DEATH OF A PICKUP

It came suddenly, but it came as no surprise.

The aging process had caught up with it. It was spending too much time and too much money in the shop.

Tuesday afternoon I needed to run some errands at lunch. I drove home. I grabbed a few items. I drove about two blocks away from the house, then KUH-CHUNK. I could not shift from one gear to another. I turned off the ignition and the stick shift moved. I turned the ignition on again and the stick shift would not move. I turned the ignition off again, placed the stick into first gear, started the engine and pulled alongside the curb.

I walked home, called a towing service, called my mechanic, and then returned to work. I feared the repair costs would exceed the value of the pickup. I was right. The truck will be towed from the mechanic’s lot tomorrow and will be crushed with a car crusher.

Meanwhile, I have been riding my bicycle to work.

The pickup in happier times was used to transport a high school marching band freshman to football games. It was also used once to display a political bumper sticker. (October 2004).

The pickup transported picnic tables and benches and a rototiller to Beaverton with a driver who drove with appendicitis (May 2006).

The bed of the pickup provided a play area and . . .

. . . a dance floor for three energetic boys (October 2006).

The pickup transported an antique rocking chair during an annual Pumpkin Patch visit (October 2007).

The pickup’s final trip to Beaverton provided a rototilled garden and a bicycle ride for a grandfather and his two Beaverton grandsons (May 2008).

GMC SONOMA PICKUP

1991-2008

THE WORKPLACE

Three of us at the cancer center where I work are Radiation Therapists. Cindy, Katie and I are the ones licensed to turn on the radiation beam and to administer the dose prescribed by the doctor, who is called a Radiation Oncologist.

The treatment machine is called a linear accelerator.

Before the patient receives treatments, he or she is scheduled for a “Simulation” in which we determine the exact center of the area to be treated, build a device to help the patient hold still during treatment, do a CT scan of the patient, and mark the patient with tattoos.

Custom-made masks are made for patients who are receiving radiation to their brain or to their head and neck area.

Jaci is our receptionist

Olivia is our office coordinator.

Kim and Donna are our nurses

Cheryl is our dosimetrist. She does the treatment planning and dose calculations.

Joe is our physicist. He maintains the linear accelerators and does quality assurance tests on treatment planning for the patients

We also have two physicians, Radiation Oncologists, but I don’t have any photos of them.

JUDY

“Judy, Judy, Judy”

- A famous quote attributed to Cary Grant who, interestingly, never said it.


My sister, Judy, wanted a quiet weekend away from her northern California home. Real quiet. Real away. So, she came to the house on Hybiscus.

After arriving Thursday evening to a grilled hamburger feast, Judy and I rose fairly early Friday morning, took a couple of bicycles to Bear Creek Park, and spent the next couple of hours enjoying a leisurely, ten-mile bike ride along the beautiful Bear Creek Greenway. Without a photographer or a tripod, the hood of my truck supported the camera while I jumped into the photo beside Judy within the 10 seconds my camera allowed me to hurry up, run, get in the picture, and keep grinning at the camera until that little orange light quit blinking.

A reflection off the hood of the pickup added to the creative artistry of this fine portraiture. (Did you know you can sometimes enlarge these photos just by clicking them? I’m not sure how it works because, when I do it, it works some of the time but not all of the time.)



Then, after enjoying lunch together at a local Mexican restaurant, we hung out in a very warm backyard with lots of cool water. Actually, the water was warmish-cool, at 84 degrees Fahrenheit.


A friendly “Hybiscus Howdy” from a couple of hand-waving siblings.

Judy and Debra competing in an intense swimming contest.

Like two passing ships on the open sea, Judy and Debra pass each other on floaty things in a small, 12-ft x 24-ft pool.

A yellow foam noodle poses with Judy. A green foam noodle, shown in previous photos, did not want to pose for this one.

Judy asked, “Bruce, could you get a picture of me airborne, doing a cannonball into the pool?” I answered, “Yes.”

Fortunately, for the fair-skinned and suntan-challenged, the patio along the south side of the pool is always in the shade.

As the afternoon was fading away into history and as evening was coming at us like, well, like evening always does, the four of us; Debra, Ashley, Judy and I, all headed to Ashland together for a pleasant outdoor dinner at Dragonfly Café and Gardens, followed by a live and outstanding performance of "The Trip to Bountiful", at Oregon Stage Works.

Then came Saturday.

The plan for Saturday was to do nothing. Just rest and relax. And that’s what we did. We sat around the poolside and read magazines and did Sudoku puzzles and listened to music and visited and drank blended coffee drinks and swam. Then we grilled some ribs and ate dinner outside. And after dinner, we continued to hang out into the darkness of evening with tiki torches lighting the sky. We shared stories, we laughed, then Judy went home. It could not have been a better weekend.

The weekend crowd was small and quiet.

Girl time in the hot tub.

Tiki torches lit up the night.

As the evening was winding down, the air temperature dropped into the ‘70’s while the foot-warming water temperature was near 85.

MY BROWN EYED GIRL

(With apologies to Van Morrison)

Hey, where did we go

Soon after we first met?

Down to the picture show,

Eatin’ popcorn and watchin’ Shrek.

Sittin’ and a laughin’, hey, hey,

Talkin’ and a dinin’

in a little restaurant with my,

My heart a thumpin’ for you,

My brown eyed girl,

You, my brown eyed girl.

I’ll always remember

Our very first bicycle ride

Goin’ down the bike path

With this beautiful lady right by my side.

Ridin’ in the sunshine laughin’

Worries all left behind

Pedalin’ and ridin’

All along the biking trail with you,

My brown eyed girl.

You, my brown eyed girl.

And now the joy you bring,

It just makes me sing:

Sha la la la la la la la la la la te da

(just like that)

Sha la la la la la la la la la la te da,

La te da.

Been so hard to find my way

All these years I’ve been on my own

Then you stepped into my life one day

And now I’m no longer alone

And I’m givin’ thanks to the Lord

Sometimes I’m overcome thinkin’ ‘bout you

Laughin’ and a dancin’, hey, hey,

On the ballroom floor with you,

My brown eyed girl.

You, my brown eyed girl.

And now the joy you bring,

It just makes me sing:

Sha la la la la la la la la la la te da

Sha la la la la la la la la la la te da,

La te da.

Happy Birthday, Debra

SILHOUETTES, SEAGULLS, SINGING & SANDERS

Debra and I hang out with the 50-plus-year-old group at church. We barely qualify.

This group calls themselves The Mountain Seniors, and is a ministry of Mountain Christian Fellowship.

Almost all the baby boomers I know abhor the word “seniors” as a self-descriptive label. By "almost all", I mean 100%. And this aversion to that word makes perfectly good sense, doesn't it? After all, seniors are old people and baby boomers are NOT old people. NOT! NOT! NOT!

I have actually invited early- to mid-fifties friends to the group and they have refused to attend because of the “S” word, which apparently forces them to step away from a place called "denial" and to step into a place called "reality".

But Debra and I have chosen to be strong, to disregard the abhorrent label, and to enjoy the interaction with these fun-loving people.

This weekend, which is the weekend of the annual Brookings Harbor Kite Festival, the group had a campout at Harris Beach in Brookings. Barbara T., who leads the group with her husband, told me a few days ago, “We desperately need a guitar player for our campfire meeting on Friday night”. So, I took Friday off work and Debra and my guitar and I all drove to Brookings together to join the group.

We did not camp at Harris Beach, however. Our unique style of camping requires a motel. And unlike an RV, which has a kitchen, our motel room did not have a kitchen. So, our contribution to the potluck dinner was a big red bucket from KFC.

With the Pacific Ocean in the background, and the sun also behind us, Debra and I are silhouetted on the sandy surface of Harris Beach.

Multitudes of seagulls kept us alert to soft, gushy items falling from the sky.

With about 30 "seniors" sitting in a big circle around a campfire, I provided accompaniment for the singing.

Colonel Sanders, who is also a senior, was among us.

DEAN

It had been only three months and seventeen days since I turned two years old. I already had a big sister four years older than me. Judy.

Now, on this particular day, another sibling arrived in our home. A little brother. Dean.

And as the subsequent years began to unfold, so did our personalities. Dean developed an artistic skill early on, passing the time in his childhood with a pencil and pad, creating drawings that I could never match, but only envy.

Through school, I was a bit of a loner while Dean connected easily with his peers.

As young adults, I picked up a guitar and learned about a dozen chords. To this day, I still pluck about a dozen chords. But I taught those few chords to Dean who took them, learned them, expanded upon them, and who ultimately exploded into a masterful musician and builder of musical instruments.

As our personalities presented themselves through our middle-aged years, it was Dean who took on a level of compassion and loyalty that stirred my admiration. Year after year, he stayed in close proximity to an aging grandmother and watched out for her and cared for her until shortly after her 94th birthday, when she passed on. He was always there for Nonny.

And now, every month or so, my phone rings. It is Dean. He is calling to see how I’m doing and to share what’s going on in his life. He’s usually busy with his music. He’s consistently checking in with his brother. He continues to be what he has always been – my talented and loyal little brother.

And today is his birthday.


This is a caricature that Dean sketched of me shortly after I outgrew my teen years. He had just graduated from high school when he drew this in 1970.




Three siblings getting ready to get in the car with Nonny (1956)




The three of us, again, beside the fireplace on Glenbrook Drive (1957, or so)




Two brothers in our grandparent’s Santa Rosa backyard (1961)





Playing music at our mother’s memorial service (2004)




Exploring a cave together in Hilo, where Dean makes his home (2007)