Escape from Alaska… Part I

June 19, 2015June 18, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 32 Comments

I was drawn to Alaska by its incredible wilderness. Lisa Murkowski, one of Alaska's Senators, recently introduced legislation to sell off all of America's public lands including national forests, wilderness areas, national historic sites and national seashores (everything except National Parks) to private developer so they can make money off of the lands.

The Wrangell-St. Elias Mountains. I was drawn to Alaska by its incredible wilderness. It may not be there for our children. Lisa Murkowski (R-Alaska) recently introduced a non-binding budget amendment to the US Senate that would allow states to sell off all of America’s public lands including national forests, wilderness areas, national historic sites, etc. (everything except National Parks) to private interests so they could turn our national heritage into profit.

The story of my involvement with California’s Proposition 99 tobacco tax campaign began on my 43^rd birthday when I escaped from Alaska— and escape is the appropriate term.

My three years in Alaska had been a great adventure. I had explored the state’s magnificent wilderness areas and accomplished a fair amount in my role as Executive Director of the Alaska Lung Association. The organization had a great board and staff. We had taken a sleepy organization and turned it into a powerhouse on air quality and tobacco issues. I had led backpack, bike, and cross-country ski trek fundraisers, substantially increasing the organization’s income, not to mention giving myself an excuse to play in the woods. (As if I needed an excuse.)

But I am not cut out for the Executive Director business— or any other long-term, high stress job, for that matter. I only know one speed: fast forward. In time, the job starts to feel like I am locked in a steel cage, which just happens to be dangling from a frayed rope, hanging over a dark abyss. If that sounds to you like an imaginative description of depression, you are right. It is something of a curse on my mother’s side of the family, or to be more scientific, call it a genetic disposition.

Unfortunately, I am a slow learner. I had been executive director of several environmental and health nonprofits, done my job, and moved on. It seemed like a natural fit; so I persisted. But each time, it was like I was flirting with the dark side of my mind. I had learned I made a better ‘consultant,’ where I created the jobs I would work on. For example, I developed the wilderness trek program as a fundraiser and then became the American Lung Association’s national trek consultant. The consulting work was intense, but it had a definite beginning and a definite end. Afterwards, I would go play.

Alaska had sounded really good, however. And it was. There was all of that great outdoors (over 50% of America’s wilderness area), important issues to address on the environmental and tobacco front, and a relationship in Sacramento that needed a serious time-out. So I had taken the bait when Alaska had called— hook, line and sinker.

"It's time to pack your bags, Curt." (Peggy and I took the photos of Alaska and the Alaska Highway two years ago when we visited the state.)

“It’s time to pack your bags, Curt.” Alaskan Brown Bear. (Peggy and I took the photos of Alaska and the Alaska Highway found on today and next week’s post two years ago when we visited the state.)

By the end of the first year, I was climbing the walls. It was time to leave. Except I had made a commitment to myself, and to the organization that I would stay for three years. I struggled my way through the second year, barely keeping my head above the water. But we accomplished some good things— like forcing Tesoro to clean up the air pollution from its oil refinery, creating one of the first state-wide non-smoking laws in the nation, leading an effort to double the state tobacco tax with money going toward prevention, and bringing automobile inspection and maintenance to Alaska. But I was coming to the end of my tether. It was a short rope.

The stress at the back of my head was palpable. Even now, as I write about the experience, I can feel it gathering. It influenced my decision-making. Instead of coasting and turning more work over to my staff, I jumped feet first into the fire. It wasn’t necessary; my board and staff were good folks. They would have been eager to help. But asking for help assumes a rational mind. Mine wasn’t. I started making mistakes— and I started increasing my nightly consumption of alcohol, from two, to four, to six cans of beer. Alcohol was singing its seductive song.

Had I learned to be laid back like this moose, there never would have been a problem.

Over Christmas, I took a break by myself and drove down to Homer on the Kenai Peninsula. There’s a motel that sits out at the end of the Homer Spit providing panoramic views of Kachemak Bay. I got a room and spent hours staring out at the water and distant mountains. And I made a decision. I would return to Anchorage and give a three-month notice that I was leaving. When the time was up, I would disappear into the woods for several months of backpacking. I would take the wilderness cure.

I spent my last day packing the things I wanted to take: a few books and camping gear. I would leave Alaska like I had arrived, with what I could fit in the back of my pickup. I spent the night at a friend’s home, but she wasn’t there. She had disappeared into the lower 48 states so she wouldn’t see me drive away. I had passed on her offer to get married, stay home, write, and raise kids. Her two dogs and cat kept me company.

The views along the highway between anchorage and the lower 48 states are incredible— not that I paid much attention is my mad dash for the border.

The views along the highway between Anchorage and the lower 48 states are incredible— not that I paid much attention in my mad dash for the border. This is the Matanuska Glacier.

These mountains were near the Matanuska Glacier, easy driving distance from Anchorage. 30 minutes from my house, I could be hiking in similar terrain.

Another view of the Wrangell-St.Elias Mountains that I would have passed.

Another view of the Wrangell-St.Elias Mountains shown in the top photo.

I flew down the Alaska Highway the next morning, exhausting myself, searching for green grass and flowers. I almost made the Canadian border the first night. Too tired to move on, I pulled into a closed truck inspection point and crawled into the back of my pickup.

Once I had arranged my sleeping bag on top of my few possessions, I broke out some liquid refreshment to scare off the banshees that were nipping at my heels. My truck was packed with more guilt than goods, a lot more. Some old friends from California— Tom Lovering, Jean Snuggs and a new friend of Tom’s, an irrepressible minister by the name of Jeanie Shaw, had put together a South of the Border Care Package to ease my way toward California. It consisted of several ripe avocados, salsa, chips and a gallon of pre-made margaritas, heavy on the tequila. I held a little party with my staff before leaving. We did serious damage to the guacamole but hardly touched the margaritas.

I knocked off a water-sized glass of the latter. It put me well on the way to oblivion but it wasn’t enough to let me sleep through the horrendous racket of someone trying to break into my camper shell. I sat up with a start and yelled, banging my head against the top. A flashlight with enough candlepower to light up Las Vegas was shining directly into my eyes.

The Troopers flash light had about the same intensity as the sun on this lake that is located close to the Alaska-Canada Border.

The flashlight had about the same intensity as the sun on this lake that is located close to the Alaska-Canada Border.

“You in the truck, what are you doing here?” It was the voice of Authority. An Alaskan State Trooper had been banging on my camper shell with his baton. I thought it was quite obvious what I was doing but wisely decided to refrain from the obscene comment that was perched on the tip of my tongue. I chose a mildly sarcastic response.

“Uh, sleeping?” I hazarded a guess.

“You are not supposed to sleep here,” the disembodied voice behind the flashlight responded. “Why didn’t you go to a motel?” I was obviously a suspicious character, having chosen not to support the Alaskan economy. I was also being interrogated with the bright light of the law shining in my eyes. It was time to think fast.

“I fell asleep behind the wheel,” I exaggerated slightly. “I was afraid I might do serious damage to myself or someone else on the highway.”

That put a serious crimp in his nightstick. I could tell he was pondering my answer by the slowness of his response. He was torn between his job to roust out suspected vagrants and his responsibility to save lives. His good sense won.

“Go back to sleep,” the voice said. It was a lot easier for him to say than it was for me to do.

NEXT FRIDAY’s ESSAY: I reject an offer to run off to Mexico and open an orphanage for homeless children, decide what I should do with a gallon bag of pot I was given as a going away present, and finish my journey to Sacramento— where I am immediately asked to put together a statewide campaign to increase California’s tobacco tax. Instead, I go backpacking.

The Striking Churches of Oia, Santorini…

June 16, 2015June 16, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 23 Comments

It is a combination of the blue domes, unique architecture, magnificent setting and Mediterranean light that make the many churches in Oia so outstanding. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

I’ve blogged about the churches on Santorini before, but their beauty, surroundings, and unique architecture are such that they are worth revisiting— often. Most of these photos are from the village of Oia and the surrounding area that contains some 70 churches.

The obvious question here is ‘Why so many?’ One or two large churches could easily accommodate the population, especially since the majority of the population is Greek Orthodox. The answer lies in the fact that Oia is a fishing village and the life of a fisherman is filled with danger.

When things become iffy, religious folks, and even not so religious folks start talking to God and making promises. “Get me through this and I’ll do so and so…” There is a long list of options. In Oia, for those who could afford it, the offering became “I’ll build you a church.”

To make things a little more personal, the fishermen dedicated their churches to whatever saints they thought were looking out for them. The saint was their go-to guy (or gal), their direct line to God. And even today, the feast day of the saint is a big thing at the various chapels.

One final note: many of the churches are privately owned, passed down within a family for generations from the original builder.

Another photo of the same church that I took. This one from a different angle. A separate post could easily be made on each church in Oia.

Another photo of the same church. I took this one from a different angle. A separate post could easily be made on each church in Oia.

The Church of St. George, set off by dramatic clouds, occupied my camera for 30 minutes.Lightning rods also adorn the church.

Moving back, this arch provided a fun composition for the church. I suspect it has been used for the same purpose thousands of times. (grin)

A side view of the church.

A view of the dome…

And the bell tower. The walls seemed to be glowing.

Many of the churches are smaller and more personal, built by families as thanks for surviving sea journeys and passed down to family members over generations. Love the salmon pink.

I always appreciate it when nature provides a convenient frame for my photos.

Think of the imagination that went into the decision to put white rocks in front of this white church.

A back view of the church with Oia, Santorini stretching out in front.

This looked like a very old church to me. Notice how it is built into the cliff. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

The Anastasis Church in Oia provides a striking view of the Aegean Sea.

Another view of the church.

The Church of Panagia Platsani is the first church we encountered in Oia. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

The church's bell tower. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

The church’s bell tower. Again, the sky provided a dramatic backdrop. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

I don’t have the name for this church but thought it was quite striking.

A final view looking out into the Aegean and the walls of the caldera that forms Santorini, a solemn reminder that this is earthquake country. NEXT BLOG: Friday's essay— Escape from Alaska

A final view looking out into the Aegean and the walls of the ancient volcano that form Santorini, a solemn reminder that this is earthquake country. NEXT BLOG: Friday’s essay— Escape from Alaska

Back to Buncom… At Home in Oregon

June 13, 2015June 13, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 24 Comments

You never know who or what might show up for the parade, but everybody is invited to participate. No entry form required.

You never know who or what might show up for the Buncom Day parade, but everybody is invited to participate. No entry form is required. Just step out in the road. I thought the peace sign was a nice addition.

Normally there are more ghosts than people hanging out in the Buncom. All it takes is three flickering apparitions. The situation changes dramatically on Buncom Day in late May when the annual Buncom Day Parade takes place and the town’s population soars to 500. I’ve now been three times. If I am not off gallivanting, I’ll be there again next year. Guaranteed.

Where else could I step onto the street and become part of a parade, buy a scrumptious pulled pork sandwich from the local Lion’s Club, or bet a buck on where a pullet is going to poop?

But there was more this year— I had responsibility. The Friends of Ruch Library (FORL) was having a book sale and my wife Peggy has become president of the organization. Being First Man meant I had duties, heavy duties like carrying boxes and tables. Brawn, not brains, was what Peggy required (that, and our pickup truck).

Peggy and fellow board members staffed the Friends of the Ruch Library book sale. One of Ruch's three buildings, the long abandoned Post Office was their venue.

Peggy and fellow volunteers from Friends of the Ruch Library staffed the book sale. One of Ruch’s three buildings, the long abandoned Post Office, was their venue.

Inside books were neatly arranged on the tables I had delivered. Check out the prices! Paperbacks were going at five for a dollar, current hardbacks for a dollar fifty.

For the uninitiated, Buncom is located in the Applegate Valley of southern Oregon about 20 miles west of Medford. It was a booming gold rush town during the 1850s and later became a regional supply center. But that all ended with the advent of the automobile, or horseless carriage as it would have been known then. All that remains today are three vacant buildings, and, of course, the ghosts.

BTW, it’s weed-whacking time here at the ranch. Each day I march forth bravely with my weed-whacker. This morning Peggy gave me a bright pink water bottle to carry.

“So it won’t get lost,” she said. It sounds so much better than, “So you won’t lose it.” We’ve learned to blame inanimate objects rather than each other when things disappear. Keys hide and glasses mysteriously show up when they are ready to show up. But back to the pink bottle…

“But people will think I’m a princess,” I complained. I won’t report Peggy’s response.

Mini-VW Van had it's adult equivalent, painted exactly the same. And yes the 200 yard parade goes in both directions.

Mini-VW Van had its adult equivalent, painted exactly the same. Maybe it’s Mom. And, yes, the 200 yard parade goes in both directions.

Whoa, horsey. You can hire horses to help you harvest timber on your property. Or enter them in a parade.

You saw horsey going. Here it is coming, looking rather proud, I might add.

The parade is also a good excuse to walk your dog, and show off your orange hair.

The parade is also a good excuse to walk your dog, and show off your red hair. Small horses bring up the rear.

There was even a white mule that carried a sign urging people to take a hike.

There was a white mule with freckles that carried a sign urging people to take a hike.

Daughters of the American Revolution participating in a southern Oregon parade.

Even the DAR had a representative, this one from the Latgwa Chapter. With her lacy black umbrella, I thought she would fit right into a Mardi Gras celebration.

Every parade needs a Grand Marshall. She even carried a handmade sign announcing who she was. A writer for the Medford Tribune was along for the ride.

Every parade needs a Grand Marshal. Peggy Dover filled the position. Sitting on the right and carrying a handmade sign announcing her name, Peggy is a writer for the Medford Tribune.

Old cars galore participate in the parade. This caddy featured a panda who waved at me as the car drove by. Or maybe he was trying to escape.

When the old cars weren’t parading, they were parked for one and all to admire. There is a class to these cars that their modern equivalents just can’t seem to match.

Here’s a side view of the REO Hotrod, which would have been produced in Lansing Michigan.

And check out this beauty. To my auto hobbyist friends… is this a Model A or a Model T?

And check out this beauty. I believe it is a Model A, but I am sure my internet friend who are old car enthusiasts will correct me if I am wrong. (grin)

This guy could decorate my yard anytime, if I didn't have to do the work that went along with it. These antique autos are truly labors of love.

This guy could decorate my yard anytime, if I didn’t have to do the work that comes with it. These antique autos are truly labors of love.

In case you are wondering, Buncom is out in the country. You know you are 'out West' when you see the barbed wire.

If you needed a break from the Buncom Day festivities, all you needed to do was glance at the surrounding countryside. The barbed wire says that you are ‘Out West.’

Or stop and smell the wild roses…

Last year I featured the Chicken Splat contest on my post about Buncom Day, so I will close with it this year. Numbered squares are placed in the bottom of the chicken cage. You bet on which square the chicken will poop on. High stake’s gambling, it isn’t. NEXT BLOG: Back to Santorini.

Quirky Berkeley— I Return to My Roots

June 11, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 33 Comments

Sproul Hall, the administrative center of UC Berkeley, looks imposing. It comes with a welcome sign now but it wasn’t so welcoming when I gave a speech while standing on the Dean’s desk at the height of the Free Speech Movement in 1964.

Last week went on forever. By Sunday, the events at the beginning of the week seemed like ancient history. Maybe that’s not a bad thing; time slowed down. Lately it’s been zipping by like a hummingbird on sugar-water. Zoooooooom!

I began my week by being a guest lecturer in a writing class at Southern Oregon University where I talked about changes in the publishing industry. Mainly I discussed how authors are now responsible for marketing their own books. Grump. It is not my favorite activity. “Go start a blog,” I urged, “at least you can have fun. And it is great writing practice.”

Thursday found me keynoting an author’s day at a local community school. I had jumped from talking with seniors in college to kids. And how in the heck do you tailor a talk for a group with an age range from 7-14? Tell stories, I decided— and started with the tale from The Bush Devil Ate Sam about Rasputin the Cat and the Cockle Doodle Rooster. Afterwards I taught classes of fifth, sixth, seventh and eighth graders. My message was that we are all storytellers.

It was fun. The eight-hour drive to Berkeley immediately afterward wasn’t.

I drove down to attend a national conference of Returned Peace Corps Volunteers. I was one pooped pup when I arrived. It was lights out for Curt. I hardly even needed my noisemaker to drown out the clamor on University Avenue.

Berkeley is many things, among them a world renown center of education.

Speaking of tired puppies, I found these hemp collars and leashes on Telegraph Avenue. In addition to being home to one of the world’s greatest educational institutions, Berkeley can be a bit quirky.

I went to the conference to participate in some workshops relating to Peace Corps writers, of which there are legions. I also wanted to hear presentations by Congressman Sam Farr and Peace Corps Director Carrie Hessler-Radelet. Sam had been a Peace Corps Volunteer in South America in the 60s and, like me, worked in Peace Corps recruiting afterwards. He is known as “Mr. Peace Corps” in Congress for the strong advocacy role he plays for the organization.

He argued that Returned Peace Corps Volunteers also needed to become advocates. It’s budget time in Washington, and there are a lot more countries requesting Peace Corps Volunteers, and people who want to be Volunteers, than Peace Corps has money to fund. As usual, the money goes elsewhere. For example, we are spending a billion and a half dollars this year to keep Egypt happy— four times the total budget of Peace Corps.

On the good news side of the equation, Carrie announced that Peace Corps Volunteers would be back in Liberia this week. As you may recall, they were pulled out in the fall because of Ebola. Carrie also mentioned a major new initiative that Peace Corps is working on with Michelle Obama, Let Girls Learn. It is a worldwide effort to provide girls with the same education opportunities boys now have.

We listened to a pre-recorded message on Let Girls Learn from Michelle Obama in Wheeler Auditorium, which was the site of my first class at Berkeley. I had walked right by the classroom, incapable of imagining that there would be over a thousand students in the class. Berkeley gave me a new understanding of mass education.

I must confess— I also had an ulterior motive for the trip. Any journey to Berkeley is a trip into the past for me. I think of it as a pilgrimage, a return to my roots. I still hear echoes from the 60s when I was caught up in Berkley’s Free Speech Movement. This time the echoes were real. A resounding expletive caught my attention. I turned around to see Cliff Marks descending on me. Cliff and I had shared an apartment during out senior year and Cliff had also served in the Peace Corps. The last time I had seen or talked with him was at his wedding in 1969. We had a grand time catching up. Now it is time to catch up on the blogs I have missed this past week and a half.

But first, let’s go on a tour of Berkeley.

Every student who has ever been to Berkeley passes through Sather Gate…

And at some point, stops to admire the Campanile, which is Berkeley’s best known landmark.

The campus looks out over San Francisco Bay. The Golden Gate Bridge can be seen in the distance.

I had spent the day buried in the Bancroft Library and surfaced for a break when I found a young woman crying on these steps. The campus was deathly quiet. “What’s the problem?” I had asked. “They’ve shot the President,” she told me in a broken voice. It was November 23, 1963 and President Kennedy had been killed, shot down in the streets of Dallas.

Sproul Plaza was a major location for student protests in the 60s. This entrance to the campus, at the intersection of Telegraph Avenue and Bancroft Avenue, was the location of Berkeley’s Free Speech Area that the University arbitrarily closed down in the fall of 1964, thus leading to the beginning of the Free Speech Movement.

The Student Union and Ludwig’s Fountain are under renovation. Ludwig was a 60’s type dog who wandered wherever he chose. He came down from his house on the hill daily and frolicked in the fountain that would eventually bear his name. I petted Ludwig and watched as a police car was taken hostage and then used as a speaker’s podium. Jack Weinberg, a Civil Rights organizer, was being held in the car. It was Jack, now 75, who coined the phrase, “never trust anyone over 30.”

I learned as much outside of the classrooms as I did inside at Berkeley. The Cafe Mediterraneum on Telegraph Avenue was my main hangout. It was one of America’s first European style Coffee Houses in the 1950s and proudly claims to be the creator of the caffe latte.

One of my primary forms of entertainment in the 60s at Berkeley was perusing bookstores. It still is today when I visit the city. Moe’s was and is one of the greats. Sadly, my favorite, Cody’s, is now closed.

Amoeba Records is next to the Cafe Meditteraneum. Street booths, like those in front on the left, have become a permanent fixture along Telegraph Avenue.

As one might expect, many of the items for sale have a New Age connection, such as these ‘healing’ quartz crystals.

And these dream catchers.

“If it takes a bloodbath, let’s get it over with.” –Ronald Reagan’s response as Governor of California to students who were protesting his closing down Berkeley’s People’s Park as a community garden in the late 60s. National Guard troops were sent in and local police were armed with shotguns loaded with buckshot. One student, apparently a bystander, was killed and another was blinded. The whole city was tear gassed from the air.

A sign thanking trees that live in the park today.

A mural on the side of the Amoeba record store depicts events surrounding People’s Park as well as other Telegraph Avenue happenings.

The mural.

Berkeley has always been a mecca for young people, both those seeking an alternative lifestyle as well as those seeking a first class education. Many who came looking for alternatives arrived without money, as this young man shown in the mural.

Today, Berkeley is the ‘home’ for numerous homeless people. I took this photo on Dwinelle Plaza on campus.

This homeless man was selling the newspaper “Streetsmart” in front of Moe’s Bookstore. Headlines announced a recent protest that the community’s religious leaders including Christian, Muslim, Jewish and Buddhist representatives had made against the city’s efforts to criminalize homelessness as a means of driving homeless people out of town.

A sign of the times? Not really. Berkeley’s sign boards have always been plastered with notices on top of notices. I was amused to find help wanted notices for Berkeley’s Call Center. I hear from these young people several times a year as they solicit money for Berkeley. I found it interesting that the University, who charges them $14,000 a year in tuition ($38,000 if out-of-state), only pays these kids $11 per hour.

South Hall, built in 1873, is the oldest building on the UC Berkeley Campus. It’s an appropriate photo to end this post, and also to raise a question about the future of public education in America. Tuition was free when I went to Berkeley and I was able to pay for my living costs by driving a laundry truck in the summer. I graduated debt-free. Today’s young people graduate with hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt. It’s close to tragic. All I can think of is how incredibly stupid our state and national leaders are when the future of our nation, and indeed the world, depends upon an educated and knowledgeable population. Germany can somehow find the money to provide a free college education. Why not America?

Santorini: A Photographer’s Paradise… The Wednesday Photo Essay

June 3, 2015June 2, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 26 Comments

Perched on the remaining wall of an ancient volcano, the Greek town of Oia overlooks the Aegean Sea.

Perched on the remaining wall of an ancient volcano, the Greek town of Oia, Santorini overlooks the Aegean Sea.

Once again, it’s time for my Wednesday photo essay. This time my random search through iPhoto landed on Santorini. And that got me excited. It is one of the most photogenic places on earth. Almost any photo you take has postcard (or blog) potential. This post allowed me to revisit the island and once more enjoy its beauty. My challenge, I immediately discovered, was that Peggy and I had taken 400 plus photos. “Okay, Curt,” I said to me, “I have to do more than one blog.” So expect to find Santorini on my next 3 or 4 Wednesday posts. I think you will enjoy the journey.

The town of Oia overlooks the caldera of what was once a volcano and is now filled with the Aegean Sea.

The town of Oia cascades down the inner slope of a volcano toward the caldera that was left behind when the volcano exploded. The wall of the volcano recedes off into the distance. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Some basics: Santorini is a Greek island located in the Aegean Sea, 120 miles (200 kilometers) southeast of the Greek mainland. Once upon a time it was a huge volcano. 2600 years ago it blew its top in a dramatic fashion, destroying much of the Minoan Civilization and giving rise to the myth of Atlantis. All that remains is a large caldera filled with seawater and the weathered edge of what was once the volcano’s wall. Lime-white homes dug into the sides of the cliff perch high above the water and cascade down the mountainside, providing great views of the sea below.

This photo provides a perspective on how high the small communities of Santorini perch above the water. The layers represent different volcano flows that took place before the volcano erupted creating one of the largest explosions in written history.

This photo provides a perspective on how high the small communities of Santorini perch above the water. The layers represent different volcanic flows that took place before the volcano erupted, creating one of the largest explosions in written history. I took this photo from our ship as the sun was setting.

Homes are actually built into the volcanic cliff as this photo illustrates. The added insulation means the houses are cool in the summer and warm in the winter.

Forget elevators, escalators, or roads. You get to and from your home, motel, etc. by walking up and down stairs.

Forget elevators, escalators, or roads. You get to and from your home, hotel, etc. by walking up and down stairs.

Stairways that come in a variety of shapes, sizes…

…and colors.

And lead to intriguing places such as this...

And lead to oh so many intriguing places such as this… (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

…leading to oh so many intriguing places.

…and this.

Most homes come with attractive patios, great for sitting out on an admiring a beautiful sunset, or...

Many homes come with attractive patios.

Your patio is your yard, and there isn't much space.

Your patio is your yard, but there isn’t much space.

There is always room for laundry, but forget privacy. What you do on your patio is defined as entertainment by your neighbors above you.

When you live on the wall of a volcano, space is limited.

Every view of Oia, Santorini is different, and beautiful.

I really like the whites, pastels and bright blues of Oia. The blue dome is part of a church. NEXT BLOG: How 25 cents saved one million lives. (More on Santorini next Wednesday.)

The Baaa’d Goat Feast

May 31, 2015May 30, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 33 Comments

Billy Goat, aka Rambo, stood on our front porch and posed for Peggy. He was a handsome fellow.

“Curt,” Peggy hollered at me from the kitchen, “there is a goat running around in our back yard.” I looked out. Sure enough, a white billy-goat was dashing back and forth in the field above our house baaing like the Hounds of Hell were on its heels.

“Maybe tomorrow’s dinner has escaped,” Peggy suggested. Perhaps she was right. Our neighbors Margaret and Bryan were hosting a goat bar-b-que for Memorial Day. It’s something of a tradition, but normally they cook a lamb. This year, our next-door neighbor, Jim, had donated a goat. I could understand why it might want to get away.

While Peggy called Jim and grabbed a camera, I went out to have a discussion with Billy. I baaa’d at him. I often talk to Jim’s goats. And yes, they talk back. Sometimes we have extended conversations. This time Billy came rushing over to tell me his woes. I started scratching him behind the ears. It works for dogs, cats, and horses, why not for goats. Soon Billy was purring like a cat, or he would have been if goats purred. Jim arrived in his truck.

I scratched Rambo behind the ears and calmed him down.

I scratched Billy behind the ears and calmed him down. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

“Come on Billy,” I suggested, “let’s go see Jim.” Billy dutifully followed along.

“His name is Rambo,” Jim informed me as he beat on a can filled with goat food to entice his errant ram. Rambo wasn’t buying it. He was obviously irritated. At a minimum, Jim had interrupted a good ear scratching.

“Are we looking at dinner, here?” I asked Jim. His last ram had ended up in stew.

“Oh, no,” Jim told me. “That’s Pinky.” Pinky had been a bad goat in the spring and caused the demise of two kids from another Nanny. That had irritated Jim, which isn’t a good idea. “Pinky was Rambo’s companion, however.” Jim explained. “And now he is mad.” Apparently Rambo had escaped from his pen to mount a rescue effort. Back in his pen again, he sounded like an angry bull elephant on a rampage. The whole neighborhood shook from his complaints. Jim retrieved another nanny to put in with him. Rambo shut up— immediately. So much for true love.

The next day…

“Stop that,” Bryan’s father Bernard urged when Jim referred to the goat that was roasting on the spit as Pinky. Obviously Jim was having fun, teasing. A fair-sized group of neighbors, friends, and a contingent from Southern Oregon University had gathered for the feast. Everyone had brought food to go with the goat meat and several had brought wine. Fred, the brewer from the Caldera Brewery in Ashland, had brought a generous supply of the brewery’s award winning beers. I considered it my responsibility to sample a few.

This Caldera IPA was quite tasty. So tasty in fact, that I had to drink another.

This Caldera IPA, Hopportunity Knocks, was quite tasty. So tasty in fact, that I had to drink another. I can honestly report that the brewery’s other ales were quite good as well.

Goat bar-b-que in Applegate Valley of Southern Oregon

Ex-Pinky roasting away over an open fire.

Spices and oil are bushed on the goat by Brian's brother-in-law Kieth. The brush is also made of spices such as rosemary and sage.

Spices and oil are brushed on the goat by Brian’s brother-in-law Keith. The brush is also made of spices such as rosemary and sage.

There is something primitive about carving your meat off of an animal that has just been roasted over an open fire. It’s enough to make squeamish folks hesitate. Throw in the fact that it was goat, and even more people opt out. The real gourmet challenge, however, was the Kokoretsi Bryan prepared. He had taken a portion of the goat’s intestine, stuffed it with cut up pieces of the goat’s lungs, heart and liver, trussed it up, and cooked it beside the goat. The meal required a bold palate.

Bryan carves meat off the goat roast.

Bryan serves on neighbor Jim, who donated the goat for the feast.

And serves our neighbor Jim, who donated the goat for the feast.

Kokoretsi being grilled in the Applegate Valley of Southern Oregon.

The Kokoretsi all trussed up.

But the goat and the goat intestines were quite tasty. With the exception of a vegetarian or two (understandably), everyone lined up for goat meat and most people tried the Kokoretsi. I went back for second helpings of each. As for the vegetarians and the more dainty eaters, there were numerous options, including a delicious apple pie Peggy had baked for the occasion. No one went home hungry.

Bryan’s father, Bernard, makes an annual trip down from Portland to oversee the cooking of the lamb/goat. It’s a family affair.

Margaret teaches at SOU and served as editor of my book, The Bush Devil Ate Sam.

Margaret, looking chirpy, served as editor of my book, The Bush Devil Ate Sam.

It wasn’t only people who had fun at the goat feast. This dog made quick work of some spilled beer.

It was the Australian Shepherd puppies that stole the show, however. I don't know how many there were, but it seemed like there were plenty to go around.

It was the Australian Shepherd puppies that stole the show, however. I don’t know how many there were, but it seemed like there were enough to go around.

Like, how cute can you get?

After all of that attention, this one needed a nap.

After all of the attention, this one needed a nap.

Peggy attests to just how good the goat meat was. NEXT BLOG: I’ll take you back to the magical Greek Island of Santorini on my Wednesday photo essay.

Speaking of Afterlife, Did Pop Actually Haunt Me?

May 29, 2015May 28, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 32 Comments

One of my favorite photos of my father taken by Glen Fishback at his studio.

Do you believe in ghosts? I’d like to say I don’t. Their existence isn’t rational. There is no scientific evidence that supports their presence. And yet, I’ve had a couple of ghostly experiences that are hard to explain rationally, other than my mind playing tricks (a distinct possibility). But consider the following:

In my last Friday essay on religion, I took readers to Alaska and a campfire discussion with my father. Pop lived for another eight years— and they were good years. He continued to read his Bible, smoke his pipe, paint pictures, and entertain the elderly women in his retirement complex with the photographs he had taken over the years. We had lots of opportunities to talk. I learned a great deal of his past and he never gave up trying to convert me.

Pop painted up until he was 85 or so. (Photo by Glen Fishback.)

The painting that Pop was working on now hangs in our guest bedroom.

One night I had him over for dinner to meet my new friend and future wife, Peggy. She charmed him as much as she had charmed me. I had already told him I planned on marrying her if I could persuade her to say yes. When I took him home, we shook hands at his doorway and, purely out of instinct, I said, “I love you Pop.” He got one of his big grins and responded, “I love you, too, Curt.”

A week later I found him sitting naked on his toilet, dead from a massive heart attack.

Of course I was grief-stricken. His passing was the passing of one of the most significant parts of my life. And I also felt guilt. I had known he wasn’t feeling well when I left him that night. I’d called a couple of times and he hadn’t answered, but I had assumed he had just been out on one of his walks. I couldn’t help but think if I had stopped by that I might have made a difference. Still, he had lived a full and productive life, taken care of himself to the end, and gone out quickly. It’s hard to ask for more.

The next day I went over to clean things up. I probably shouldn’t have gone alone because I was so stressed. I was in the bathroom cleaning when a light in the front room went on. I went out, thinking maybe the building manager had come by. No one was there. I went back to the bathroom where I had left a faucet on. Just as I walked in it jumped from a trickle to full force. The errant light and faucet shook me up; I grabbed my things and departed, quickly. That night I left the lights on in my apartment. It had been ages since I feared things that go bump in the night, but why take chances.

Just as I was finally drifting off to sleep from exhaustion, I heard a voice in my head. It was Pop. “I am alright Curt,” he said. “It’s okay.” And then I saw a vision of the proverbial white tunnel. It wasn’t a light at the end of the tunnel; it was the complete tunnel, the whole shebang— Pop’s spaceship. Were the light in his front room, the faucet, and the voice results of natural causes and my overwrought imagination? Probably. But who knows? Who knows what awaits us when the final bell rings? Maybe it’s a one-way ticket through the Universe.

Afterwards, when I thought about the experience, I was a little amused that Pop hadn’t taken advantage of the moment to say, “Read your Bible, Curt.” I would have started immediately. But maybe it wasn’t necessary. Maybe other fuel drove his spaceship.

CONCLUSION

In this series of essays, I have not argued against religion, I have argued against the abuse of religion. I have contended that the ‘leap of faith’ required by religions, combined with the concept of exclusivity (there is only one way to get to heaven), make abuse possible and even likely. Holding the keys to eternal life provides the holder with tremendous power. It’s something to die for. This power is an almost irresistible magnet to those who crave and need power for any number of reasons ranging from the sublime to the outrageous, from serving the flock to fleecing it, from helping the helpless to offing the opposition. When combined with fanaticism and government support, this mixture can quickly become a dangerous and deadly brew.

Religion has the power to do much good. I used my own personal example of how the Episcopal Church helped me get through difficult teenage years. I have a minister friend, the woman who married Peggy and me, who is known as the Disaster Pastor. She devotes her life to helping out where help is most needed, and has the full support of her congregation. My fellow blogger friend Bill, at Practicing Resurrection, is using his faith to encourage wholesome and humane farming practices, and healthy eating. Pope Francis is undertaking a major environmental initiative. There are thousands of examples.

To me, the greatest role religion can play is to enable us to see beyond ourselves, to understand that on some deep level we are all connected, not only to other human beings but to all life. Our salvation as a species lies in realizing that all of life is sacred and acting accordingly. Few of us have the capacity for sainthood but most of us have the capacity to see a bit further beyond ourselves than we normally do, and think through the long-term implications of our actions— whether it is being unkind, marching off to war, or wiping out another species.

I believe that the easiest way to counteract the negative aspects of religion is to modify the concept of exclusivity. Simply put, it’s okay for us to believe that the path we have chosen will take us toward whatever afterlife has to offer, but we also need to recognize that someone else’s path may be equally valid. Religious tolerance would eliminate one of the primary causes of conflict in the world today. Freedom of religion and separation of church and state are essential to obtaining this objective. Maybe the day will come when people of different religious beliefs (or none), can live next to each other in peace and prosperity throughout the world.

I’ll let Pop get a final word in. He once told me that he regarded his extensive reading of the Bible as an insurance policy. If he were right, it was his key to the afterlife. If he were wrong, what’s the harm? I granted him that. But I countered with the opposite argument. What if he were wrong? What if this is all we have? Then life becomes incredibly important. Each moment is precious. Yes, practice your religion if it is significant to you— read your Koran or Bible or Bhagavad Gita— but live each moment as though it were your last. Be kind, make sure that your loved ones know that you love them, give back to the community, have adventures, expand your mind, practice tolerance, and be passionate. If there is more after the curtain falls, wonderful. If not, you have lived your life fully and can die knowing that you achieved everything humanly possible from your brief time on this earth. What’s the harm?

NEXT WEEK: Monday’s Blog: A neighborhood goat feast. You’ll meet a clothed Rambo and a naked Pinky. Wednesday’s Photo Essay: I return to the magical island of Santorini. Friday’s Essay: How twenty-five cents saved one million lives and $134 billion in health care costs. Part I.

The Natchez Trace National Parkway, AKA— the Devil’s Backbone

May 27, 2015May 26, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 27 Comments

Peggy and I were driving down the Natchez Trace when we came on this beautiful Luna Moth with a wingspan of about four inches. It was one of many treasures we found along the way. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

It’s Wednesday, time to scroll down through my iPhoto and find photos to feature. This time, my finger landed on the Natchez Trace, one of America’s premier drives— or bicycle trips. If you are ever wandering through Mississippi, Alabama or Tennessee, be sure to include it as part of your itinerary.

Large game animals, including buffalo, first used sections of what would become known as the Natchez Trace. Later it served as a major trade route for Native Americans. By the early 1800s, the Trace had been modified by a young United States into a 450-mile transportation corridor between Nashville, Tennessee and Natchez, Mississippi. Soldiers, highwaymen and missionaries travelled the route, but Kaintucks were its primary users.

Kaintucks were rough frontiersmen from Kentucky who operated flatboats on the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers. They would load their boats with merchandise in Nashville and then oar down the Mississippi to Natchez where they would sell their goods for a handsome profit. Getting the money home was the challenge. Rowing up the Mississippi was not an option. Kaintucks were faced with the 450-mile hike back up the Trace— and they were faced with a multitude of folks who wanted to separate them from their newfound wealth.

First came the gauntlet of booze, prostitutes, gamblers, and gangsters in ‘Natchez Under the Hill.’ Assuming the Kaintucks got out of town with fortune intact, they became fair game for highwaymen. It was open season on the rivermen and their cash. For this reason, the Natchez Trace became known as the Devil’s Backbone. Today the Trace is a beautiful National Parkway with no commercial traffic. I’ve driven it several times, and once, I bicycled 370 miles of it from Natchez into southern Tennessee.

A number of lakes and waterways are found along the Trace. We took this photo from our campsite. We also watched a beaver working while relaxing in our camp chairs.

I found this grass growing in the lake the next morning and enjoyed its reflection.

Numerous trails lead off of the Trace, often leading to babbling brooks.

And lots of fungi, including this shelf fungus, which decorated a rotting log.

Miles and miles of dogwood bloom along the Natchez Trace in Spring.

Peggy and I also found these colorful violets.

Meriwether Lewis of Lewis and Clark was found dead in a hotel on the Trace. To this day it is debated as to whether he was killed or committed suicide while under the influence of opium.

Meriwether Lewis of Lewis and Clark was found dead in a house on the Trace. To this day it is debated as to whether he was killed or committed suicide while under the influence of opium. This monument stands over his grave.

I wondered if Peggy had some type of message in mind when she asked me to pose for this photo. The sign is pointing toward portions of the historical Trace that are still found along the Parkway. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

The Phar Mounds located north of Tupelo, Mississippi were left behind by nomadic Native Americans somewhere between 1-200 AD as burial mounds.

These are the brick restrooms at Phar Mounds. I am sure you are wondering why i've included them. They are my favorite restrooms in the whole world, bar none. I hid out in them when I was on my bike trip around North America as a tornado ripped apart the woods a quarter of a mile away.

These are the brick restrooms at Phar Mounds. I’ve included them because they are my favorite restrooms in the whole world, bar none. I hid out in them when I was on my bike trip around North America and a tornado ripped apart the woods a quarter of a mile away. My bike hid with me.

I’ll conclude with a final photo of dogwood. NEXT BLOG: The Friday Essay: Just possibly a ghost is involved.

Bruneau Dunes State Park, Idaho… The Wednesday Photo Essay

May 20, 2015May 18, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 34 Comments

Peggy and I discovered Bruneau Dunes State Park after we had been up in Central Idaho admiring the Sawtooth Mountains.

It’s Wednesday. That means I let my fingers do the walking down through my 20,000 pictures to come up with today’s photo essay. I closed my eyes, scrolled down through iPhoto, and randomly stopped.

I landed on Bruneau Dunes State Park in southwestern Idaho. It’s a gem. Driving south on Idaho 51 heading toward Elko, Nevada, Peggy and I found the park pretty much the same way I found it on iPhoto— randomly. This 4800 acre state park features sand dunes and a small lake that gives the area an oasis feel. It’s noted for having the tallest single-structured sand dune in North America— 470 feet above the surrounding desert. (Photos by Curtis and Peggy Mekemson.)

Peggy and I had been up in central Idaho admiring the Sawtooth Mountains and were on our way to Nevada when we found Breneau Dunes State Park.

Peggy and I had been up in central Idaho admiring the Sawtooth Mountains and were on our way to Nevada when we found Bruneau Dunes State Park.

The small lake backed up by the 470 high dune gives the area an oasis feel.

Moving around the lake provided different perspectives on the dune.

This view provided a reflection.

A view focused on the lake.

Having hiked around to the opposite side the lake, we were rewarded with a view of the dune.

Having hiked to the opposite side of the lake, we were rewarded with a closer view of the dune.

And lots of animal tracks. Coyote possibly.

Bird tracks

Your guess. I am thinking sidewinder rattlesnake.

Later in the day, the dunes took on an almost purple tint as the sun went down.

I liked the sage and other shrubs in this photo caught in the glow of the late afternoon sun.

The sun was almost down.

Good night.

We Visited Jackson, California and Bought a Giraffe. Help!

May 18, 2015May 17, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 30 Comments

Peggy fell in love with this balsa wood giraffe we found in Jackson, California. So the giraffe came home with us. Little did we think it would have a taste for petunias.

And here I thought our deer herd with its greedy appetite was bad. At least they couldn’t reach our hanging plants. It may be our imagination, but it seems that the wooden giraffe we bought in Jackson, California is poaching on Peggy’s petunias! We pretended to drive up the road and then I snuck back with the camera to see what the long-necked marauder was up to.

Aha! He was eating Peggy’s hanging petunias that the deer couldn’t reach.

I caught the culprit purple lipped.

And apparently he was helping himself to all of our other hanging plants.

He was as much a glutton as the deer were.

There was no stopping him!

I confronted the giraffe with the photos. “I was not eating Peggy’s potted posies,” the giraffe replied indignantly. “I was sniffing them.” Yeah, right.

Jackson, California is an old gold rush town located on Historic Route 49 in the California foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. It’s about 30 miles away from where I was raised in another old gold rush town, Diamond Springs. Highway 49, with its logging trucks and cattle drives, fronted our property. Jackson was a long ways off. I’ve driven back and forth across the country a lot more times that our family visited Jackson when I was growing up— seriously.

We also found other wonderful creatures in Jackson on our March visit including a frog, a Hindu monkey king, a topless hula dancer, and a wildebeest. Fortunately we didn’t bring any of them home even though I lobbied for the hula dancer.

I like frogs. And let me assure you, they can get their mouths open this wide when going after tasty morsels such as flies.

We found this marvelous frog at the same shop we found the giraffe, Richard and Sherry’s Collectables. Were you ever told by your mother, “close your mouth or you’ll catch a fly.” Now you know where that come from.

I was also impressed with this Monkey King with his pet snake. I assume he is Hanuman from the Ramayana.

I remembered this, um, hula princess and her surf board from another visit to Jackson. She hangs out, so to speak, on main street and is kind of hard to forget.

Wilbur the Wildebeest lives in the Book Store.

Wilbur the Wildebeest lives in a book store.

Apparently he has lived there a while.

Wilbur the Wildebeest lived in the Hein and Company Bookstore along with a cat, strange masks, columns of books, and a number of other unusual items. It may be the most interesting used bookstore I’ve ever been in. Be sure to put it on your itinerary if you visit Jackson.

In addition to Wilbur, the Hein and Co Bookstore in Jackson is packed full of used books and numerous unusual/interesting items. Or do I mean weird?

Such as this en-gage-ing collection

Who knows what you might find around the next corner?

Certainly made me want to go upstairs and check out books…

Where we found a virtual maze of book shelves and long corridors with mysterious doors and signs. I couldn’t resist walking down to the door to read the sign.

And found the end. Wouldn’t you be slightly tempted to open the door and meet kitty?

Kitty?

No, this was kitty. Many good bookstores have one.

Our visit to the town also included a walk up and down the main street and dinner at the National Hotel, which also dates back to gold rush times. Ladies of the evening made liberal use of the hotel in its early days. They say you can still hear their ghosts giggling at night. Black Bart, the infamous gentleman bandit who robbed stages on foot (he hated horses) and occasionally left behind a poem, reputedly stayed here. As did Mark Twain, Chester Garfield, Herbert Hoover, and John Wayne. Wayne lost $43,000 in a 1933 game of poker at the hotel. His check bounced and the local sheriff hunted him down and made him pay in cash.

A look up main street, Jackson.

The community has done a great job of renovating and maintaining its historic buildings.

The National Hotel that has entertained every one from US Presidents, to outlaws, to movie stars— and possibly ghosts.

We finished off our visit to the Jackson area by checking out several local wineries. I was looking for wine to feature at my book-signing event in Sacramento. By the end of the day, they all tasted pretty good. And no, I wasn’t driving.