Oregon City on the Mind

I am writing this from my mind as it overlooks the river of my youth. I am on the best, private promenade in the state.

There is silence from the mills. Oregon City used to be a three-whistle shift town. Where are the millworker men of today working?

Our arch rival lies across the river. I met some of the finest people of my life in West Linn. They changed my life for the better. Perhaps some of them can change it again. We’ll see. I am thinking of someone in particular.

Hardly a boat on the water. The summer season of the salmon is over, fake salmon that is. I’ll never understand how that obvious realization doesn’t cause a massive shift in our relationship to the damaged Columbia River Watershed. I plan to explore that issue in a forthcoming detective novel.

My mind sits near a young oak. Leaves are turning yellow, orange and red. The helicopter seed heads are poised to fly.

In many ways, I lived in silence and solitude in my youth. They served me well then and have helped me survive in recent years.

Not too long ago, my dad and I had a probing discussion about the Book of Job. Patience has also helped me survive. I have faced tremendous pressure and inertia to exhibit impatience and have resisted at every turn. Others around me have not. They gave into temptation and they are gone or dead.

My mind likes this bench and this friendly oak and the river flowing below me. I have tremendous stories to tell about this river and this town. I simply must cultivate patience for them to emerge.