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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I think back to the great scenes of my life, in no chronological order:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Free Pool Sunday at the Sea Star Lounge in Gold Beach.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The RV park.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Building driftwood forts on the Southern Oregon Coast.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The Friday Lunch Jam at Newport High School.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My high school tennis career.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The construction job near Port Orford.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The open mic at Cafe Mundo in Newport.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My decade-long duty as caretaker of the Nestucca Bay National Wildlife Refuge.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The Hamilton House on Lair Hill my senior year in college.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dave’s house in NE Portland in the 90s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The Tacoma House in Sellwood in graduate school.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The sidewalk near the convenience store where the Old Crow Book Club formed and convened. (I really miss that one!)<\/p>\n\n\n\n
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.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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