#226: I'm Sorry and a Couple of Stories

Roses from Anne's Front Garden

#226: I’m Sorry and a Couple of Stories

I’m sorry (there I’ve said it three times already) for the very limited photos in this post. There are several reasons for the absence of photos and a couple of them are good reasons. First, I’m having terrible trouble with my new iMac accepting the old programs in my external photo hard drive. Apple no longer supports the iPhoto program I used for years and which worked well with my ten year old iMac. Now I get the program to load either 5% or 21% of my photo library stored on an external hard drive. I need 100% to load for it to be usable. That failed program contains all my stored photos. So, no old photos easily available. Which brings me to the second set of reasons lumped together.

Reason two: Parkinson’s Disease, my new life. Parkinson’s works against photography in several ways. One of my biggest symptoms is tremors, particularly on the right side. Controlled fairly well with medication most of the time, if I try taking pictures when my meds are wearing off or haven’t yet kicked in, shaking will blur many of the photos I’d take. Also it’s difficult to plan a photo excursion not knowing if it will be a “shaky” day or if my balance will be off. One of Parkinson’s non-motor symptoms, though, is my main reason for no new photos—apathy, the loss of motivation or initiative. One of the most debilitating of my Parkinson’s conditions is that I’ve lost the drive to do much. I used to go places just to take photos and now I can barely get myself to go out a get picture of Anne’s beautiful roses. I’m working on the problem though. Admitting that I’ve let the disease turn me into a couch potato that’s beginning to smell is a start. I’m also trying to come up with ideas for projects that require less energy than I used to have and still be worthy of the effort. Hopefully there will be some new photos for the next post. But for now, I’m sorry.     

Now a couple of new stories (from my early memories journal) about the old me.

Getting the Canby Speech Coach Job

Anne and I wanted to move out of Brookings on the southwest Oregon coast in 1984 and back to the Salem area. I started looking for a speech job since I’d done well at establishing a team at Brookings. I knew there was a job open in Canby—Wilma Hicks, the well respected longtime coach died early in the ’83-’84 school year of cancer. Jack Watson had taken over as coach and I wasn’t interested in being someone’s assistant coach. When at the National Speech Tournament (I had qualified a student, Steven Leek from Brookings) I talked to Jack and he said that he wasn’t staying at Canby—he was just filling in for the year. It was the Head Coach position that was open. 

From Nationals I called the principal at Canby, Bob Christiansen, and asked if the position was still open. He said it was just closing, but if I could meet him in Canby the Monday after Nationals he’d meet with me. I said I’d be there by 1:00.

Anne, Steve and I got back to Brookings on Sunday and after a few hours sleep I got up and drove the 5 hours to Canby on Monday. The principal and I had a good discussion and I knew I had interviewed well when he offered me the job on the spot. I had to check with Anne, and then I accepted the next day.  Later Bob told me that he had closed the job the week before, but for some reason he hadn’t sent the letter to the winning applicant. He said he felt there was some reason to wait. At another time he said hiring me was the best thing he ever did for the school. When at Canby I coached the team to Nationals 16 years in a row, had a student win first place at Nationals in a main event (a first for Oregon), and made speech class a graduation requirement.

As they say, the rest is history.  

On a personal note, I want to thank those who contributed to the 2024-25 Canby speech team when school funds were low. We helped coach Debbie Groff take five students to District and qualified all five to State.  Even though the school district has dropped funding for the future, there is still money enough in our donations to allow a volunteer coach to go to some competitions in 2025-26. Thank you Anne-Marie D., Sam D., Megan F., Rochelle F., Sarah K., Hannah L., Mary M., Laurel S., and Judy M., for joining Anne and I in providing opportunities for the Canby team for one or maybe more years.

Being Bullied

There were two instances that I remember when I was the victim of bullying by peers. The first was in upper elementary school grades. Leroy wasn’t big or tough, but he was rough from a broken or troubled family. He wouldn’t threaten me directly, but he implied if I didn’t share my lunch or my lunch money or do his homework for him that he wouldn’t be my friend any more—and he wouldn’t like that. The bullying lasted part of a school year. It ended when his family moved away. Before he moved away I did a few coping things like walked to school instead of taking the bus which he rode and staying to work late at school. At least once I got his homework done wrong. But then that meant I had to get it wrong too. I never told an adult about the bullying, but I don’t know what I’d have done if it lasted longer.

The second instance was when I was a freshman at Linfield College. I was assigned a room in the jock’s dorm, Memorial Hall, under the football stadium. The resident’s dorm monitor was football star lineman Fred who ended up a pro. Fred bullied everyone and controlled everything that went on in the dorm. My roommate, a sophomore named Loren, was labeled Number One and I was Number Two. We were supposed to call out our numbers when we were called. I would call out my number, “Two!” and hold up my fingers in a “V” sign with the back of my finger out—like a Victory sign. The jocks were so stupid none of them knew I was flipping them off in the British-way, “Two! F___ You!” I also started sleeping on a fraternity brother’s dorm room floor or on a couch in the Omega Delta Phi House (my fraternity). I moved into the fraternity house my second semester even though I had to petition the school to do it.

These are the only examples of being bullied that made any impression on me and I don’t think I was ever someone else’s example of a bully. 

NEXT: Hopefully something with good photos, old or new.

How I Feel at the End of the Day

#225 Some History and Travel Stories

 

This is not the post that I expected to put up this month, but trouble loading older photos from external hard drives has commanded that I punt that plan. The new plan (this post) consists of a memorial I have wanted to present for years and a couple of stories from my travel book (16 Years of Travel in Scotland, Ireland, England, and Wales which is still available on Amazon) intermixed with photos taken recently around the Canby Community Park. I hope you like plan B.

R.S.Baker

The pictures of R.S. were taken in 1978.

My introduction to Robert S. Baker, professor of English at Oregon College of Education, was the summer I went from Linfield to OCE in Monmouth. After four years at Linfield I didn’t graduate because of not having a second year of foreign language even though I tried them all. Instead, I transferred into a fifth year program to get my teaching credentials. That summer session I took a massive load of classes, many were lower division to get me up to speed with the education requirements and meet OCE’s requirements for a degree in English. My Linfield major was speech with a minor in English. I needed several writing classes as well some more extensive Lit classes. Thus I met R. S. Baker.

Baker taught a graduate level composition class needed for a fifth year program. I had made my way through Linfield’s English requirements by writing essays—I even ghosted essays for frat brothers for extra income. This one class would be a snap. The summer class was made up of many working teachers getting needed hours or degree requirements and a few undergrads with me somewhere between the two. After some basic class info, professor Baker gave us an in-class writing assignment. The topic was a personal essay about something easy to write on. We turned our essays in and I thought, "Easy peasy."

The next day we all showed up and Balker chose a paper to read to the class—he chose my paper. What a great thrill! He read the one page paper aloud, then looked at me and said, “Mr. Jones, this is a f***ing piece of shit!” He outlined all that was wrong with my writing  and tore the paper in half and threw it in the bin. He read a couple more papers, not as bad as mine, but still weak. He assigned us the next essay and I walked out crushed!

I did better on the next paper. Half the working teachers did not show up for the third session. Those of us who stuck it out worked really hard. I know I never worked so hard for a “B” in my life, but I learned. 

Over that year at OCE I had R.S. for every class I could. When I went for my Masters at OCE (now Western Oregon University) I took more classes from Baker. I was one of numerous R.S. Baker disciples and he became a friend. We’d talk in his office crowded with books and go to jazz concerts together, Not only was Robert S. Baker an outstanding teacher who helped us get the best out of ourselves, I consider him one of the major influences in my life.

Bio

Born Robert Samuel Baker in 1926 in Weed, California. His elementary schooling was in Salem and he graduated from Vancouver HS, WA, in 1944. R.S. spent time as a Merchant Marine and with the Army Signal Corps where he was stationed near New York City where he developed his love for jazz. After his stint with the Army, he went to Pacific University in Forest Grove, graduating with a degree in literature in 1953. He earned his Master’s Degree in English at the University of Chicago in 1956. Baker started his teaching career at OCE where he taught for 31 years. While teaching he published numerous articles in publications such as The Nation and Commentary. He remained a jazz devotee with special affinity for female vocalists. He died on June 26, 2004, and will always be remember for his influence on so many teachers.  

Attack of the Ducks

While touring the far northwest corner of Scotland, from

Durness east towards Tongue, we had one of our most unusual

animal encounters. We were attacked by a flock, herd, bevy, covey,

gaggle, crowd, or what ever you call a gang of crazed ducks. I had

gotten out of the car at an ocean overlook to photograph the view

and was soon accosted by a group of local ducks, at least they all

quacked with a northern Scottish brogue. They kept up their

begging behavior as I walked across the road, but left me when

I headed down toward the beach.

After about ten minutes of picture taking, I walked back to 

the car. Anne had rolled down her window and was shouting 

at me to come feed the ducks who had been pecking the car 

door under her window demanding a ransom of cracker crumbs 

for her release. I found some Carr’s Cheese Melts (our  favorite 

cracker) and lured away the mob who I discovered would fight 

each other to eat right out of my hand. We were several miles 

from even a small village in the remote far northwest corner of 

Scotland, yet the ducks were able to eek out an existence by 

gang attacking tourists. Clever birds!

Attack of Ice Cream Crazed Gulls

In Llandudno (clan-DID-nu), Wales, we hit an absolutely

gorgeous stretch of weather--clear skies, 80 degrees, almost no

wind--in mid April. After golf one afternoon we walked from our B&B

down to the waterfront and then out the Llandudno pier. It was too

early in the season for most of the pier shops and attractions to be

open, but the ice cream shop was doing a brisk business in the fine

weather. We each bought a cone and continued to walk out toward

the end of the pier making jokes about a long walk on a short pier.

Without warning, a gull swooped down and hit Anne’s cone holding

hand, knocking the ice cream and cone to the ground. A couple of

gulls pounced on the dropped cone with relish. 

After seeing what happened to Anne, I guarded my cone 

much more closely. I saw a gull dive at me and turned to the side,

but the gull hit me with a wing and knocked my glasses off. It might

have been the same gull who hit Anne or a different one, I didn’t get

a chance to ask for identification. In trying to keep my glasses from

a watery grave off the pier, I dropped my ice cream cone to the

great delight of another couple of gulls.

Without ice cream cones we walked back to the beginning of

the pier and noticed locals standing next to protective buildings

enjoying their sweet treat. When we told our B&B hosts about the

vicious attacks, they apologized for not telling us that the local birds

were a “tad aggressive.” Tad aggressive! Our military needs these birds!

NEXT: Your guess is as good as mine.

#224 The Beauty in Golf

SAD NOTE: I recently learned that a good Scottish friend, Andrew Cuthbert, passed due to losing a fight with an extended medical issue.

Go in peace, my friend, you will be missed.

THE BEAUTY IN GOLF

My swing and my game may not be part of the beauty of golf, but there is much in golf that has always been beautiful: the courses (landscapes), the wildlife, the views from the courses (landscapes and seascapes), and the challenges we try to conquer. This post is dedicated to all those golfers and duffers who are cleaning their clubs (or buying new ones) and getting ready to challenge the golf overlords to another nine or eighteen holes. To add perspective to my thoughts on the beauty of golf I will start with a story that’s rather ugly.

  I Can’t Believe They’d Do That

At one time golf was almost exclusively a man’s game.  Women came to golf kicking and screaming...at the men. Rosie the Riveter played an important role in opening up the game of golf to women.  With all the men gone to war and the women at home doing the traditional man’s work, golf courses became more accepting of the women.  For some places, though, tradition dies hard.

Luffness New is a venerable bastion of the male golfing society.  The course is an interesting links design well worth playing, but the club is an example of the old, stuffy Scottish chauvinist attitude.  We had golf arranged, but I couldn’t go into the bar to check in because I wasn’t wearing a coat and tie.  They checked me in through a side door to the bar.  The club secretary, a woman no less, was willing to meet me in the foyer and tell me about the course.  She was not, however, willing to let Anne, a lady, into the clubhouse through the main entrance where the secretary’s office was.  Anne had to stand outside in the cold wind while the secretary and I talked in the warm entry way.  Anne could go into the lady’s locker room, a closet-sized room with small bench, through the women’s toilet from the outside. The club was eager to have us write about their course, but made us pay for a course guide and the club’s history--items most other courses will give us.  When we played, the course had no tee boxes for ladies--Anne was told to tee off from somewhere in front of the men’s tees.  The score card had no handicap or distances for lady players.

After golf, as I reviewed the club literature bought by me from the secretary, I came across two interesting comments.  First, the course says, “Guests will be put at ease by the quiet friendliness of the members.”  The friendliness was so quiet Anne never heard it.  Second, “Where wives play for free.”  Of course, who’d pay for that kind of treatment?   

The Luffness New course is high quality and fun to play, but the club’s attitude left much to be desired -- such as 100 years of progress!

THE COURSES (In this post almost exclusively Scottish courses.)

Boat of Garten GC in whisky country highlands is a lovely heathland course designed by famed golfer James Braid. It plays at the edge of the Cairngorm Mountains and winds through birch forests. Fun to play anytime of year, it is particularly lovely in spring.

Hopeman GC is set along the Morayshire coast east of Inverness. The links course is particularly spectacular when the gorse or Scotch broom is blooming.

Shiskine GC is a twelve hole course on the west coast of Isle Arran in the Kilbrannan Sound and the Firth of Clyde. The course’s dramatic setting and unique holes make it a true hidden gem.

St Fillans GC in central Scotland has been named Scotland’s Best Nine-hole Course. Set in the hills of the highlands, the course looks easy but will give a challenge to golfers of any level.

Abernethy GC in the highlands is another nine-hole small village (Nethy Bridge) course with a beautiful setting. The course also has a World War I memorial in play in the center of the 8th fairway,

WILDLIFE ON THE COURSES

A  non-Scottish example of golf course wildlife is this cactus wren that we saw while playing in Arizona.

At Macrihanish Dunes GC, near Campbeltown on the Mull of Kintyre, we hired forecaddy Owen Morgan to guide us around the wild links course. Owen was a wonderful help, particularly to Anne who followed his directions better than know-it-all me. He is just one of many golf course staff who made our Scottish, Irish, and Welsh writing adventures so successful. 

We often asked clubs to find us playing partners—locals who could help guide us around the course and gives us some of insider stories. Every time we got paired with local members or club officers was a great experience, We also, as members of a Scottish course (St Fillans GC) found out we could enter local competitions and meet locals that way, That’s how we met Colvend GC (near Kirkcudbright on the Solway Firth) secretary Roger Bailey and his wife Wendy, who became fast friends. Meeting new people who shared our love of golf was always beautiful.

I became part of the wildlife of Scotland when I represented the US in a flag raising ceremony for the Ryder Cup matches at Glen Eagles in 2014. I raised the American flag and St Fillans club manager Gordon Hibbert raised the flag for the European team. St Fillans GC was one of the official viewing clubs for the matches.

THE VIEW FROM THE COURSES

The view that Anne teed off to at one hole on the Stromness GC (Orkney Islands off the north coast of Scotland) was from Mainland (the name of the largest Orkney island) across the Bring Sound to Graemsay Island and Hoy behind. Spectacular!

Stirling Castle is the dramatic view from Stirling GC. Here is where much of the formative history of Scotland took place, including the real story of Braveheart.

From the Castle Course (the newest of St Andrews’ seven courses) there is a grand view over to the lovely historic city of St Andrews.

On the Outer Hebrides island of Lewis and Harris Anne and I had this view from the Harris GC and we had the course to ourselves—we didn’t have to share the view with anyone.

THE CHALLENGE OF THE GAME

There can be many distraction in the game of golf vying for your attention—a fox on the fairway, two golfers arguing on the next tee, sheep or cows loose on the course—but most dramatic were the jets. We’ve been buzzed by jets on many courses, but Moray Old and New GC the NATO jets take off and land within a five iron shot over your head. You simply cannot ignore them.

The challenges of the game are part of its beauty and one of the beautiful challenges I will always cherish is the shot across the Atlantic ocean that is the last hole at Durness GC in the far northwest corner of Scotland. Durness’s last is never without wind and even if it’s a short shot which should be easy, the Atlantic crossing does play with your mind.

Bunkers, aka sand traps, are a challenge on any course, but un Scotland there are some real beauties. There’s one bunker on the 17th hole at an Old Tom Morris designed course in the middle of the Tay River in the middle of the city of Perth that is truly storied. Locals tell stories about bringing golfers meals each night to see if they have gotten out of the bunker yet.

The weather is another challenge integral to the art of playing golf. Anne, adventurous woman that she is, has played along with me in some horrific conditions—winds to 50mph, rain in sheets, snow stacking up on the greens, 116 degree heat in Vegas, etc. On one trip to Orkney Island GC the wind was 20 mph plus and the temperature was 37 degrees and Anne chose to be forecaddy instead of playing partner. Arctic Anne.

And what are the rewards for all this pain suffering called golf? The beauty of the course, the wonderful people we’ve met, the beautiful view, the sense of accomplishment when we face down a challenge (get out of a laddered bunker in one shot). And if we’re lucky we may get to hold or see a real trophy like the British Open Claret Jug we saw at a competition at St Andrews Old Course.

NEXT: Some Old Art