop for my woodworking uphill from the main house! That, too, has a view. I’ve been invited to join a couple of woodworking guilds, organizations that simply don’t exist in Southern California.

A place this old must have had a storied past. A passing pedestrian offered a brief comment about the house’s darker days, muttering something about gunshots, stabbings, and durnken brawls. I wonder what stories the walls will tell? I’ll try to find out more, and pass it along.

The day I visited for the first time it was snowing, so the photographs I’ve included here looks quite chilly and wet, but one suspects that there will be great sunrises with coffee served on the front porch swing in the Spring and Summer. Yes, there is a large space for an RV right above the slope to the waterline.

 At top of the page is a view of the house taken from water’s edge, translated into a watercolor image. Above, another enchanced view from the porch looking Eastward, with Blake Island visible in the fog, Seattle is about 35 minutes away by ferry.

While all this sounds incredibly remote, there are modern conveniences nearby. Just four miles inland is a shopping center, with an Albertson’s, banks, Blockbuster Video, and even a couple of fast food restaurants, so I won’t freak out when I finally realize that I’m not in Los Angeles anymore. Ahh, the best of all worlds.

Winter 2008. Click to Enlarge.

I know that this sounds like I’m representing the local Chamber of Commerce and that I’m giving you a sales pitch. I am. I made a point to pick a new home that had a degree of “sex appeal” so that my friends and family would enjoy coming to visit. Just wanted to keep you all current with my plans.

For more information about Yukon Harbor and Historical Colby, Washington, go to YukonHarbor.WordPress.com

The Local Watering Hole, est 1887.

This is the local hangout, where Buster and the boys bend elbows and tell lies.

In the late 1880’s it was known as the Willie’s Barber Shop, where the proprietor, William Bohguss, shaved lumbermen when they came to town on Saturday nights to spend their money and get drunk. He served beer and pickled eggs to keep his patrons “entertained” while they waited their turn. Before too long, he noticed the ‘jacks were showing up for the beverages but didn’t even want a shave. Willie knew a good thing, so he changed the establishment’s name to Knobstock Tavern and quit cutting hair.

Today, it’s the town’s only bar. There’s a small, ramshackle hardware store next door to the East, and the Mason’s Hall on the other side. Out back is a small house that is rented out to a retired couple, Morley and Irene. Irene only has one leg, and her Morley struggles to get around on a walker. When he pulls the car out of the garage, a 1968 Mercury with scratched up doors, to run errands, people stay completely clear of the alleyway that runs between the tavern and the Mason’s Hall.

Willie’s great grandaughter, Penny Bohguss, owns the Tavern and the rental house but she never comes around. The big boss is Owen, the gruff bartender, and Elsie waits tables. Owen played minor league baseball for the Senators back in the 1960’s. Rumor has it that Penny has him on a profit-sharing plan, and the way he runs the place — cheap as hell — you’d think they were going broke. Things are worn down and rickety, but the place is clean and has a certain charm about it. 

Elsie’s only 22 and a college student studying art. Her fingernails almost always have traces of acrylic paint and potter’s clay, so she’s constantly fussing with her fingers, trying to get them attractive again. That bothers Owen, who thinks she should do that on her own time. She says that the pickled eggs scare her to death, but she still serves plenty. They’re tough-skinned and a greenish yellow that glows in the dark. They’re served with a fistful if pretzels wrapped in wax paper. They’re spicy, but if you put plenty of pepper and a little salt on them, they’re good. Owen keeps a huge jar of them on the corner of the bar. Never ate one and never will, Elsie insists. Owen thinks a young girl like her should wear a bra, but also knows that seeing her cute little figure is why half the guys come in to have a beer. He sneaks a peek now and then, too, but acts like he’s mad about it.

The regular crowd isn’t particularly a tight-knit group, but they get along on most nights. There’s not a one of them under forty-five. There is a pool table in the back room, and usually a game of checkers or cards going on in the corner. Rusty Brosh is the pool shark, and visitors would be wise not to play him for money. He drinks milk when he plays, which really pisses Owen off. Daryl Whirry, a construction worker, is another one of the regulars, and is a soft-spoken man — when he’s sober. Three beers along and he wants to fight with everyone. Buster Bottles is Daryl’s boss at DO Construction Company and the ringmaster of everything that goes on. Most of the younger guys who come in work for him in some way. Roofing, mostly, but sometimes they pour concrete. Buster drinks Commerativo Tequila and Black Label Beer and likes to sit in the old barber chair that overlooks the pool games. When business is slow, Elsie is sure to challenge any stranger to a game of darts. She’s pretty good, but won’t play with Daryl. Buster, by the way, is a card cheat. 

Elsie doesn’t wear a bra.
Owen doesn’t approve,
but he knows it’s
good for business. 

Owen is completely opposed to technology — no cell phones, doesn’t own a fax, and really frowns when he hears a car door lock chirp. God help you if you bring a laptop into the bar. Owen won’t allow the television to be turned on unless it’s an extremely special occasion, like the Rose Parade or a Presidential Debate. Funny thing, the place is closed on New Years Day and Election Day.

He was really pissed when Penny had the front redone last year, powerwashing the old brick facade and putting up a new green canopy. When the work crew began to come inside, to paint the interior, he stood in the doorway with his chipped fungo bat in his hand. They did not paint. The only reason the new stools were used is because Penny delivered them herself before sunrise on a Sunday morning. Owen is right. If they fixed the place up, it wouldn’t be the same.

Knobstock Tavern, at least, is a constant in the town.

Sorry to Spoil All the Endings for You, But…

We hate to ruin the surprises that lay in wait for you at the end of these movies, books, and plays (actually, we don’t mind at all) but……REDRUM IS MURDER SPELLED BACKWARDS

WILLARD KILLS KURTZ

SCARFACE DIES

JESUS DIES

SPOCK DIES

W.O.P.R. WAS JUST PLAYING A GAME

THE WIZARD IS THE GATEKEEPER

THEY NEVER FIND THE GRAIL

SIMON AND PIGGY DIE

JAY GATSBY DIES

THE ANSWER IS 42

ALL 300 SPARTANS DIE

28 WEEKS LATER EVERYONE’S STILL @#%^ED

BURBAGE DIES

HEDWIG DIES

MAD-EYE DIES

SCRIMGEOUR DIES

WORMTAIL DIES

DOBBY DIES

SNAPE DIES

FRED WEASLEY DIES

HARRY DIES, BUT COMES BACK TO LIFE

VOLDEMORT DIES

TONKS DIES

LUPIN DIES

COLIN CREEVY DIES

RON MARRIES HERMIONE; THEY HAVE TWO KIDS: HUGO AND ROSE

HARRY MARRIES GINNY; THEY HAVE THREE KIDS: JAMES, LILY, AND ALBUS SEVERUS

SIRIUS DIES

DUMBLEDORE DIES

AERIS DIES

SPIKE DIES

NEO DIES

TRINITY DIES

JACK SPARROW DIES

OBI-WAN DIES

QUI-GON DIES

YODA DIES

PADME DIES

BOROMIR DIES

GANDALF DIES

EVERYONE IN EVANGELION TURNS INTO ORANGE JUICE

ASH IS A ROBOT

BAMBI’S MOM DIES

EVERY MAJOR CHARACTER IN FFT DIES

KRILLIN DIES

CHAOZU DIES

YAMCHA DIES

VEGETA DIES

PICCOLO DIES

GOKU DIES

GOKU DIES AGAIN

GOKU @#%^ING DIES AGAIN

GOKU DIES, THIS TIME FOR REAL, AND THEN DIES AGAIN

TELLAH DIES

MARIKO DIES

DARTH VADER IS LUKE SKYWALKER’S FATHER

SOYLENT GREEN IS PEOPLE

BRUCE WILLIS IS A GHOST

PRINCESS LEIA IS LUKE’S SISTER

WINSTON GETS REPROGRAMMED

THEY FIND NEMO

THEY ALL WENT TO THE SAME DAYCARE

ROSEBUD IS HIS SLED

WANDER DIES AND IS REBORN FUSED WITH THE DORMIN

GRETCHEN DIES

DONNIE GOES BACK IN TIME SO HE CAN GET KILLED BY THE FALLING PLANE ENGINE

MACMURPHY GETS LOBOTOMIZED AND IS KILLED BY CHIEF

ALEX IS “CURED”

YOU JUST LOST THE GAME

THE PLANET OF THE APES IS EARTH IN THE FUTURE

TYLER DURDEN AND EDWARD NORTON’S CHARACTER ARE THE SAME PERSON

ROCKY LOSES

ROCKY WINS

ROCKY LOSES

ROCKY WINS

ROCKY WINS

ROCKY WINS

MERCUTIO DIES

ROMEO DIES

JULIET DIES

CAESAR DIES

HAMLET DIES

TONY ALMEIDA DIES

DECKARD IS A REPLICANT

THE BOY SHOOTS OL’ YELLER

ONE OF THE QUEER COWBOYS DIES

THE BLACK GUY DIES FIRST

MASTERCHIEF DIES

JASON LIVES

Thanks to my distant friend, “ShellacFanatic” at OKQ for this.

The Nine-Cow Woman.

The young chieftan wanted to start his own sub-villiage, so he approached the tribe’s king to get his blessing and advice.  The king liked the young man, adding that several wives would be needed if he were to succeed in the venture. It would be important that he built many huts, a pen to keep livestock, and farm enough grain to support the people and animals.

The warrior knew this, and carefully laid out his plan for a village. He explained that there were other young men who wanted to join him, and he pointed to a site on a nearby hill where he planned to live. The king consented. ”When the times comes, may I purchase one of your daughters to start a family?” he asked. The buying of women was the way of that Africian tribes in that place and that time, and cattle was the primary means of barter.

The king had always liked the young man, and was glad about the news. “Absolutely,” the king responded enthusiastically. “Get your villiage built, raise some cattle, then come back to see me. I have many daughters, and I will give you a good value for your money.”

A year passed. The young chieftan arrived at the king’s hut with a small herd of cattle, indicating that he was ready to purchase a wife. “Take your pick; all of my daughters are over there, in that special maiden’s hut.”

After a short while, the younger chief returned, bringing with him a young woman who stood in dirty clothes, bent over, and dirty. “This is the woman I want to purchase, Your Highness,” said the suitor. “I will offer you nine cows for her.”

The king was taken aback. “Are you mad? Of all the daughters I have, this one is the most miserable and disagreeable. She is always frowning and moody; she does not sing nor does she dress well. She is certainly not worth nine cows! Two, three cows at best, but not nine cows.”

“Sire,” said the chieftan, “I know what I am doing. I insist on giving you nine cows for her. She will be my queen.”

Reluctantly, the king accepted the offer, insisting that the younger man deliver the payment in increments of two or three cows at a time. “I do not want anyone to know that I charged you so much for such a miserable bride.” The young man made his payment, and took the woman, unimpressive as she was, back to his village.

He said, “She was
always beautiful; You
saw her as worthless,
and I saw her as a
nine-cow woman.”

Several years passed. As was his custom, the king wandered among the subvillages, to see how things were progressing and to gather knowledge of his people. He happened upon the same young chieftian’s group of huts, and was immediately impressed with all the prosperity and upbeat mood there. He couldn’t help notice a beautiful woman walking head held high through the townspeople, smiling broadly. Her warmth and energy was clearly spreading to those around her. “I see you are doing well, son,” said the king. “And that woman — she’s absolutely beautiful. Who is she? Is that my daughter — the one you paid so much for?”

“I always saw her as worth much more, Sire,” said the younger man. “And when I treated her like she had greater value, she became a queen. She’s my nine-cow wife. She was never anything less, in my eyes.”

Thanks to Jim Cook, my LifeSpring instructor, who passed this story on to me many years ago. –RN. 

Not Having a List is on my “Perfect Partner” List.

Many years ago, I took a LifeSpring Relationships class (a lot like Est) and one of the assignments was to take out a piece of paper and make a list of the traits of a “Perfect Partner.” I quickly dashed off what you’d expect a single, healthy heterosexual male might want. My wish list described a woman who:
     — was smart, patient, and creative.
     — could be demure and nextdoorgirl-ish, but still magically transform into a mind-reading sex machine who would always climax when I did.
     — had a killer, athletic body without pimples, wrinkles or sags, and her breasts looked perfect whether she was standing, sitting, or lying down.
     — independent and able to support herself, but still willing to make me feel manly and allow me to be in complete control.
     — musical, creative, neat, and a good cook, to boot.
     — attentive, sensitive, and considerate.

OK, I’m exaggerating a bit, and the list was actually called the “Perfect Relationship” not “Perfect Partner. No man is that selfish or materialistic (I’m not!) but you get the point. My list actually called for a nice, pretty girl who liked the same things I liked, but it included about 15 or 20 things. My qualifiers weren’t uncommon, but when you totaled up all the requirements, it was a tough bill to fill. I “asked for” lots of good food, music, and sex mixed together with adventure and conversation, but it still created an extremely narrow definition of potential partners.

So, when everyone was finished, the instructor asked several of us to read our lists. I was somewhat surprised by what other people included, because there were mothers who simply wanted some attention from their children, children who wanted acknowledgement from their parents, and people who simply wanted respect from society on the whole. I read mine, drew an appropriate number of chuckles, nods, and smiles, and began to sit down.

Then, I had a sudden afterthought: “Can I add something to my list?” I asked.

“Sure,” the instructor said.

“I’d like someone who doesn’t have a list!”

And that’s the point. We all go into relationships “shopping” for a Perfect Partner based on preconceived notions, when it seems to me we need to spend more time finding the beauty in people. We want partners to “measure up” but can’t “measure up” ourselves. While I am the first to appreciate a nice butt and a good backrub, I know that we all should go into these things with an open mind. Sure, a woman needs to be attractive to get my attention, but in the end it’s the inner beauty that really counts.

For those skeptics who think this is a setup and that I’m justifying my own shortcomings, no, I’m not an ugly, warty, slob with excessive body odor and a zero bank account. (Well, maybe sometimes.) I’m actually a caring, sensitive man who is not too unattractive for my age. It’s just that I’m smarter now, and not as easily distracted by things that I once thought were important.

So, here’s my current list:
1. A non-smoker who likes herself.
2. A smart woman, who smiles and is willing to laugh.
3. Someone who can BE beautiful.

I could probably delete numbers one and two, because the third one really says it all.

About the Chief Correspondent.

“Where does one begin to tickle the elephant?” I love that quote, and use it often. It seems particularly appropriate here and now, as I begin this endeavor.

I’m a fifty-something man of far-ranging interests. If life is a canvas, I intend to leave this life having used up lots of paint and a scene that is inspirational and insightful. I have done so many things and witnessed so much; but I haven’t even scratched the surface.

After living in California for virtually all of my adult life, I have decided to relocate to the Pacific Northwest, probably Olympia, Washington. In some respects, I will start life anew. I hope to buy an old house that I can reshape and refreshen my lifestyle, finish a couple of books I have in the works, and make new friends. I’d like to build a small sailboat, too, and there’s always the possibility of finding somebody to rub toes with on a cold winter night.

A few of my passions: My son, woodworking, and baseball. Alex (now 20) is a wonderful person, and I often say that “when I grow up I want to be like him.” I discovered woodworking about 22 years ago and think that there’s nothing more worthwhile than taking a piece of a tree and giving it a new life by turning it into a keepsake box or a bowl; now that’s my idea of a day off! Baseball is a beautiful, poetic dance with a rich tradition; it has been a large piece of my life for nearly four decades, and I am decidedly old-school.

And all of these themes are colored by a life of spirituality, family, and a sincere desire to make a difference. So, how does one connect it all in a blog?

Check back and leave Comments. Lots to be posted.

– Russell Neyman, Chief Correspondent.

Pictured: Alex Neyman, then 12, with father Russell Neyman, and grandfather Robert Neyman. The temporary eyepatch was worn after a mild stroke. This is obviously out of date (taken about 1996) but it’s an interesting photograph and one of our favorites. For an updated photo of Alex, look in the Neyman page.