The End of a Scene

In recent weeks I have thought about the end of scenes in my life. By that I mean when a fabulous stretch of personal and cultural life comes to an end and you have to move on or risk becoming a relic, steeped in nostalgia. Doubtless there are folkies in Greenwich Village, acid heads in Haight Ashbury and grungers in Seattle who are still there doing the same shit.

I think back to the great scenes of my life, in no chronological order:

Free Pool Sunday at the Sea Star Lounge in Gold Beach.

The RV park.

Building driftwood forts on the Southern Oregon Coast.

The Friday Lunch Jam at Newport High School.

My high school tennis career.

The construction job near Port Orford.

The open mic at Cafe Mundo in Newport.

My decade-long duty as caretaker of the Nestucca Bay National Wildlife Refuge.

The Hamilton House on Lair Hill my senior year in college.

Dave’s house in NE Portland in the 90s.

The Tacoma House in Sellwood in graduate school.

The sidewalk near the convenience store where the Old Crow Book Club formed and convened. (I really miss that one!)

Is there another scene for me? I certainly don’t have one going on now. I have never gone about trying to begin one or find one. They tend to emerge and then evolve and then die.