The Oregonian

Americans… are forever searching

for love in forms it never takes,

in places it can never be.

It must have something to do

with the vanished frontier.

– Kurt Vonnegut

Grew up in “upstate” New York. 

Six weeks old,

popped into Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania. 

Scholastic incarceration

in a tiny bright white town followed. 

Spent years in Europe. 

Bavaria during The Cold War. 

Fighting authoritarianism

and voter suppression.   

Protecting a free press. 

Drank a lot of beer. 

“I like beer!”

Stopped in Connecticut long enough

to find a fine blonde girl

who would follow me to Flagstaff. 

You drive

through this vast empty barren treeless expanse,

thinking you might’ve made a big mistake,

sun in your eyes,

the road climbs. 

And after what seems like a long long time,

there are trees.

I need trees. 

Law schools in the desert wanted me. 

Married vet with a 3.88 GPA

– not a rounding error –

and a scholarship that traveled. 

Too sunny.  I need shade. 

The rule was, you were supposed to

go to law school

in the state you planned to practice. 

I need trees. 

So, I moved to Oregon.

That’s where Pre was. 

Used to be. 

Dead when I got there.

Still more than a little pissed off about that.

I was a runner. 

Doesn’t begin to describe how I felt about the sport. 

Oregon called me.

And I answered.

[To be continued.  Maybe.]