I-5
I don't remember exactly when the car trip between Eugene and Portland flipped from a pleasure cruise to drudgery. Any 110 miles of interstate gets old eventually if you pound it enough. And I know that route so well that I can time a playlist to kick out some rocking Allman Brothers just as I'm passing the Brownsville exit on the return trip, when I need a little boost. But it's more than just the sameness of it, more than just that what's new (the barrier walls in Salem, the outlet mall in Woodburn) could be in San Jose or Omaha or Cincinnati, more even than that the sheer number of cars and trucks makes I-5 feel more like a backed-up inner-city expressway than the open road interstates that were the paths to freedom and space when I first started to drive.
It's not even meanness, really—the road rage that makes a headline every now and then. There's none of that sort of passion involved.
I generally cruise I-5 a few miles per hour over the speed limit, somewhere in the middle high range of the traffic flow—a safe place to be both legally (police cars pass me with nary a nod) and in respect to protecting life and limb. I drive in the right lane until I come upon cars going slower, at which point I move to the left lane, stay there until I am well clear of the slower moving traffic, and then ease back to the right lane, so cars going faster than me—and there are plenty of them—can go past. To me, that movement creates a graceful choreography of our internally combusting hunks of whatever it is they make cars out of these days. I find an exhilarating groove in that dance; with my tunes blasting, I offer little nods to my partners as I pass them or they pass me—we're on this road together and it's all right, it's all right, it's all right.
Except that doesn't happen much anymore—just short stretches here and there unless I happen to make the trip after midnight and even then . . . the flow gets clogged and lots of people who don't get the dance, don't get that highway travel is a collaborative undertaking cut in and screw it all up.
Some drivers think the left lane is just for them, regardless of their relationship to other cars. They don't pass and move over. They just linger in the left lane as cars who want to pass back up behind them. Speed is not the issue. If a car in front of me in the left lane is making progress in passing a car to its right, though going slower than I'd like to be going, I keep a safe and respectful distance and wait my turn.
But when someone clogs the left lane and cars behind maintain a reasonable distance from them, the other set of self-absorbed drivers jerk into the right lane and then squeeze back into the left lane, eliminating all that safety distance (should be at least two-thirds the length of a football field at 65 miles per hour). The result is a long line of cars in the left lane too close together—and I'm mad at the slow driver blocking my path and the fast driver cutting in. The groove is gone. Yes, we should all drive less.
Yes, we need a reliable high-speed rail all the way up and down the West Coast—yesterday. Yes, I need to accept that the Eugene-Portland drive will never be that graceful dance again and just chill out. But it's a damn shame.
Names and Places
I wanted to send a few words to let you know how much I enjoyed Ellen Waterston's essay [“The Old Hackleman Place, An Obituary,” Summer 2008] in Oregon Quarterly. On finishing it, I immediately read it again aloud, trying to sort out how she so unobtrusively guided me through such a range of emotional terrain. She put into words some of the nebulous thoughts and feelings I've had in relation to places, those places I've spent days and years doing what one does when it's primarily you and the earth: hard labor and staring at the space between here and there. I thank her for making those experiences more tangible with her words.
Byron Glidden, M.S. '86
Eugene
Just finished Ellen Waterston's “The Old Hackleman Place.” A fine piece for all kinds of reasons, among them the fact that so many moss-laden western Oregonians seldom venture into the third quarter of this remarkable state.
When I was about four-cum-five we lived in a rented house in Gooding, Idaho. Down the street (not paved) lived a magical fellow, maybe fourteen or fifteen. I thought he was maybe forty but I couldn't imagine forty. His dad wore a large black Stetson and was, I think, sort of a cowboy. John, the boy, was my best friend and old enough to allay any thoughts I might have had in getting warts from the toads we played with. My hometown irrigated lawns (what there were) and gardens via flood irrigation. Ditches were all over town and they provided the summer respite pre- and during those days when the marginal waters were replete with (we later learned) that stuff which caused polio. I survived; a couple of my friends did not.
John announced one day that they were moving. I near collapsed. He was the older brother I never had. And he told me they were moving to Drewsey, Oregon. I didn't know where Drewsey was; I didn't know where Oregon was.
So years later, driving that extraordinary Highway 20 between Vale and Bend (many times), I took a sidecar trip to Drewsey—John, of course, long gone. Drewsey was and remains Drewsey. And as with any adventure on that highway, it always demanded a stop in Juntura . . . coffee, hotcakes as large as cattle-leavings, and a rest under those massive poplars. The banks of the hushed Malheur River out of Vale, Drinkwater Pass, Stinkingwater Pass, Riley, Hines where the aborted concrete structure still hovered (was it planned to be a hotel?), on through Brothers (someone always seemed to be at that store) and on through to Bend where the waft of juniper was all-pervasive. I used to stop and pluck a small branch for the sniff in the car.
At Brothers I was always reminded of the Raft River Store outside of American Falls, Idaho, where the Oregon Trail split for those taking the California Trail. There was a sign behind the counter at the Raft River Store . . . “If I had a summer home in Hell and a winter home on Raft River, l'd spend my winters in my summer home.”
Ellen Waterston's Hackleman piece brought back fine memories of the high desert I continue to love. Ghosts still hover. Need to get to it more often.
Terry Melton
Salem
Kenny Moore
I just received my copy of the Summer 2008 Oregon Quarterly and was really blown away by the quality of the publication and especially with the Kenny Moore article [“Intertwining Ovals”]. I graduated back in '97 and have been living and working around the world since, so seemed to receive your updates only periodically. Thanks for keeping them coming, it's so refreshing to get a taste of Oregon in my busy life.
I have been lucky to enjoy an amazing run at life following my time in Eugene (my sister is a sophomore there now) and certainly owe the school a big thanks for helping prepare me for everything I've since accomplished. If you ever need a proud alumnus to help speak to the strengths of the political science, language, and international studies program at Eugene I would be happy to [do it]. In the past five years I have built a successful company dedicated to the revitalization of failed urban housing communities and would not have had the tools to do so were it not for my time at the UO.
Matt Wanderer '97
Miami, Florida
This article [“Intertwining Ovals”] was well written. Good job! Kenny and I were teammates at North Eugene High School. You mention that his coach was Bob Newman. The real name was Bob Newland, who was also a vice principal at North. Keep up the good work!
Ron Bloom
Eugene
I thoroughly enjoyed Todd Schwartz's article “Intertwining Ovals.” One error that needs correcting: Bob Newland was Kenny Moore's coach at North Eugene. Newland, along with Tom Ragsdale and principal Ray Hendrickson, produced some excellent-quality runners in the '60s and '70s. All three men were actively involved with the track-and-field movement in Eugene. Bob Newland directed three Olympic track-and-field trials. In addition, Bob Newland's son, Bob, was an All-American wide receiver at Oregon ('70). All in all, a great article about a distinguished graduate and remarkable writer.
Keith Barnes '77
Vallejo, California
Duel for Dual
I eagerly read Oregon Quarterly virtually word for word. It, along with Smithsonian and National Geographic are, in no particular order, my favorite periodicals and the only ones to which I subscribe. The quality of your journalism is always thought provoking.
The letter from Stephen Wasby [Letters, Summer 2008] made me chuckle and I must confess his writing skills far surpass mine. [Development of my writing skills] ended with a creative writing class from Professor Aly in the spring term of 1964, which I took to avoid the dreaded research paper then required of freshmen.
I read “A Blossoming Transplant” [Old Oregon] and noticed an example of what I think is a too convenient habit of writers and editors. The habit is over reliance on the spell-checking feature imbedded in word processing programs. Buried in the third paragraph (second sentence) is the example. The word duel where dual is correct in that context. The best spell-checking software in the world would not catch it as an error.
Maybe one skill I learned from Professor Aly was that the best spell-checking software lies in the mind of a careful reader or editor. I am sure she did not realize she was teaching us that in 1964 because word processing was done with a typewriter.
Evan Mandigo '67
Bismarck, North Dakota
Editor's note: We agree with Professor Aly and would never trust the proofreading of Oregon Quarterly to spell-checking software. Unfortunately our careful human editors and proofreaders occasionally miss things. This error is particularly galling to us because we caught and corrected an error involving the same homonyms elsewhere in that issue. We do enjoy the company of Smithsonian and National Geographic on your reading list.
Pre
Living and working in rural Missouri, half a continent away from my heart, I have been amazed by the level of influence Pre's memory still has on local running culture [“The Church of Pre,” Upfront, Summer 2008]. I've had more than one conversation with runners who long for the chance to visit Pre's Rock and stand on the hallowed ground of Hayward Field. That the echoes of his life are being felt in high schools and universities over thirty years later and two thousand miles away is testimony to his greatness as an athlete. I only hope this current generation of Ducks appreciates fully the history they are blessed to participate in through their acceptance into the University of Oregon.
Jon Smith '95
Joplin, Missouri
Baseball
I am happy to learn from Oregon Quarterly that the UO is resuming its baseball program. My pain was mitigated by the fact that, since I have not been in Eugene since the mid-1950s, I was unaware that the University had dropped baseball a number of years ago.
For me, it was, from the fan point of view, the best and most entertaining sport in town. Fortunately, I was graduate assistant to the late Bill Williams, fresh from the University of Wisconsin, and he shared my enthusiasm for the sport. The big gun of that era was, as you mention, Earl Averill of Snohomish, Washington, the son of the Hall of Famer of the same name who had played center field for the Cleveland Indians during the 1930s. Oregon's Earl Averill was a catcher who, according to Google, spent seven years in the majors (of which two years were with his father's old team, the Indians). Earl Jr. retired from baseball in the early 1960s.
Charles W. Grover, M.A. '53
Bethesda, Maryland
