The Kindness of Strangers

By Neal Lemery

(published in the Tillamook County Pioneer, 12/29/2024)

“Every time you do a good deed, you shine the light a little farther into the dark,” — Charles DeLint.

My world recently brightened up, all due to the kindness of a stranger, a hard-working and talented government worker. I needed a particular certification from a state agency, and the process compelled me to sign up for a three-hour class and an exam, as well as filling out the application on line.

I plunged into the process, my day otherwise quiet, a time between holidays, the weather wet and windy. I needed to set up an account, a user name, and a password, and then begin my online classes. Yet, the program didn’t let me access the classes or even get into my new account. The process involved a variety of security questions and complex passwords, a not unfamiliar pattern in this age of technology and “convenient, efficient” computerization of what used to be dealing with paper applications. As we all know, “convenient” is a relative term.

Finally, after an hour of frustration, I e-mailed the agency and soon received a helpful response. Still, I kept hitting a brick wall and wrote another e-mail, seeking some more direction and guidance. In a few minutes, my phone rang and a courteous worker, who soon became my guiding angel, took me by the virtual hand and walked me through the process.

It seems that the software platform also drove the agency’s workers nuts, and my plight was a common malady of the “new and improved” version of the software. We changed browsers, which sped up the process, and hand-copied my password. It seems the new and improved software, if left to its own devices, would delete my password and insert one of my answers to a security question, guaranteeing failure and no access. My angel helped me work around that disaster, and I soon was able to access the three hours of online classes.

When it came to finalize the completion of the classes and move on to the formal application for the desired certification and the qualifying exam, the last module of the class speedily identified the new web page link I was to go to, (information I couldn’t copy) but didn’t provide a button for the link, leaving me stranded in cyberspace. Nowhere in the module was an easy route to move ahead.

Yet another e-mail to my guiding angel quickly produced another work around, going back to the agency’s website and saying a forever goodbye to the private vendor’s online classes and module. With new directions and guidance, I was able to quickly access the application process and exam, and take and pass the exam with a 100% grade. This brought a cheer of jubilation and a happy dance around the dining room table and my laptop. My printer soon cranked out the desired certification. Success! My seven hours of labor finally came to an end.

It seems that this snafu is the norm, and the agency’s staff complaints are being echoed by applicants from the public. My e-mail of gratitude was forwarded to my angel’s supervisor, and my angel applauded my plan to write to the agency’s director. Enough is enough.

In this busy season, we all tend to be in a hurry and to experience glitches and irritating problems. Yet, I’ve seen many guiding angels at work, taking on and solving problems, calming crises, and bringing smiles again to irritated and frustrated customers and workers alike. Rules are often bent, protocols shortened, and people are helped on their way with a smile and a handshake.

Yes, there are joymakers and wish granters out and about this holiday season. But there are also the problem-solvers, the solution finders who are able to turn disaster and sometimes downright outrage, into a smooth and efficient process, taking on technology and lighting the candles of salvation and answers. It is to them that I give thanks during the holidays, the people with patience and the ability to get me to take a breath, to find the answers, and work my way through the perils of a “more efficient, convenient” process of getting the work done.

I’m working on my letter of complaint to the head of the agency, planning to lament about nearly impossible and unresponsive software. But, I’m also going to praise my guiding angel, who took the time and had the patience to transform my grousing and kvetching, my irritation and developing rage, into a satisfied customer and a successful applicant. That angel gets the gold stars this holiday season. They are my Santa Claus and Good Fairy Mother.

12/28/2024

Searching for Truth

By Neal Lemery

(Published in the Tillamook County Pioneer, 12/3/2024)

I keep learning the important lessons of life, again and again. My guardian angel must think I’m a difficult student—certainly a stubborn one.

A recent news story caught my eye and after reading several reports in the media, I thought I was comfortable in my understanding. True to old habits, I jumped to some conclusions and was firm in my views. Yet, I kept reading and came across some other stories and opinions about that story. That new information and those differing viewpoints nudged me into taking another run at my previous conclusions and certain opinions, my version of “Truth”.

Maybe I didn’t have it right. Maybe, just maybe, my take on the story wasn’t as objective, wasn’t as close to the “search for truth” viewpoint that I pride myself in thinking in life. Maybe I was mistaken, misinformed, maybe not seeing the whole picture. Maybe my understanding was biased, slanted, yes, even corrupted by incomplete or faulty thinking and comprehension, and being manipulated by others. Maybe, just maybe, I was wrong.

Ego gets in the way in these situations, and old prejudices and thinking patterns can play a more influential role in my life than I care to admit. Looking at my faults, and my inaccurate and slanted thinking can be humbling, and can show me a side of myself that I find uncomfortable. I am partially a product of my Euro-American heritage, and my experiences as a lifelong rural Oregonian. I need to consider those biases in my thinking processes.

My unease in this process keeps teaching me the lessons of humility and truth-seeking, that I often don’t know the “right answer” and need to keep a skeptical and discerning attitude in a lot of things in life, That’s especially true when I’m not experiencing first hand, the situation in which I am making a judgment call and expressing my (biased) opinions.

In those situations, I’m relying on what other people experienced and thought about, and the information I’m gathering is almost always only a product of other people’s experiences, viewpoints, and prejudices. And, their judgments, and motives to give me a slanted, and often manipulated take on the story. I want to believe what I’m hearing is pure Truth, but it so often is not Truth, but corrupted, slanted, only partially informed opinion, presented to me with the motive of gaining my support and advancing their own political and economic agendas.

I should know better. But too often, I get sucked in, falling for the slanted story, the propaganda, the manipulation, intended or not. I need that grain of salt my aunt would talk about, that healthy dose of skepticism, that very often leads one down the healthier path of a second look, an exploration of what really happened, and viewpoints that come closer to the Pure Truth that I am searching for. And, often not finding, but I can be satisfied that my search, my discernment, my curiosity made a valiant attempt at finding out the whole picture, that all points of view were explored and considered, that I weighed the differing observations and opinions, that I came closer to discovering the Truth of the matter.

My aunt would always caution me to take another person’s observations and opinions “with a grain of salt”. She was a skeptic, and would do her own research, thinking through a situation, continually gathering hard data and differing perspectives. She was one of my rocks, the voice of sensibility and clear thinking. We could disagree, but there were rich and fruitful discussions. She challenged me to do my own research and to speak my own mind.

Some would call this critical thinking, a process of evaluating information and viewpoints, that looks for the whole picture, and all the factors that the observers and commentators relied on in coming to their views. And, that process includes my own experiences in life, my own unique background and biases, and certainly my own learning style and thought processes.

My latest wrestling with what is fact and what is fiction is a good lesson for me. I’ll be taking my own salt shaker with me when I’m thinking about an issue, and developing my own opinion.

12/3/2024

Finding Some “Me Time”

By Neal Lemery

(Published in the Tillamook County Pioneer, 11/2/2024)

October seems to have moved in like the frenzied autumn storm of a few nights ago, foreshadowing the arrival of the season. The days and weeks this past month had flown by as the holidays crept up on the calendar. I keep wondering where the time goes these days. Brisk winds are bringing down the colorful leaves, with cooler temperatures compelling me to find my favorite fleece sweater and raincoat, and to renew my wintery ritual of a mug of mid-morning tea.

I’ve barely stashed away the deck furniture and filled up the greenhouse with tender plants when the cache of holiday ornaments catches my eye, reminding me I need to at least think about holiday decorating. Time to get serious about the holiday gift list and plan for all the holiday festivities. I’m still working on the last of the summer’s tomatoes and zucchinis, and have just planted my cover crops for the raised beds. The first frost last week was a rude awakening, a call to action.

Fall is a transition, on many levels, and I’m changing into my seasonal routines of being inside more, watching the lawn green up from the welcome fall rains, and adjusting to the shortening hours of daylight.

What’s been missing in all of this change and transition has been some quiet time, some “me time”.

A few days ago, a big item on my “to do” list was to drive to the airport to pick up a family member. I needed to leave early, when it was still dark out, and was able to enjoy the glories of the beginning of the morning light over the mountains, and the emerging colors of the leaves up the river. It was quiet, without any distractions on the drive, except the interplay of the mist and fog rising against the hills, and the brightening of the full spectrum of fall colors on the trees. A few fishermen were out, reminding me I’ve been remiss in satisfying my needs for streambank solitude and meditating on the sounds of free-flowing rivers, the song of the rain, and the kerplunk of a well cast bait and bobber.

Soon enough, I’d be in the midst of Portland traffic, but for nearly an hour, I had the world to myself, just me and my thoughts and the beauty of this place I am blessed to call home.

My brain mulled over what I had thought were the problems and issues of the week, and I began to realize that what I was worried about, what I had been fretting and stewing about, was really darned inconsequential or simply had a pragmatic and quick solution. It was time to work on being a human being rather than a human doing. My “to do” list really could wait. The day was mine to simply enjoy and to just “be”.

I stopped along the side of the road to visit one of my favorite waterfalls, renewed from the last week of rain. The air was cool, misty, and smelled of damp earth and wet leaves. And there’s nothing like the sounds of falling water in the hills to bring me back to the serenity of nature and the wildness of the forest.

The tension in my shoulders and neck eased, relaxing what tensions I didn’t realize was there, and I felt truly at peace, a feeling that was needed in the hectic pace of the last few months. I took a few deep breaths, clearing out the mental cobwebs, becoming a part of our world, living in the moment, moving into deep peace.

I’d gotten back into the range of a radio station and started to listen to the morning news. The old tensions came back, and I realized I’d rather spend the rest of my trip simply being peaceful, unbothered by the latest news and political rhetoric. It’s not like I needed more information for the upcoming election. The months of increasingly harsh and divisive rhetoric had more than informed my decisions as a voter, and, after all, I had already voted. Indeed, I could be done with all of that. I could take charge and just let go.

“Click” and the radio was silent again, and I rolled down the window for some more forest air and the smell of damp leaves. My world was fresh and clean again, and the strident voices on the radio were quiet. I could think again, able to simply be, to be present in the moment, my brain cleared from harsh words and the manufactured frenzy of political events and commentary. I could focus on the brilliant colors of autumn leaves, and the early morning sunlight on the river. I could choose to have my mind be simply manipulated by the beauty of the morning.

My favorite group of herons were hunting in the upcoming swamp, and I slowed to notice their grace and serenity in the morning light. Soon, I’d be in traffic, finding my way on freeways, gearing up for the congestion of the airport. But, now, I had my peace, and I wasn’t going to let it go. I breathed in, again, bringing that self-contained serenity deep inside of me, holding it close to my heart, and remembering to just be in the moment.

11/1/2024

Looking at the Content of My Character

(published 9/27/24 in the Tillamook County Pioneer)

By Neal Lemery

Almost seventy years ago, I remember watching soldiers on our grainy black and white television, escorting kids my age into a school. I asked my mom why the soldiers were doing that, and her answer left me confused, unsettled.

“It’s because of their race, the color of their skin, and that the school and the white community doesn’t want them to go to that school,” she said. “But it’s the law. They have a right to go to that school, and the soldiers are enforcing the law.”

My mom’s answer upset me, scaring me that soldiers in our country would have to make sure kids like me could go to school, and that would happen with soldiers armed with rifles and bayonets walking with school kids the same age as me. I was a naïve kid and it was the first time I remember experiencing racism.

I’m still scared and unsettled by that scenario, those responses, and all the racist conduct and talk in our country. It’s all around me. Still.

And the news. There are still the videos of racism and violence, and people living as if the color of someone’s skin really mattered. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s wisdom that the color of one’s skin doesn’t matter, but the content of their character does, still reverberates in me, still makes a lot of sense to me. Why don’t we, as a country, grasp that seemingly elemental observation?

The other day, I talked with a man who was telling me about his accident, how he is still hurting, and that the guy that T-boned him was careless, and didn’t have insurance. I’d been in a crash like that a few years ago and I expressed my sympathy and wished him a speedy recovery. I’d struggled with the pain, and the good results I had in working on my own forgiveness and compassion.

“He was ***, you know,” he added. “One of those ***** ***, who don’t belong here,” he added. He ranted and raved some more, about immigrants and “those people” being lazy and “good for nothing.” It seemed his view of the world was neatly divided into “them” and “us”.

His face reddened and he kept flying off the handle for several minutes, leaving me still mystified about the connection between someone’s ethnicity and speculative immigration status, and a traffic crash with whiplash and a concussion. I’m doubting if the guy had actually done some fact checking and checked on someone’s citizenship status. And, I recalled another conversation I’d had with him several years ago about how proud he was of his grandparents’ emigration to this country, and how they had worked hard and succeeded, living the American dream. He would go on and on about how proud of them he was, and how hard they worked to be part of America. He didn’t see the connection, the commonality of his family and the man he was angry with, or deal with the idea that most of us are either immigrants or that our ancestors were immigrants.

I’m still wondering if I shouldn’t have been a bit more vocal, and a lot more assertive about this blatant expression of racism and bigotry. It’s not the 1950s in Arkansas now, nor the Oregon of 1859, but we still seem to stay in our racist ways, a common expression of bias, prejudice, and downright ugliness. And, I’m hearing high elected officials and candidates for national office being forthright and outspoken on their racism and bias, seemingly deaf from the outrage of much of the population.

Maybe I need to be more intolerant, and more biased against bigotry and hate.

My state, Oregon, has a long and sordid history of racism and bigotry, beginning our statehood by prohibiting Blacks and Chinese people from even living here. My town had a “sundown” law on the books until the 1980s. I still hear the “N word” in public conversations.

And, until last week, a nearby creek’s legal name contained a racial slur. I came home to see a note from another friend, a celebratory announcement of his ability to prevail with the state geographic names board. He’s a historian, and his research discovered that a creek still bore a racist reference to an early homesteader. Well, its 2024 and my friend thought some reform and rehabilitation was in order, so he petitioned the board for a name change, which was promptly granted. The old name had been on maps since the 1870s. Didn’t anyone notice? Or worse, feel uncomfortable enough to seek a name change?

A few weeks ago, a clerk bragged to me that she didn’t need to learn Spanish for her job. “They can just learn English,” she said. Then I watched her struggle to handle a simple transaction for the next customer, whose native language was Spanish. I ended up helping them, with my limited skills, but I was able to smile and make an attempt with both of them, receiving smiles and appreciative nods from both the stubborn clerk and the customer. It was a good reminder to me that I need to work on my own language skills, that I need to practice what I preach, and to keep on learning and growing in our culture, and a reminder that while others are learning English, that I and other English speakers could work on our Spanish. The issue seems to be one of developing a good character.

I’m not sure the clerk got the memo, but the exchange was a good example of the benefits of bilingual skills.

Racism seems to be still infested in our community, and our nation. I find myself often confronted with my own biases and prejudices, and need to realize that I’m a product of our culture, a lot of subtle bigotry, and that it’s never too late for some introspection and to be on the smart side of the 21^st century. I need to smarten up.

9/27/24

Planting for Tomorrow

By Neal Lemery

(published in the Tillamook County Pioneer, 8/8/2024)

It is the height of “no left turn season” and I find myself waiting and waiting to get out into the highway, or simply drive down the road to my destination. My personal frustration level reached a high point yesterday with a very leisurely drive from Rockaway Beach to Wheeler at a snail’s pace of 25 mph. The offending tourist finally pulled off, with me and 40 new friends behind them able to speed up, in time for the speed limit zone in Wheeler. Ah, the joys of August.

My newest travel game is to spot the most gigantic vehicle combination on the road. This week’s winner is a jumbo Winnebago coach, hauling an SUV and a 25 foot sport fishing boat with the extra large outboard motor. For extra points, I looked for the gas barbeque that would have fit in the boat, but, alas, I was disappointed. Maybe I’ll luck out tomorrow.

I tried to count my blessings of running my errand on a beautiful sunny day, with some good tunes playing and not having any strict deadlines. Being “on time” anyway this time of year is only an aspiration, and there’s always that acceptable excuse for being late because of the traffic. My friends and associates accept these excuses, and we usually have a five minute commiseration session before our meeting.

I know that all these visitors bring money, and that our economy depends on them for their cash. While I am inconvenienced, I do welcome the economic benefits, and also the ability to show off the natural beauty of our home. I see a lot of visitors simply taking a breath, chilling out, absorbing a scenic wonder, and being able to enjoy nature with their families. Maybe I need to think of our tourism as a form of health care for the nation.

Despite my seasonal grousing, I see many good things happening in our little corner of the country. Merchants are refurbishing storefronts, new affordable housing buildings are springing up in many communities, and the new health clinic and pharmacy is starting to grow in Wheeler. The fiber optic cable folks on the Wilson River Highway are about done with their work of adding more internet service, and I eagerly await the arrival of cell phone service on that dangerous and well-traveled highway.

The south jetty on Tillamook Bay is getting new rock, and new bridges and repaving are improving our roads. These projects have been on the community “to do” list for a long time and it is satisfying to see the work getting done this year. The new Cape Meares Loop road is a wonder, showcasing part of our coastline with views we haven’t seen before. The designing engineers should get an award for their artistic vision.

There are several new non-profit organizations starting up, filling needs for education and cultural events. Their vision looks far into the future. The farmers’ markets around the county are flourishing, and farm stands are well-stocked. We are busy taking care of community needs and sharing the bounty of farmers.

Artists and their beautiful work are everywhere, with art shows now commonplace and exciting. Public murals brighten community buildings, and there’s an abundance of music and dance. We are even having Shakespeare in the park, at the main library’s new stage at Tillamook’s newest park.

My garden grows well this summer, and I’ve been focused on the art of propagating with seeds and cuttings. I’m practicing new skills and techniques. I’m seeing my time in the yard as a laboratory, and as a metaphor for what most everyone in the community are doing this summer, growing a healthy and thriving future.

8/8/2024

Cleaning Out the Gunk

By Neal Lemery

(published 7/21/2024 in the Tillamook County Pioneer)

The little things in life often teach me the big lessons.

Yesterday’s weed eating project came to a halt as my usually trusty string trimmer decided to take a break. It was time to refresh the thick nylon cord, and I thought a fresh battery was needed. Still, it was a no go. My weed eater had gone on strike.

My project of thick grass and weeds in a long-neglected border was half done, and I wanted to be able to check it off the list before tonight’s long anticipated thunderstorm and, hopefully, rain.

My weed eater had other ideas, getting me to sit down in my comfy chair under the pergola, sip some lemonade, and do some mechanical problem solving. I delved into its mysterious interior workings, finding a half handful of long, wiry grass and the nefarious bindweed (so aptly named). It was the proverbial tangled mess, a metaphor of this busy, intense year.

I kept going deeper, into the very heart of the beast, and finding tightly wrapped coils of grass and stems, wound tight enough that my pocket knife had to enter the fray. Five, ten, then fifteen minutes of cutting and pulling and unwinding, and the inner shafts and gears were finally free. The green and brown gunk and braidings piled up on my lap, as I kept unraveling and cutting. How can such a small device contain so much trash?

At last, all the detritus was gone, and the machine was free. I carefully reassembled everything, even adding fresh tough nylon string. Putting a fresh battery in, I hit the switch, and the machine purred back to life, ready for a new go-around with my weed patch. Being less than mechanical, I experienced elation and self-satisfaction at my accomplishment. It actually worked, and I fixed it, I announced to the yard, its indifference echoing back to me in the silence. Oh, well. I still celebrated my own small accomplishment. I take my victories where I find them.

Getting the gunk out seems to be a great remedy when things aren’t going the way you want. Sometimes, you just need to sit down with a few tools and some time, take things apart, and do some necessary cleaning and re-organizing. Patience is part of that, something I need to practice and give space to as I go about my day.

This work often requires the right tool. My pocketknife was what I needed to fix the weed eater. Later on, a broken hose refused to come uncoupled with another hose, until I found my pipe wrench, applied some needed elbow grease, and twisted it all just right so that the broken hose was finally separated, and headed to the garbage. “Right tool, right job” is a good motto to keep in mind when dealing with things that don’t want to move, that get stuck on so tight that nothing will get fixed. Now, I’m wondering what other tools I can use to fix things on my “to do” list, solving not only the mechanical issues, but the human and social frustrations that need to be fixed.

I should add de-gunking to my daily to-do list. There’s last week’s coffee spill in the pickup, the chaos on the coffee table, the clutter of the glove box. Then, there’s the tool box in the shop. The list can get fairly long of things needing organized. There’s lots of things in life that are twisted, too tightly wound, and messy enough to grind things to a halt. Some time and patience, cleaning up, and decluttering breathe new life into ordinary things, making life simpler, and working again.

I should try this approach to my relationship with others, untwisting and cleaning up how I work with others, cutting away the knots and stuck debris, so that things work smoothly, wheels turn, and the work gets accomplished with a lot less frustration and difficulty. I need to take the time, and be willing to take things apart, do some unraveling, use the right tool, and put life in order.

7/21/24

Cleaning Up After Fathers’ Day

By Neal Lemery

(published in the Tillamook County Pioneer, June 18, 2024)

I’m always relieved when Fathers’ Day is over for the year. For me, it is a mix of emotions and experiences, with memories both sweet and awkward, sometimes excruciatingly painful, for me and my kids.

The greeting card industry portrays the day as an overly sweet and happy day, offering cards with sentimental words, and traditional gifts such as T shirts and golf balls, and barbecues and ball games. Dad as hero, the perfect parent in our lives. In our society, reality often doesn’t resemble what commercialism tries to paint as warm, fuzzy, and normal.

Yet, it is a day of awkwardness. What if one’s experiences and relationships with a father was strained, dysfunctional, full of abandonment, or downright dangerous and frightening? What if those wounds haven’t healed, there’s a lot of unresolved anger and neglect, or simply rage about not showing up in your life?

The kids I call my kids wrestle with all of this. Some simply ignore the day, while others send a short, yet sincere one line message on social media. Often, the pain of dealing with hard relationships is best kept quiet. I respect all of those responses. They are genuine, real, and honest, and not found in the greeting card section of the store.

Most of my kids take the safe path, and don’t open up to express what they are feeling, or how to be the kid on Fathers’ Day. For most of us, silence is golden, safe, and non-committal.

I know they love me, and I love them. I also know I’m not the perfect father, that I’ve made mistakes and caused some harm. I like to think I’ve done more good parenting than bad, and that I’m still learning how to be a good dad. I’d like to hope they know that about me.

I’m here for them, after all these years, and perhaps that is enough of a role to play on a day when we are supposed to feel all warm and fuzzy, that Dad is a hero, the fulfillment of the ideal Dad. I don’t need a card or a new box of golf balls to get that recognition. Hokie commercial gifts don’t really express what we feel for each other, anyway.

The father-kid relationship is complicated, anyway. My feelings for the best fathers I’ve had in my life aren’t based on genetics, but on genuine mutual respect, working to be solid mentors and supporters of a kid trying to navigate life and to figure out who I’d be when I grew up. Even as an adult, I needed that genuine fathering, that relationship where one could go deep and feel respected and nurtured.

Family life is better anyway, when there is honesty, mutual respect, and acknowledgement that we all struggle with emotional pain and needing to feel good about ourselves, that we all have the potential for doing good for others.

I used to think that biology and genetics didn’t really matter. It was what happened today, building a good home life and showing compassion and empathy. But, recent scientific work is showing me that past generations’ trauma and anxiety lies deep within us, and is passed on to new generations, being a deeply ingrained aspect of our own psychology and thinking. Part of our work on becoming better people is recognizing that genetic influence, that power of past trauma to cause pain, working on giving air to that history, and patterns of behavior. Healing ourselves, and facing our past, even back several generations, is part of our work in changing our world, and in raising our kids. That work is part of parenting, part of building a better society today.

Perhaps that work, that realization, should be woven into a good Fathers’ Day observance, a day of recognition and healing, a day to celebrate healthy love between parents and kids. Those conversations, those “going deep” talks with loved ones would go far in helping us be better dads, and make for a well-celebrated and well-observed holiday.

6/18/2024

Memorial Day is Personal to Me

By Neal Lemery

(published in the Tillamook County Pioneer, 5/26/2024)

Memorial Day is an awkward holiday for me, celebrated publicly for the three day weekend, the winding down of school and planning for summer fun. Our culture celebrates the beginnings of barbeques and picnics at the beach, family gatherings, and the official beginning of summer.

Yet, it is a time of reflection and sadness for me, a time to recall the lives of ancestors who fought and often died in war, a time to recall personal sacrifices for the common good, of conflict waged for the hoped for betterment of humankind. Memorial Day is a way to honor that, but we are more likely to ignore the reality of war, death and sacrifice. It is, instead, a day of disconnectedness and apathy.

Not many people are alive now who remember my grandfather. He lived a rich and fulfilling life as a farmer, taking pride in a well-managed dairy farm and helping to raise a family. He was reluctant to talk about his life and it took twenty years for me to gather the details.

The twelfth child of a German dairy farmer, he was drafted into the Kaiser’s army at the beginning of World War I, and sent to the Russian front. The Russians captured him, and he spent three years in a prisoner of war camp. He joined other soldiers in making their escape in the middle of a bitterly cold winter. One of the few stories he told was of walking through the snow, living off frozen potatoes, as they headed west towards home. He would weep silently at holiday meals, cherishing the bounty of the table, and the warmth of his home, only once mentioning that some of his fellow soldiers froze to death during their escape.

I’ve stood in cemeteries and war memorials, stunned by the thousands of tombstones and the tales of wars now only honored in dusty books and mossy granite monuments. I try to make sense of it all. I listen to the stories of my own generation who went to war, some not coming back, others deeply affected by the horrors they experienced. And, I keep seeing the debris of traumatized lives who fought in newer wars, still trying to find some sense, some higher justification for their sacrifice.

When I was a kid, many people called the day Decoration Day, a term left over from after the Civil War, when people gathered flowers and went to cemeteries to honor the soldiers who died in that war.

Memorial Day is a day where I am out of sorts. Firing up the barbeque and putting the flag up on the side of the house are part of my rituals for the day, but I find no peace, no action that gives me satisfaction for this day. I remember my grandfather, who chose to be mostly silent about his service in a nearly forgotten war. As I peel the potatoes for dinner, I remember his story, and can feel the icy cold of a Russian potato field in the middle of winter, a memory told and, over a hundred years later, still remembered.

And, every year, I read this poem, written by a soldier trying to put his tears into print, to try to make sense of the horrors and casualties of war. I cry as I read it today, the words raw and bloody still. When I stood in a cemetery in France, overlooking headstones in fields that seemed endless, I read this poem, engraved in marble, speaking its truth to me and all those who came after me, to honor and to remember.

In Flanders Fields

BY JOHN MCCRAE

(1918, public domain)

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie,

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

5/26/2024

Escaping into the Quiet

By Neal Lemery

(Published in the Tillamook County Pioneer, 5/18/2024)

Like other photographers, I was excited about the Northern Lights being visible in Oregon. I’d missed the first night, but I was ready the second night. I carefully set up my camera gear, getting my cameras on the right settings, and I was ready to roll.

I had the perfect spot. A comfy chair on the deck, facing north, my favorite fleece jacket, a nice cushion and an excellent view to the north. With a mug of tea in hand, I sat down for an evening of great photography and learning more about my cameras and the art of photographing the night sky.

The twilight dimmed, and I kept looking north, spying a satellite zooming through the sky and the first few stars making their appearance.

Then, the fog and clouds moved in, right on time for the big show, thickening up and blanketing what few stars that had made their appearance.

It had probably been months, if not a few years, since I had taken the time to just enjoy the night sky, and be an observer. To be, rather than do, and observe, watch. Mentally, my to do list crept in, but I willed it to leave my head, so I could concentrate on the evening stillness and be in the moment.

Gradually, I felt the stillness of the evening, and let that calm percolate within me, the only sounds being my breath and a faint breeze. I could smell the damp of the incoming fog, and the coolness of the dropping temperature. The sweet smell of the honeysuckle, the Solomon’s Seal and other spring flowers was present. I realized I hadn’t been taking the time to literally smell the flowers and appreciate the spring flowers, and the beauty of nature. I simply hadn’t noticed, hadn’t taken the time to be a part of my own back yard, to be present in my little corner of the world.

I took a few pictures, being successful in photographing a rather dull cloud bank of fog coming off the ocean, a good study of various shades of gray. I began noticing the texture, the shape, the seemingly random irregularity of the fog and the trees and hills on the horizon, silhouetted by the scattered almost light of the evening’s ambient light.

The experience was subtle, calm, with the unspoken theme of contemplation, awareness, a sense of just being present and observing. It was a simple moment, yet I was becoming aware of the complexities of the light, the dark, the various tones of this gray palette that Nature was creating in its art tonight.

“The monotony and solitude of a quiet life stimulates the creative mind.” –Albert Einstein.

I focused on my breathing, and on the slow, ever-changing tones and movement of the fog and clouds, the subtle changing of the light as the evening darkened, and the clouds grew thicker.

I found myself contemplating my creative works in progress, of working on my art with a renewed sense of purpose and meaning, of simply being in the moment with my creative energy. An overwhelming sense of fulfillment, satisfaction, of creative goodness came over me. I had no other expectation other than simply being here, in this moment, and feeling full and content.

Other photographers that night captured glorious photos of the aurora, dazzling and fantastic. I had nothing like that on my camera, yet I was still having a fabulous experience, exploring the gray subtleties of my fogged in observatory. I could mourn my missed aurora photography experience, but I had my own, rich in silence, contemplation and a celebration of the joy in life.

I found myself content, at peace, finding some time and space to contemplate life, to simply notice the honeysuckle, to appreciate its presence and its gifts to me that evening. I was in touch with my creative spirit, my sense of place and being, finding tranquility and inner peace by simply being where I was at, the observer, being the being and not the doing.

5/17/2024

Finding a Place to Grow

By Neal Lemery

(published in the Tillamook County Pioneer 4/13/2024)

Spring brings out my tree planting urge, and a recent trip to the nursery added a new Japanese maple to add to my collection of plants in the yard.

I’m tasked to find just the right place for the new tree, wanting to add its lacy lime green foliage to my “art collection” of plants in the front yard, and anticipating where the new tree’s bright orange fall foliage will best be admired. I need to figure out where it will be best situated, and avoid the bright afternoon summer sun.

Finding the right place to grow is always a challenge for this gardener, a practice that dominates my gardening. It’s also a big factor in the lives of my friends and my community.

“How do we best grow the things we love?” is an ever-present question for me.

I keep in touch with several young men I’d met and worked with when I volunteered at the local youth “correctional facility”. I was a tutor and a teacher of gardening skills, and hopefully was someone who led by example and encouraged young people to better their lives.

One of those men is back in prison, still struggling with drug addiction, violence, and instability as he has tried to move through the many obstacles that ex-cons need to deal with. Other people may find it easy to simply label him as a criminal, and want to keep him locked up. I know him and his life to be much more complicated than what a snide label and categorization would describe him. His life has been hard, complicated, and filled with a long list of traumas and experiences that would challenge anyone to cope with.

Like all of us, he isn’t easily categorized by a few words and stereotypical judgements.

He’s at a point where he wants to dig deep into the whys and wherefores of his drug use. He’s clean now, thanks to one of the few positives of being locked up. He’s taking some anti-depressants and some medications for anxiety and trauma. Yet, he doesn’t want a lifetime of taking medications and wants to be healed, and to fully understand how to live a better life without depending on yet more chemicals and pharmaceuticals.

My friend wants meaningful treatment, and has asked the prison staff to get him into a Narcotics Anonymous group, and be involved in the work he knows will be hard, yet essential.

But there’s a waiting list, and more bureaucratic paperwork and delays. He’s been told to wait. And to continue to be untreated, unable to effectively move forward in his life, to work towards his plan for sobriety, and life after prison. He gets out next year, but he knows he’s not ready, that without treatment and without him doing some hard, introspective work, he’ll relapse, again, and keep repeating the cycle that has, again, led to another prison term.

It costs all of us $50,000 a year to keep my friend in prison. That’s right, $50,000. What if we spent that money on drug treatment, housing, vocational training, and some other essential social services, so people could be productive, safe citizens, building healthy lives, being builders of our communities?

I understand the idea that often, jail or prison is a needed break in the cycle of criminal thinking and addiction, that often the community is safer when some folks are locked up for a while. Yet, it is an expensive social experiment, and there are good arguments for putting all that money into better use. We tend to deal with the result, and not the causes, of criminal activity and addiction.

My friend waits. He takes his meds, he has had a few visits with a mental health counselor, and I’ve sent him some books on drug recovery and trauma. But all that is not enough. He needs more. He needs an NA group. He needs to work his 12 step program, and be with others in group sessions where they have deep and productive conversations about addiction and life without mind-altering drugs, about living clean and healthy. He needs the tools to cope with our society, with life on the streets, and trying to find and keep a job when you have a criminal record and not much of a social support system.

Being on a waiting list isn’t working. And, it’s not saving the taxpayers any money. The waiting list is part of the problem, and not part of the solution.

In the last few years, politicians have been spending some serious money on trying to deal with addiction and the related issues of lifelong trauma and violence, and looking at what really works to change people’s lives. Oregon’s experiment with decriminalizing drugs left us with more questions than answers, and we are now back to giving a lot of that problem to the criminal justice system.

I’m still thinking about my friend, locked up in a big prison, taking some pills, and waiting. He’s burning through $50,000 this year, and we’re all not getting a whole lot of return on this investment.

In Oregon, 4,000 prisoners were released last year, and 80% of them had no drug and alcohol treatment. Two thirds of these folks had diagnosed drug and alcohol problems. https://www.thelundreport.org/content/most-oregon-prisoners-cant-get-addiction-treatment-theres-bill-change .

He’s waiting, waiting to get on with his life, to find a good path to his future. I’ll wait with him, but it’s going to be a rough road, and the likely result won’t be what anyone wants.

I’m going to have better success for my new maple tree. I’ll find the right spot in the garden, with the right amount of sunshine, and the right amount of care. It will grow and it will share its beauty with my neighbors. I only wish the same for my friend.

4/13/24