BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

Dirk Winters was a legendary real-life character in the Portland boating community in the 80s. In '85, at age 78, he returned to Portland after cruising the world for 11 years. It wasn't long before he hoisted sail again, unwilling and unable to stay in port for very long.

My buddy Tobey signed on to join Dirk on another continuing cruise around (and around again) the world. He jumped ship at the first landfall Winters made in northern California. Dirk is a character and so is Tob--the combination was like mixing ammonia and bleach--toxic.

I never did get many of the details of that cruise, other than the description of Windjob's galley, where a cast iron dutch oven never left the grill--the mulligan stew an eternal, ever-evolving sourdough-like culinary Frankenstein monster--making mealtime just one more risk in the great round-the-world adventure.

It's hard to find out much about Dirk. He was a Portland builder, and the last memory I have is that he wrecked Windjob in Puerto Rico, during a hurricane. Did he continue sailing? Is he still alive? The Portland Yacht Club honors his exploits with the "Dirk Winters Blue Water Award", given to yacht club members for long-distance international sailing exploits. Dirk himself--well, he'd be 103 now. But I haven't heard that he died, so there's comfort in that ambiguity--and legendary romance in imagining the old mariner, still island hopping somewhere--
You're off the edge of the map, mate. Here there be monsters!

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

--cotton candy and corn dogs,
fresh-cut grass and sun tan oil, swimming pool chlorine, fields of mint, and Jasmine blossoms.

Burning drag slicks, outboard motor fumes, tide pools. Charcoal on the grill, horses in a barn filled with fresh-mown hay--

Water from the garden hose.
Summer Love

or...
Summer Nights

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

The nerve of these nesting herons, building their nests on West Hayden Island--woodlands that the Port of Portland has plans to develop as a shipping terminal.

The herons have been elbowed out of their previous favored rockery--by an environmental success story--bald eagles have colonized the towering cottomwoods that was the herons' favorite turf. Now, they're relocated to the west, where businessmen want to create a giant parking lot for importing cars from Japan (among other things)--at a rate 8 times what we're doing now, by 2040.

The Port recently handed over operation of their container shipping facility, Terminal 6, to an overseas shipper. They scuttled a state-of-the-art floating drydock the taxpayers bought for them--because they couldn't drum up the business for it. While other ports are full of US Navy ships receiving maintenance--Portland hasn't been able to put that deal together either.

The Port operates the airport, and has sown up access to the other big urban island in the Columbia River--Government Island--as part of the flight plan for their runways--a convenient ditching site should a plane get into trouble. The only public access to that island is by boat.

Now the Port is making another real estate grab. The Audubon Society, Columbia Riverkeepers, and other wildlife advocates are urging the city to keep the island in a natural state, as a refuge for the wildlife that remains, and as a marine recreation area for Portland residents.

An AFL-CIO spokesman claims that bureaucrats have already declared the spot "industrial land." A done deal. Just the herons, kingfishers, eagles, owls, deer, and red-tailed hawks will need to make the adjustment and get with the program. Me too. I'm another Hayden Island resident watching the inexorable evolution of my lovely little island into a gigando parking lot. With the I-5 freeway cutting north/south across us, and the Columbia flowing westward around us--we're at a vortex of a lot of diverse energy--migratory birds overhead, long-haul truckers blasting past at all hours. Soon, Portland officials will have a stewardship decision to make. The right choice will be one that must be defended again and again. The wrong one--well, look around--the smell of money is everywhere.

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

...the Key West of the Cascades--my town, Portland , Oregon. I've lived here now 30 years, (almost half my life)--but I still don't truly feel like a "Portlander".

For one thing, I can drive in the snow. And a few days of temperatures in the high 90s don't send me to the Air Conditioner Store.

Portland prides itself on its' quirky nature--but in truth, the city frets about its' image and reputation like a junior high school cheerleader.

Anytime a publication puts out a "Most of" or "Best of" list--it's covered in the Portland media like it truly mattered. As if it was somehow connected with reality. Recently some snack food ranked the "Manliest Cities" in the US. We came in almost dead last--and there was great soul searching in the media--and free publicity for the snack food (which I won't name--my manly bias against being manipulated)

That ranking was based upon number of sports franchises, and a "manly lifestyle (as determined by the number of full-sized American-made pick-up trucks, among other things).
Portland takes great pride in being known as the "most bicycle friendly" city in the country--but anyone who has ever been to Davis, California knows that our claim is an empty one. And Portland will never catch Davis until they flatten out the hills and divert the rainclouds.

So "Stumptown" is a bit self-obsessed--so much so that we made Business Week's #1 spot on the "most depressed" list (based on divorce rates, unemployment rates, crime rates, and frequency of cloudy days). The moss-shouldered Portlander shrugs and writes it off to "keeping Portland weird"--a zen approach that keeps it all in perspective and expands the margins of what is possible, pragmatic, and appreciated.

We like to think that we're a city where you can windsurf to work, fish over lunch hour for your salmon dinner, and join the nude bike riders for an environmentally sustainable and socially exciting ride home--all on the same day.
Summer in the City

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

"Give me a place to stand, and I can move the world."

Not exactly Archimedes' precise quote, but close enough. My buddy Dave rebuilds the foundations of docks and floating homes, a feat of engineering that Mr. A would find intriquing.

Houseboats sit atop big beams, that stradle huge float logs. When those "stringers" need to be replaced, there's no "skyhook", no Jolly Green Giant "chopper" to lift the structure. Where to stand? From his workboat platform (picture a phone booth on a soapbox), Dave is THE one-man construction company for the job.

Working with Dave was great. He was always whistling a happy song. He'd developed his own lifting technique--a firehose sandwiched between two huge planks would lift the house when 32 psi of water pressure inflated the wood and hose "sandwich". Necessity is the mother of invention. No need for a lever or a fulcrum, when even a small amount of force is uniformly applied over a broad area.

Dave worked smart, but it's still hard work. A former Vietnam pilot, ("flying bus driver" he snorts) the primary carry-over for him from that venture is a upbeat attitude to enjoy whatever each day brings. He whistles in the rain, same as the sunny days. He got repeatedly dosed with the herbicide Agent Orange in 'Nam, and the Docs keep an eye on him, for effects of that poison.

I haven't seen him for a while, I think his days lugging $2,000 sticks have evolved into retirement leisure, with periodic freelance consulting work. Know-how accumulates over time, but brawn is a finite, limited, expendable resource. I was fortunate to have done my stringers back when those curves intersected on Dave's resource chart.
Singing in the Rain

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

In the moorage, folks will keep a vehicle in the parking lot that may not be their daily driver--but serves good duty as a seaman's locker, a place for spare clothes, tools you don't want onboard, even firewood. My old '52 Chevy has been my "Seaman's Special" for years. Runs just fine, but that bench seat--ugh. Hard for this old "degenerative lumbar disease" back. But it's a runner, and when the new yuppies who are running the show sent out another edict (subject line: "abandoned vehicles") it wasn't worth arguing. Some folks just don't realize a compliment when they're given one. They were fortunate to have Mr. Completely's oil slick gracing their asphalt. Now at the land house for more than a week, and here comes a winter snowstorm. This time, the weather didn't "Missed Her Completely."

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

"...the streets are very dirty, my shoes are very thin;
I have a little pocket to put a penny in..."

The frost and snow gathers on the sleeping bags huddled in the doorways and under the overpass. Before the dawn, hope is the imagined scent of hot coffee and oatmeal at the soup kitchen, and a long line forms before the night yields to the dawn.

"...if you haven't got a penny, a ha' penny will do,
if you haven't got a ha'penny, then God bless you."

The Rescue Mission is not far from the gourmet coffee houses--red pins on the SUV's GPS, but a world away in Life's metaphysical journey.

"How can you expect a man who's warm to understand one who's cold?"
--Alexander Solzhenitsyn

"When it is dark enough, you can see the stars." ~Ralph Waldo Emerson
Soul Cake

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

My first week in Portland, in the late 70s, a cop and a young black guy came stumbling out of a bus, locked in combat.

"Help me!" said the cop.

"What'd I do?" screamed the kid.

I was frozen by indecision. Jump in and help the police, right? But "piling on", jumping on a young black kid, that wasn't the way I saw myself either.

Portland enjoys a great reputation for Liveability, a Promised Land for "Appropriate Living", a destination for Young Creatives looking for fun and fulfillment. But watch out if you're homeless, or a minority--particularly if you find yourself at odds with Portland's Finest, your demographic could be hazardous to your health.

Every profession has its' saints and sinners. There are good cops and bad cops, just like there are good and bad teachers, coaches, clergy, and even good and bad journalists. There's no way to keep that from happening--but there needs to be institutions that guarantee impartial review and effective checks and balances.

Police review in Portland is a puppet show--a rote ritual done for show where the outcome is a foregone conclusion (in my humble opinion). Repeated police shootings are always judged to be justified. Most recently, the county voted to give nearly a million dollars to the family of James Chasse, a 145-pound 42-year-old schizophrenic who died in police custody, after suffering 16 broken ribs and a punctured lung during his arrest--for running when suspected of public urination. (Of course, the Police Review and the Grand Jury had exonerated the officers of any wrongdoing.)

I've ridden along with law enforcement, gone through doorways with SWAT teams, covered murders and assaults--and I don't think there's a tougher job than that of a police officer. They're the social worker of last resort, society's Emergency Room for failed public policy. When a problem gets ignored for too long, eventually a cop ends up dealing with it. Mostly, I admire the job they do. My own kid is studying to go into that line of work, despite my concerns. Most cops try to do a good job, remembering that they're serving and protecting their own family and friends. That's why the abuse of that power is so onerous.

I want to know my neighborhood cop. My own Officer Friendly, who knows me and my family. It's called "community policing"--and it happens so seldom. Whether they're fighting trespassers and thieves or the Taliban, getting out of their cruisers or Humvees and dealing with folks person-to-person is the formula for good public safety. That's the kind of cop I want to see, and the kind of cop I want my kid to be.

There but for fortune

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

The floatilla escorting the huge copper statue "Portlandia" to downtown was a parade where all the spectators were on the bridges. A buddy shot this view of me (while I shot from an inflatable--the shot in the "river living" set called 'Portlandia cruises in'--
www.flickr.com/photos/buckaroobob/246686263/
--the local river cops (Coast Guard, Sheriff's River Patrol, Fire Bureau) were all around me, ordering me out of the way of the barge. I shouted "TV! TV! La Prensa" and kept on shooting. (had to get that shot!) These days, they'd probably shoot me.

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

As motorists navigate a treacherous route through slick, snow-covered streets, dog walkers enjoy a brisk walk with their pet near twilight. Winter solstice is past, more daylight each day, and a new year beckons.

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

A frozen heron wind vane atop a Columbia River houseboat points toward the south southwest, the direction from which the salvation of thawing weather usually comes. We've been spared any ice storms and true freezes so far this winter, (this is an photo--in color!--from the archives) but always during the holiday frenzy, I catch myself worrying about those hose bibs, the faucets covers, cooling jackets on the boat motors, and other preventive maintenance stuff that should be done beforehand. I usually think of these things at 11:30 p.m. the night of the freeze, as the weatherman weighs in with the voice of doom--and head out into the frigid night with my tools and flashlight. Add this to your Christmas list, Buckaroo, deal with it now, when it's 40 degrees, and you'll be giving yourself a present in January.

snow and ice

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

Ain't got no sleigh with reindeer,
ain't got no sack on my back,
You're gonna see us row in,
when the current starts to slack--

The parade of the Christmas ships cruises past our stretch of the river tonight. It brings back memories of when the kids were little, and we'd string garlands of lights on Sankara, and row around the moorage with the kids playing Santa's Elves for the Christmas card. I'll have to drive down Memory Lane, I think those old Christmas cards (if they're still around) have some interesting photos from the years the kids were still at home.
Here Comes Santa Claus

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

Portland seldoms sees a White Christmas. Rain, fog, wind, maybe even ice are much more likely than snow. Here, Christmas looks like colored lights reflecting on rippling waters. Over 60 boats and their skippers volunteer for this Portland tradition, forming two fleets that cruise the Columbia and Willamette Rivers. This year the tradition launches with a Saturday night cruise to the Port of Camas, to the northeast in Washington.
Cruises continue from December 10-21; through different stretches of the city's riverpathways. Boats with names like Wooden Shoe, Branch Office,
and Pretty Penny cruise past McCuddy's Light, Diddler's Beach, Multnomah Channel and Island Cove Marina. Grab a window seat at Beaches Restaurant, Who Song and Larry's, the Sextant Tavern or the nearby dock, and watch the three wise men cruise by, followed by Santa's sleigh, pulled by seahorses.
The fleet is a volunteer effort, helped along with donations from shoreline residents and restaurants. They put on a beautiful show, looking good while battling difficult conditions, raging current, floating "deadheads" (semi-submerged logs), mechanical breakdowns,
expensive gasoline, and navigational miscues from their skippers buddies spacing out during synchronized maneuvers. Not all treasure is silver and gold, mate.

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

An Oregon icon in jazz, the "Gentleman of Jazz," with a career spanning over 40 years set out on a quest to become a great drummer in the seventh grade, practicing 19 hours a day, 6 days a week. His professional career began with a stint with Earl Grant. Mel went on to be a staff drummer for the Motown Music Corporation, recording and touring with groups including the Temptations, the Supremes, and Smokey Robinson. He subsequently spent ten years working with Diana Ross, Suzanne Somers, Connie Francis, Pat Boone,and others.
The jazz artists Mel has played with reads like a "Who’s Who" of jazz, and for the past six decade, Mel has held court in Portland's Old Town, at Jimmy Mak's (listed by Downbeat as "one of the world’s top 100 places to hear jazz"). Mel has also been very involved in music education. His passion truly is in working with college and high school students. He has served on the Boards of Directors of the Portland Youth Philharmonic, Portland Music Association, and the Mt Hood Festival of Jazz.

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

Neighbor Tim came by with his 4-year-old grandson, Isiah--eager to do a little fishin'. Where else would you go but over to see the Fat Pirate (another of BuckarooBob's many aliases)?

I enjoy fishing, but my role is most fishing expeditions usually evolves into "skipper" duties--engine mechanic, catering, knot tying (and unsnarling), removing hooks from dog noses, negotiating with the river patrol; stuff like that, time-consuming, day-killing, no-clock-watching stuff.

Now, the crawdad fishery happens on my schedule. No fishing license required, and the mudbugs are patiently waiting, to thrill whoever reels in the rope and drags the trap onto the dock.

Young Isiah scored in the first five minutes--he was so excited he declared he'd caught a "lobster."
You know it, Isiah, you know it! And best of all, it'll grow with time (in your memories).
Home

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

Three dogs and three people would be a crowd in my Whitehall, so I gave a set of oars and the aluminum "Duck" boat to Jason and Rene, for a little river outing. I got the little boat for it's scrap value ($75) from my buddy Mike at the metals yard.
It has the aerodynamics of a brick, and Jason and Rene were new to boat handling. They made a valiant effort, but the end result was less than stellar. Two people trying hard in opposite directions--it looked like a Kendo demonstration--but we still finally made it to our island destination.

Kung Fu Fighting

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

Aarrggghhhh, ya scurvey dogs! A pirates chest be filled with rich booty--swag of great value, treasures beyond imagination, me hearties! This one, too--though not gold, diamonds or pearls. No, this is MY pirates chest and it's filled with silica bronze fasteners, boar bristle brushes, and precious marine finishes--gleaming golden varnishes, the finest copper red bottom paint, aromatic pine tar, the purest distillation of linseed oil--rare essences of sweeter fragrance than the finest perfumes and exotic incense. Ridiculously expensive and deadly toxic, too. Used properly, the linseed oil alone is a pyromaniac's dream come true! Several caution labels ominously state, "The State of California has determined exposure to this material can cause cancer." Whew! Good thing the boatyard's here in Oregon!
Pirates Chest

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

The "Gurls", l to r. Coco, Chloe and Bo (aka "Sparkie") love going down to "Float Club"--the smells, the light, the dog neighbors, and best of all, the rowing out to check the crawdad traps. September and October are the best months of the year down on the river, and we're screening potential renters right now, so there's a lot of time spent down at Island Cove Lane. We might be the smallest houseboat down there, but we're probably the oldest, and certainly the most colorful (in our own opinion).
Who Let the
Dogs Out?

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

Trailblazer Damon Stoudamire and Timberwolf Terrell Brandon scramble for possession. Both played their high school ball here in Portland, Terrell at Grant High School, and Damon at Wilson, where my son currently plays football. Injuries forced Terrell into a too-early retirement, but Damon is still with the Memphis Grizzlies, although knee injuries have hurt his game as well. Cartilage, Cartilage, (Oregonian published photo, all rights reserved)

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

My long-time buddy Ron is a landscape architect who has created a great pond in his side yard. He also has an interest in aquaculture, so it stood to reason that (as I harvested crawfish this autumn) that we transplant a few into his pond, to see how they fared, how they co-exist with the goldfish, what role they might play in algae control, and how much they might propogate in that controlled environment. The crawdaddy harvest is always abundant this time of the year, and although I host a few cajun feasts (mudbug gumbo is always my contribution to the family Thanksgiving meal)--I usually catch more than I can eat. I've transplanted some into another friend's pond, and they flourished. I also did a trade with a high-end local restaurant, who traded credit for meals for buckets of crawfish. They also shared a few gourmet recipes.

I enjoy fishing, and nothing beats the thrill of pulling in a sturgeon or spring chinook salmon. Most fishing trips usually end up with me tending to the boat, and the fishing tackle, though. But with the crawfish traps, the appointment is at my convenience.
Law of the Fish

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

There are a hundred rationales for going with the compromise solution, the short cut, the easy way out, the excuse from your Mother, the extra credit project at the end of the semester. There's only one for doing it the right way--because you know it's the thing to do. You find the right bucket of paint and start over again. The Mayan priest remains impassive, but secretly pleased--his double-hose scuba regulator close at hand. A sea of blue spreads slowly where grey waters had been--nicer for diving.
Sea Hunt

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

Topping my "Honeydew List" has been taking down a Curly Willow tree from the front yard. It's half rotten, contributes to moss on the roof, and would be a good source of winter firewood. I lugged the big ladder into the fork and climbed up (me and my new Titanium knees), but it just didn't feel right. Take a few days to huddle up on this, I decided. By a happy coincidence, a city crew came through the neighborhood, clearing away tree limbs from power lines, and I made a deal with Gary Boyd, to come back over the weekend and top that pesky willow.

His approach was so much different (better) than mine. No ladders involved--he donned climbing spikes, tied himself securely into the stout and healthy nearby maple, and hung my his harness in the crumbling willow He got the job done in less than an hour, and put on a great show in the process.

I'm always willing to learn, and try to hande my own chores (this week's big victory was replacing a shot circuit breaker in the power panel)--but watching Gary, I had to admit I was out of my league. He's been a tree climber for more than two decades, and it's a dying art. Most arborists just rent a bigger cherry picker. Watching his monkey-like confidence in that canopy, I thought--well, he's young--"Gary! How old are you?"

"47," he replied, "and I carry "Rope" insurance."

My Way

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

I'm going where the sun keeps shining
Thru' the pouring rain,
Going where the weather suits my clothes,
Backing off of the North East wind,
Sailing on summer breeze
And skipping over the ocean like a stone

Everybody’s Talking Bosko & Honey

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

Shipwrights maintain the Lady Washington, the State Ship of Washington, in a Portland shipyard. Built in 1989, the ship is a replica of the 90-ton merchant sloop that sailed the Pacific in the 18th century. She's built from Douglas Fir and routinely cruises the West Coast, with her sister ship, The Hawaiian Chieftain, bringing history to life.

The modern Lady Washington is equipped with contemporary gear--electronics, genset, diesel engine--as well as the traditional sail rig. She has appeared in movies, including the Pirates of the Caribbean series. She is crewed by professionals and volunteers through the Grays Harbor Historical Seaport Authority.

It never ceases to be a thrill to see the tall ships cruising the river, the ninety-foot masts slipping silently past the stands of pine and cedar lining the shore. It's not the towering sail, but the unseen wind that moves the ship.

Haul Away Joe

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

For most of my 27 years working at Portland's major newspaper, The Oregonian, I worked the night shift. There was always somebody back in the building, telling me where to go--either by cell phone or radio. There were a few times I was inclined to tell them where to go, too--but they were great co-workers, and put up with me when they really didn't have to. The other night, one of the younger night editors ended his journalism career to start nursing school. I admire his committment, and his soul-searching, to make that change in course, when it would be simpler to just continue on the path he'd started. I'd intended to offer up a song at his farewell party, "You Gotta Friend in Me," because "Pancho and Lefty" seemed pretty tough for a ukelele. But I ended up doing the wrong chords to a Hayes Carll classic. Sorry, Hayes. In front of all those former bosses and journalists, my memory slipped a cog or two.
BuckarooBob Gets Left for Jesus

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

it's bigger than a rat race, it's more...so much more--maybe a pig race. These county fair celebrity racing pigs run not for the glory, not for roses, not even for the money--they run for ice cream and oreo cookies. On some weird level, it makes sense, I suppose. "Cause you know, that it's true, that for me, and for you...well, why worry?"

"Centuries ago, sailors on long voyages used to leave a pair of pigs on every deserted island. Or they'd leave a pair of goats. Either way, on any future visit, the island would be a source of meat. These islands, they were pristine. These were home to breeds of birds with no natural predators. Breeds of birds that lived nowhere else on earth. The plants there, without enemies they evolved without thorns or poisons. Without predators and enemies, these islands, they were paradise. The sailors, the next time they visited these islands, the only things still there would be herds of goats or pigs. .... Does this remind you of anything? Maybe the ol' Adam and Eve story? .... You ever wonder when God's coming back with a lot of barbecue sauce?” Chuck Palahniuk

Buckaroo Bob Don't Worry

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

I'd like to pay the price, so I don't have to do this twice. But time has come again, to replace the engine in my boat. The Old Graymarine gas engine is out, and a "new" used Perkins diesel awaits installation, although some carpentry must precede the engine install. Before any of this can happen, though--my new knees must be able to accomodate climbing ladders and walking on scaffolding.

Nothing that hasn't been done before, but I was younger then--and I think I had (relatively) more money then too--at least more to throw in the direction of the boat. Well, patience furthers. Life is a cinch by the inch and a trial by the mile.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=LdxWMlZ_YRo

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

In December, 1980, Portland musician Billy Rancher sang "Imagine" during a musical memorial to John Lennon, who had just been murdered that month.

Rancher--the charismatic and iconic leader of "Billy Rancher and the Unreal Gods" was a bright star on the Pacific Northwest music scene. Possessed of good looks, boyish charm, a great stage prescence that eclipsed his true musical skills, Billy appeared destined for rock stardom. It was a time when Portland was a hub of musical creativity--Quarterflash, Johnny and the Distractions, and Billy were putting Stumptown on the national music map. Billy called his infectious sound "Boom Chuck Rock"

But lymphatic cancer diagnosis and surgery in September 81 cast a shadow over that promising beginning. The band opened for top acts like Peter Tosh, The Stray Cats, Adam Ant and The Tubes. Bruce Springsteen set them up to record at New York's Power Station studios, and in '83 the band signed with Arista records, but during recording session Rancher fell ill and was diagnosed with a relapse of the cancer. Billy begins a purification diet of wheat grass juice, but on December 2, 1986, Billy dies--six years after the date he sang in tribute to the martyred John Lennon. What might have been? We can only Imagine.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=wLueAr8I-IY

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

“The real glory is being knocked to your knees and then coming back. That's real glory. That's the essence of it.”

Maybe it's just because I'm a bit hyperaware of it right now, but everywhere I look, I see young folks awash in their own glucosamine. Bouncing along almost airborne on their own cartilage. Running soccer wind sprints or "ultimate frisbee" frolics without the slightest awareness of what miracles they're performing. Of course, I'm at a point in life where my miracles are of a different sort--I am able to pay cash for a tank of gas. Like the fellow who was told by the incredible talking frog--
"kiss me, kind sir, and I'll return to my former self, a beautiful princess!" She protested as he put her back into his pocket--"didn't you hear me?!? Kiss me and I'll become a beautiful princess!" "Sorry, you're highness," he mumbled, "but at this point in my life, I can have more fun with a talking frog."

www.youtube.com/watch?v=d3G6iKva85M

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

Bridge tenders grease the cables on the drawbridge tower of Portland's Hawthorne Bridge. Recent knee replacement surgery has titanium replacements where my old worn out knees used to creak along. Now the soft tissue support physiology has to find it's way back--arteries, veins, muscle, tendons, hamstrings--a trellis that must recreate itself for full function to return. My wife is a reiki practitioner, and when she puts her hand on the sole of my foot, and another on my knee, muscles begin to twitch involuntarily and the scar and skin tingles as neurons find their partners and the web rebuilds itself.

BuckarooBob has added a photo to the pool:

Isiah "J.R." Rider was a player that the Portland fans loved to hate. His flamboyant play, chest-pounding theatrics, and mercurial presence were a poor fit with Portland sensibilities. But he had a swaggering, feisty attitude that also made him likeable to those who got to know him--teammates and coaches, which puzzled the fans. Detroit Pistons Otis Thorpe (left) and Don Reid ambush Rider during a game years ago. Where is he now? Last I heard, J.R. was back in Oakland, CA where he is a rap music promoter and has a revolving door relationship with various Bay Area lockups and drug rehab programs. What a surprise.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=zJbqoB0avl8