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D e v .
H
u lU
Editorial
Now & Then
Well, tilings have begun to slow here on the left edge of
Oregon It’s a lime when the locals stop being asked the way
to the public rest rooms, the ocean, the nearest latte, or a
damned parking place, and begin talking about tilings closer
to their hearts. The beauty of last night’s sunset, the birds
seen going south, spending a day on the beach and seeing
only a few friends who waved from a distance. (Well, you
couldn’t really see them, but you could recognize their dogs.)
October has always been a favorite month of mine, and not
just for the weather, which is usually, strangely enough,
pleasant on the Oregon Coast, nor because that most
anarchistic and pagan of holy days, Halloween, ends the
month.
It is because twenty-one years ago tliis October 22nd I met
my son. Janies Lucas Rian Massa. I didn t know he was my
son at the time, it took me years to find out. I just thought
he was my girlfriend’s baby. It’s a long story and none of
your business, but she and I had a deal we made when she was
pregnant, and I had made a deal with myself when at age
twenty eight 1 had a vasectomy. The deal is; men should help
boys be men, no matter if they are related by blood, or not.
For years after he came to live with me, I told people that I
was James’ “dad” not wanting to show disrespect for his late
biological father. Somewhere around his first year in High
School. James asked me to stop and just tell people I was his
father and he was my son. It made me cry, I’m not ashamed
to say. James is now in college, and I am suffering from
what is called the ‘empty nest syndrome’ But, I’m very proud
to say 1 have a son who has become a man. Happy Birthday,
James!
Mo’ stuff
Locals and our visitors might have wondered at a sign on
the balcony above the midtown mall this last month; it said,
“We’ll miss you Rooster.” The sign was made and put there
by Maggie Kitson. For those of you who have never met
Maggie, poor babies, she is a blues singer of wonderous
abilities, matched only by her efforts as a human being. She
can be heard singing with the Bond St. Blues Band, and seen
around town with her daughter and Barkley, the dog who
owns her. And a pleasant sight to see she is, what my late
father used to call “A real man’s woman”. And the sign is
her way of saying good-bye to an old friend. Gavin ’Rooster’
Fox, who was a DJ on KLCC’s Blues Power out of Eugene
for over twenty years, died of ALS or Lou Gehrig’s disease
and like a lot o f blues fans Maggie was a fan of his. Music
is a wonderful thing, it brings people together who may never
meet.
Gavin “Rooster"
F ox
One o f the things a newspaper does is tell us ‘who died’.
The major media fill the front pages and lead off their
broadcasts with the latest death tolls from earthquakes,
hurricanes, and the various wars But if you turn to the back
pages you will find the obituaries of the common folk. Short
paragraphs summing up a life in simple sentences. “She was
a homemaker and member of the church, and is survived by
five children, sixteen grandchildren, and two great grand
children.” Or: ‘He served in the Army in the Second World
War and the K rean War and was a fanner until his retirement
this year because of health problems.” When you happen to
know the person being described you want to yell, ‘There was
more than that!!!” On a beautiful Sunday morning I decided
to give a call to John Buckley, the former poetry editor of the
Upper I^eft Edge. I knew he had been in pretty bad shape
lately, mid was in the hospital at Seaside. I just wanted to
say hello, and maybe good-bye. The nurses transferred my
call to various places and I finally got a young man who said
he was John’s nurse, and asked who I was. It sounded kind of
pretentious, but I told him I was John’s ‘editor’ at the Upper
Left Edge. He told me that I’d missed John by a few hours.
Professor Lindsey had introduced me to John, so I called
and told him. Uncle Mike says that when your energy
escapes the mass of your body and accelarates to the speed of
light, you are everywhere at once, all the time, and that’s why
after people do that, you often feel them close to you, and
their energy surrounds you. Your memories of them become
vivid. In John’s career as voluntary Poetry Editor for the
Edge, as a number of poets know, he was not an easy man to
please. He ended up submitting old Chinese poems to be
printed as examples of the art, in hopes that the youngsters
would get it. I once made a proof reading error when 1 printed
one of John's poems and the look in his eyes the next time 1
saw him is something I will never forget. One of the worst
things in life is that we often disappoint people we love and
respect. One of the best things in life is they forgive us. I
can’t write about John’s life because I only had the privilege
of knowing him a few years, and though I know ‘There’s
more than that” I think that he might be happy with the
simple epitaph:
John Buckley; poet.
nrfExttrrmt O ctober
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C annon Beach: Júpiter’« Rare and Used Book«.
Osburn's Orocery. The Cookie Co.. C o f r f CabaAa.
BUI • Tavern. Cannon Beach Book Co.. H snes
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rants Passt The Book Shop
kit o f Oregon)
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uv a ll. W A Duvall Books
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e attle, WA: EUkit Bay Book Co , Honey Bear
akery. New Orleans Restaurant. S till Life In___
remont. Allegro Coffeehouse. The Last Exit Coffee
ouse, A Bulldog News
an Francisco, CA City Lights Bookstore
e n v e r, Co: Denver Folklore Cente
Isshlngton. D .C .i Hotel Tabard Inn
5ut o f U .8 A )
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arts, France:
Shakespeare
scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, cooked ham, bagels and cream
cheese, grapes, and cantaloupe while Steve liarle tunes flowed
from inside the house. It became clear that a constant theme
o f the party was that this group thrives on good food, drink,
music and lots of laughter.
Throughout the morning and the afternoon more “interesting
people,” as Neighbor Robert put it, were trickling in and Tent
City continued to grow. The horseshoe pits started to get
busy and the Reverend designed a very challenging croquet
course that wound around and under several trees and bushes.
Tommy, Peg and Dave even started a rousing game of Bocci
Ball. The many dogs in attendance started having a merry olde
time as one of them turned out to be quite a tart. Lines once
again formed at the keg. By 5:00 p.m. the How of new
arrivals bringing yet more food turned into a steady stream.
With the arrival of Richard Cranium and the Phoreheads, the
party was truly afoot. Despite the intake of many spirits and
party atmosphere there was a trace of anxiety on some faces.
How was the pig doing? Is it going to be cooked enough?
When should we dig it up? With the band playing it was
decided to pull the plug at 7:00 p.m. — the guest of honor had
been in the ground for 16 hours. Out it came to many cheers
and with a great sigh of relief it was found to be cooked
perfectly to the bone. Not only that but the chicken and
turkey cooked inside the pig were perfecto as well as the game
hen inside the turkey. It was the damndest thing I have ever
seen. The crowd around the lire pit flowed in two directions - -
one group to pull samples off the pig and turkey and the other
to line-up at the keg in celebration of a job well done. It was
now an orgy of gorging on the pit’s bounty as well as all the
other food that had appeared, swilling ale, and dancing to great
music including a Turtle original ‘Rhino Slayer.” After
several hours of tliis, things once again started to get hazy.
Maybe it was all the sun, croquet, and horseshoes. Or the
Bloody Marys and ale. After some period o f oblivion I found
myself sitting around a fire near llie vacated pig pit. The
crowd had thinned out and I was informed that we were now
down to the hardcore so it was time to retreat to my Sanctuary.
It is the morning of day three and I am still alive. This time
I don’t remember walking to my car but the familiar throbbing
and queasiness has hit harder this time. Back to the Gold
Room, on to the deck, a Bloody Mary shoved in my hand, and
it is deja-vu all over again. ‘W e have left over pig,” yells the
crowd, “more than enough for breakfast and a rib barbecue
later.” Turtle and Carmen are in the kitchen making what
turns out to be great breakfast pork burritos. Taj Mahal is
playing in the background and, to many bursts of laughter, we
rehash last night’s events. Questions are fired back and forth.
‘D id you see Sasquatch try to hump Turtle?” "You bet, ha ha,
did you see Carmen pull down Sasquatch’s bikini briefs?”
‘W ho was doing the elk call?” ‘Did you see the girls
swooning as Neighbor Peter played the guitar and led a sing-a
long into the early hours of the morning?” It was evident that
nobody wanted to let go of the moment, but the party was
winding down.
With the Third Annual Pig Party almost in the record books
it was time for the Turpentine Brothers, the original
organizers, to reflect on the event. Once again it is abundantly
clear to them that it takes a village to pit roast and devour a
whole hog. They are worried that handing out “thank yous” is
always risky because you might inadvertently leave someone
out. But I have broad shoulders so if anyone is missing from
the list it is my fault because the Brothers were a little hung
over and talking fast.
Everyone there made a contribution. They brought food,
made cash donations, were extremely respectful of the
property, and helped clean-up what surprisingly little mess
there was. As one person put it, ‘I didn’t run into anyone that
I wasn’t glad to see.” It was a very congenial group that came
together and shared a wonderful time. Of course Dean has to
be at the top o f the thank you list. He has the ideal, park-like
setting for a party like this and was more than willing to make
it available for the event. And a big thank you to all the
neighbors for becoming part o f the celebration rather than
being put off by it. Neighbor Robert was amazed that 47 cars
could squeeze together on the narrow road leading to Dean’s
house. Richard was everywhere helping with the pit, mowing
grass, finding and splitting wood to name a few things. Frank
donated over two cords of wood. Redhead Ron helped with the
pit and hauling wood, Katie donated money to help cover the
cost of the pig. B ill’s Tavern donated several kegs of beer, Jo
and Corey brought tuna and oysters for the traditional Sunday
night pre-party, Maggie and Debbie brought lots of goodies for
breakfast, Richard Cranium and the Phoreheads provided the
music, Don’s granddaughter lovingly raised Turpentine Willie
III, Three Finger Ron was there with his ‘blow machine” and
along with Corey helped with carving duties, Jeff provided
gobs of organic vegetables, our dad made the Costco run, the
Reverend was recreation director for croquet and music.
Tommy brought the big coffee maker from the Fire Hall, Ron
and Dave brought Tiki torches, Jack was the keg man, Noah
brought tables, Robert donated a blender to make the girts’ foo
foo drinks, Kim reinforced the bridge railing and helped set up
the horseshoe pit, and Jim and Shay came back Tuesday night
to put the finishing touches on the clean-up. Sally won the
prize for coming the farthest to attend the party - Spokane.
After eating some great barbecued ribs that evening it was
time for me to head home with many fond memories and new
friends made. I can’t wait until next year. In fact, I will
donate my Pulitzer Prize money to the cause.
. .
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