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About Oregon daily emerald. (Eugene, Or.) 1920-2012 | View Entire Issue (Oct. 8, 2002)
Oregon Daily hmerald Pulse Editor Jacquelyn Lewis jacquelynlewis@dailyemerald.com On Thursday A preview of the Eugene Ballet's production of "Romeo and Juliet" Tuesday, October 8,2002 Take out the glue gun — it’s craft time I started this column with the best of intentions. I was going to tackle the riv eting subject of residence hall life. Pic ture practical advice for the incoming freshman on color schemes, organiza tion and how to deal with your new roommates penchant for tie-dyed and batiked tapestries. I did all the groundwork. I checked out the University Housing Web site. I spent a fascinating afternoon of reading for free at Barnes & Noble. I read about Martha Stewart’s Good Things and 100 ways I could redeco rate my room for less than $100. I found out about “(opening my) style file” and making a “tempting tuffet” — golden moments to treasure always. Unfortunately, I ran into a few road blocks on the path toward the “deco rating your dorm room” column. First off, no one returned my phone calls. There went the possibil ity of real-life examples of stylish rooms. Secondly and more importantly, I found it impossible to get excited about any thing I was doing. The thought of writing about making flowery hat boxes and beribboned message boards is deathly. Peachy keen, guys. I might as well whip up an after-school snack for Wally and the Beav’ while I’m at it. No offense, June Cleaver, but that’s really not my style. Instead, I was left with a huge hole where my column should go, a looming deadline and the nagging question of why I had accepted the iiber-hip title of “Martha Stewart of the College Life.” I kill plants. I burn cookies. I have a one-foot-tall plastic dinosaur in my bed room. I am obviously not a maven of home decor. Nika Carlson D.I.Y. living But further thought led me here. I have plans for sewing bathroom curtains and making a photo album from scraps. 1 design stationary and bake bread. I cut up magazines and save paper in the event of a future craft emergency. I crave power tools and got a thrill out of cutting blackberry bushes for five hours to old AC/DC records. I remember episodes of “This Old House” and “The New Yankee Workshop” (wood crafting at its best, thank you very much). I harbor a secret ly growing obsession for “Trading Spaces,” the show where neighbors switch houses for two days and redeco rate a room — the disastrously fabulous things one can do with a shoestring ($1000!) budget. In short, I’m crafty. The truth is, there is something in credibly fulfilling about having made something yourself. I find a childish sat isfaction in getting my hands dirty and ending up with a tangible, usable prod uct. It gives me a feeling of independ ence and creativity, however inconse quential my output may be. Perhaps I’m overdoing it a little, but the sentiment I expressed is at the heart of the Do-It-Yourself (DIY) ethos. It’s about being inventive and industrious Turn to Living, page 4 Patrons at the Sip N Surf Cybercafe can enjoy freshly brewed coffee while surfing the web, potentially enjoying both real and virtual Java Liz Carskadon for the Emerald Local shops, global connections Cybercafes combine the information resources of a whole planet and the beverage resources of a coffee shop Ryan Bornheimer Senior Pulse Reporter On Mother’s Day a few years ago, Dorothy Ehli’s grandchildren took her to Sip N-Surf Cybercafe downtown to show her the Inter net. Since that day, the retired nurse has been a mainstay at the establishment. Sometimes she stops by to visit her favorite Web site, Allmusic.com. Other times it’s for the homemade lasagna. It’s this hybrid of old-school warmth and new-school technology that made cybercafes a common sight around the world in the mid ’90s. Like any trend, many were quick to jump on the bandwagon, but few had the chops to stay in for the long haul. Once the novelty wore off, it looked as though cyber cafes may end up as little more than fodder for a Trivial Pursuit 1990s edition. In recent years, however, these specialized businesses seem to have found their niche. And Eugene is no exception. As of now, there are many such establishments in the city, in cluding Sip N-Surf, The Buzz Net Cafe, and Comsource Associates, all offering a combi nation of computers and a cup of joe. Sip N-Surf, now in its third year of busi ness, is one of the trend’s veterans. This mel low little joint on West 10th Avenue seems to be reaching the maturity that many other cy bercafes couldn’t. In recent months, the cafe has even set Internet-use records. Like any business, that may be thanks in no small part to its location. Sip N-Surfs neon sign glows clearly from the bus station downtown, and according to co-owner Mari an Harris, travelers make up a large portion of the cafe’s patrons. “We get a lot of tourists. Cybercafes are the primary Internet connection for people around the world. From an economic stand point, it just makes sense,” Harris said. Harris, a self-described “techno-turnip,” handles the food side of the operation, mak ing some dishes herself while Palace Bakery Turn to Cafe, page 4 Kerensa’s love letter leaves Michael, Sarah tom Chapter 2. Kerensa’s goodbye notes. Last week, Michael and Sarah were at Marsee’s coffee shop debating how best to look for Kerensa. This chapter begins earlier, at the time of Kerensa’s disappearance, and reveals something of her love. The Emerald is printing “And the Dew is Our National Treasure” in serial form, with an installment every Tuesday in the Pulse Relax section. The first installment can be found at www. dailyemerald. com. Four days earlier, before we realized Kerensa had disappeared, Sarah was on her way to a sol stice sunrise, and discovered on her windshield a note in Kerensa’s lissome hand: “I’ve found a love. I’m going. I feel clearer, more alive than ever. I know it all has meaning, Sarah. Keep on! Until we’re together again, look for me in the sky between the branches, and in the prisms at dawn. Love Always, Kerensa.” Sarah called me to ask if Kerensa had a new lover. I said I’d heard of none. “Then she’s in danger,” Sarah said. “I feel it.” At that time, I wasn’t alarmed. I thought: Kerensa’s young, and love is healthy. Besides, she often traveled across the state to hearings and meetings without notice, reappearing several days later. In the end, the letter struck me as I * another of the enigmatic Where S messages she left at the in , <9 telligent intersections of her IVCrvIlJld • life, and in a couple of days all would become clear. But the mystery turned dark three days later. I had stayed at the office, and by 9:30 p.m. I could no longer direct my mind to work. I closed my computer and stepped into the mild night. The east was clear, and Mount Hood, bril liant white under a moon two days short of full, seemed to have melted a bowl in the black sky. I stopped to look because something was odd. The clouds were behind the moon! I looked more closely, and it was true. Then I saw the trick: The clouds were so thin, they became transparent in front of the moon, but appeared solid against the black sky. I remembered a childhood drawing of trees behind the sun. I wondered what Sarah would make of this. Driving south on 1-5,1 listened to messages on my cell phone: the Red Gross reminding me to give blood, my broker peddling an Internet stock, and Sarah, the one who laughed, urging in an un familiar voice: “Michael. I’ve got to talk to you. Gall. Or, better, go home. I’ll wait for you there.” Sarah sat on the front stairs beside the rho dodendrons. I beeped when I saw her; she stood, clutching a paper in her folded arms. She was a decade older. I turned off the engine, stepped from the car and stared at a dear friend I didn’t know. In the faint glow that came from the car’s inside light, I saw a tear roll down her cheek. “Sarah?” She handed me the paper. “I found this in her house.” I read aloud. “Michael. Never doubt my love; you’ve been the family I needed. And my grati tude to your parents for adopting me. Now I’m called. And I’m going. I won’t be back. This is goodbye. Please, for peace of mind and for closure, assume I’ve died. I love you very, very much. Kerensa.” We travel through years perfecting a mask. Then a sharp event tears the luminescent skin, and the raw grape bleeds. Kerensa was vast; her worldview had pulled Sarah from the tree crowded, New England consciousness of her youth to the big-skied mind of the west. And her sisterly concern for me had nurtured mod est plans into career ambitions. With just a few words, she’d cut the tether, and Sarah and I dropped into an abyss. Peter Wright is a printer living in Portland. He received his bachelor's degrees from UC Berkeley, served in the U.S. Navy, worked as a stock broker and taught at Stanford University. © Peter Wright, 2002. All rights reserved.
