<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We live in accelerated times, in our\njobs and our judgments. We live as if gripped by some gigantic beast,\nand gripped so tightly that all our dreams and data get squeezed into\na boiling pot stewed by warlocks for unimaginable profits.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But, long ago, in an Oregon far away,\nthere existed a languid era of looseness, in a special city, a\nhistoric city along a mighty, abused river with lustrous waterfalls,\nhulking paper mills and sturgeon the size of whales lurking in the\ndeep right off Main Street.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That city is Oregon City, or was Oregon\nCity, and I grew up there in the 70s and early 80s and attended\npublic schools, graduating from high school in 1982, a year of double\ndigit inflation and unemployment and Ronald Reagan and everything\nterrible he was about to wrought. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My high school mascot was a Pioneer, a\nbruising, bearded, buckskin-clad He-Man who brandished a musket and\nBowie knife. Various athletic coaches from my Oregon City youth,\napparently instigated by perceived slacking, would thump the sternums\nof their players and scream into their faces about PIONEER PRIDE!\nSUCK IT UP! I can say now, almost with a smile, more than 40 years\nremoved from that style of coaching, some of it actually stuck. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n
This is my memoir of that era and it\ndoesn’t follow any natural narrative direction. Whatever came to me\nwent in the book, and I dip casually in and out of elementary, junior\nhigh and high school as the story unfolds. Memory is like that. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I can hardly claim my experience was\ncomprehensive or even representative of the typical Oregon City\nadolescent\/teenager. I didn’t fish. I didn’t float the Clackamas\nRiver. I didn’t work on cars. I read novels and biographies. I didn’t\ndrink. I didn’t smoke pot. I barely listened to rock music. I kept a\njournal. I didn’t fuck around. I skipped school exactly one time. I\nthink I missed out on a lot, but I was doing other things, thinking\ndifferent thoughts, floating among a few friends and a great\ngirlfriend, but mostly floating by myself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So let us now return to that era in a\nseries of remembrances in serialized form, not as an act of\nnostalgia, but in hope of perhaps inspiring others, particularly\nacquaintances from Oregon City, to reflect upon what we’ve lost since\nthat gauzy analog era and to see if there is something worth\nreclaiming, if only a mindset. I mean, you can still write letters in\nlonghand or play tennis with a wooden racket! The thrift stores are\npacked with vintage stationery sets and rackets made from ash and\nmaple. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Several years ago I was waylaid by a\ncatastrophe that forced me to go deep into my personal history and\ncreative mind to survive. Returning often to Oregon City in my memory\nand physical reality played a monumental role in saving me from\ndestruction. I have long known of Oregon City’s distinction as a\nregional historic place, but that was all John McLoughlin and the\nOregon Trail rigmarole. There is so much more richness to my\nhometown’s past and I invite you to meander back with me and discover\nsome of it in this book.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
We live in accelerated times, in our jobs and our judgments. We live as if gripped by some gigantic beast, and gripped so tightly that all our dreams and data get squeezed into a boiling pot stewed by warlocks for unimaginable profits. But, long ago, in an Oregon far away, there existed a languid era […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":5849,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[5,74,942],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-5852","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-meditations","category-oregon-coast_history","category-oregon-city","has-post-title","has-post-date","has-post-category","has-post-tag","has-post-comment","has-post-author",""],"builder_content":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5852","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=5852"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5852\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5854,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5852\/revisions\/5854"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/5849"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=5852"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=5852"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=5852"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}