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.