The Northwest Files

How Do We Deal with the Radical Right?

(Over the many years I’ve written this blog, I’ve posted more than 450 essays. They’ve been about all kinds of things, but until the Trump years, hardly ever have they been about politics. That changed when the ugly depredations of Trump and his band of ethics-free cheaters and hucksters were allowed to take over our beloved country. Since then, it’s been hard for me to not write about politics. I don’t like it much, but it seems necessary. Soon, I hope, I can get back to writing about inconsequential things like road trips and recipes, photography, music, fly fishing, and more. Soon. I hope. If the fates allow it.)

We’ve been having a discussion here at our house about how to deal with people we know who are Trump supporters. I haven’t quite made up my mind.

Laura, my wife, has. She says there is no way we can afford to sacrifice family relationships and old and dear friendships because of political disagreement, that we have to be kind, patient, and accepting of other peoples' attitudes. A couple of very dear old pals – Democrats like me – agree with that.

It's a compelling thought. But is it insufficiently compelling?

What we’re talking about is remaining not just cordial, but loving, toward people who, based on the political choices they make, express support a man who would be dictator, a cheater, a liar, an abuser of women, a man who ignores our Constitution, and more. When he shouts, “Make America great again,” what he means is, keep America white and make sure that wealthy white men remain on top and in charge. In expressing this support, they display sets of ethics, values and morals that are in complete conflict not just with our own, but with those of any decent people.

Hungry people? Let ‘em starve. Non-white people? Send them home, abuse them, call them names, let cops and thugs beat the shit out of them. Homeless people? So what? Lousy, or no, drinking water? Let the bastards drink cheap vodka. Shitty schools and lousy teacher salaries? Great, who cares about teachers, and how much education to you need to make $7 an hour? Besides, uneducated people are easier to fool, easier to lie to. Working three jobs but still can’t make ends meet? Great! Work harder.

Concern about people in need of economic help following this horrible year of losses of not just jobs, but businesses; and not just loss of jobs and businesses, but also homes; and not just loss of jobs, businesses and homes, but also hope? It’s just not there in these people.

I know a couple of these folks, committed Trumperoids. They appear to be so deeply enmeshed in personality politics, in the politics of racism and greed (for that’s what this is), in the Trump cult, that they are unable to feel, or to display, any empathy at all -– indeed, any humanity -– for those in need of help.

Some of them call themselves Christians even as they refuse to follow the most basic and elemental precepts of the creed about which they purport to care.

They believe lies, and indeed, pass them on over cocktails at the golf course. In spite of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, they believe that Trump won the past election. And they’re certain that the fact that Joe Biden is in the Oval Office is the result of deep and pervasive voter fraud, even as investigation after investigation, and court case after court case, finds no voter fraud at all. When confronted with verifiable truth, they yell “fake news.”

One of these friends went so far as to whine that the concept of one-person-one-vote, the bedrock of democracy, is unfair to Republicans. She’s anti-democracy. In fact, opposing democracy, a system under which my privileged Republican friend has done well for herself, is one of the touchstones of these people.

What are we to do with people like this? How are we to reason with them as they burrow deeper into their cocoons of greed, lies and hate? How are we to converse with them, even as we know that they deeply oppose all that’s good and great about America? How are we to love and care for them even as they demonstrate that they deviate so completely from what we used to think of as the American norm of love, caring, decency and justice?

I’m told that I need to separate politics from family and friendship. But how can I love and admire someone, or trust them with, or about, anything, when they oppose everything in which I believe?

It’s a hard question, no? Or maybe it’s just a rhetorical one.

-JFT

Recipes Lost and Ignored

OK, this has gotten ridiculous.

I like to eat. You knew that. I like to cook, too, as long as the recipe isn’t too complicated. You probably knew that, too.

But I find that I’ve been collecting recipes and then forgetting about them.

I just cleaned a stack of papers from my desk. Among those papers I found the following recipes:

• Tartiflette, a potato, bacon and cheese casserole
• Turkey Meatloaf
• Smoked Chicken Chowder
• Pasta ala Gricia, which is kind of another name for Amatriciana, several recipes for which I already have
• Chilaquiles with Fried Eggs
• Thai Beef with Basil
• Crispy Garlic Chicken

That’s, what, roadmaps to seven wonderful, tasty dishes just waiting down here in the office?

It is far past time for me to take the next critical step: Take these upstairs to the kitchen in stick them in my recipe collection, where they will keep company with a number of recipes I have indeed cooked, and a bunch more that I haven’t.

Part of this is has happened because I’ve been lazy and uninspired.

But part of this also is the fault of the Covid Lockdown, and of the care we are trying to remain untouched by this awful illness.

I usually cook at least two nights a week. Back in the olden days, I’d figure out what I wanted to prepare, make a shopping list, then go into town to buy what I needed. Making multiple trips into town for food items each week was not at all unusual.

But these days, I very often don’t use my car, or go anywhere in anyone else’s car, for days in a row. When we do go into town, it’s for major shopping expeditions aimed at refilling our empty fridge. When it’s my turn to cook, I usually just grab whatever happens to be lurking within the fridge’s stainless-steel-and-while coolness and see what I can do with it.

I’m going to have to get over this. There are some wonderful recipes here that I really want to turn into meals. I’m not so sure about the Chulaquiles, because I think that might not be a hit with Laura. I mean, why would I cook anything that she’s not going to enjoy?

But the rest of these? Yum. I have to get busy. Probably.

-JFT

Hard Times

I came across a post a while back that sang praises of “the good old days,” a concept that seems designed to signify that things in the past weren’t as bad as we might have thought they were.

The thing is, I’m not sure that the good old days really were that good. For perspective, please consider Exhibit One, a fine old song written in the 1854 by Stephen Foster, called “Hard Times Come Again No More.” It’s a sweetly plaintive piece that begins with this verse and chorus:

“Let us pause in life's pleasures and count its many tears
While we all sup sorrow with the poor.
There's a song that will linger forever in our ears,
Oh, hard times, come again no more.

“'Tis the song, the sigh of the weary
Hard times, hard times, come again no more.
Many days you have lingered around my cabin door,
Oh, hard times, come again no more.”

This resonates with me for a number of reasons, not least of which include my memories of the door that led to the interior of the cabin of my grandparents, the hand-operated water pump in their kitchen sink, and more.

It especially resonates with me because I’ve lately been thinking about how securely I stand on my father’s shoulders. He was born in 1915 in a hard-times homestead out in the middle of the Mojave Desert. He had little education, but he worked his ass off to provide a home for his family. By the time he and my mother left us, they owned their own home.

While not totally financially secure to the point of “no worries,” his hard work, and also that of my mother, who worked as a librarian, had achieved great things.

Not least of these great things involved positioning me to work my way through college, setting the stage for a life that I feel incredibly lucky to be living.

But that life started out with hard times. At the onset of World War, my dad left MGM Studios, where he worked as a grip, to work in the shipyards of San Pedro, Calif., as a welder constructing Liberty ships. While doing that job, his lungs were damaged by noxious fumes. He was told by his physician that he would not survive if he did not move to a place with dry air. That’s how he found himself, along with my mother and a 6-month-old me, back where he started, in the Mojave Desert, in December of 1943.

His job was that the night-irrigation man on a ranch. Housing was a converted railroad refrigerator car, which we used to call “the box car.” It had a vestigial kitchen built into one end, a bed in the other end, and a tiny bathroom tacked onto the car’s back side. Here’s what it looked like, in a photo made by a friend many years after we lived in it.

The thing is, many of my cousins (25 of them, my dad was one of 10 siblings) had experiences just like this. The times in which we grew up were just what they were, replete with the same troubles and dangers that families still experience. In our innocence, many of us – though certainly not all – might look back at those days as “the good old days.”

Now, once again, we truly are experiencing hard times. We’re gripped by a plague that so far has killed not quite 450,000 of our countrymen. There is no end of death in sight, though the rollout of Covid-19 vaccines promises some eventual relief. Our “good old days” almost certainly are those pre-Covid.

But if we’re very careful, we will get through this. We will survive, though we certainly will see more hard times. But we can be proud of our pluck and our survival. We will sing, “Hard times, come again no more,” even as we can be sure that better times are ahead.

-JFT

The Pandemic Persists

Well, hell! It looks like my post from yesterday may have been outrageously optimistic.

In it, I speculated that that by this fall, perhaps the pandemic would have sufficiently abated to allow life to return to something like normal.

Not so fast! Comes this in a post this morning from Axios, a respected, responsible online news source. Read it and weep:

“Mutated versions of the coronavirus threaten to prolong the pandemic, perhaps for years — killing more people and deepening the global economic crisis in the process, Axios health care editor Sam Baker writes.

“The U.S. and the world are in a race to control the virus before these variants can gain a bigger foothold. But many experts say they already expect things to get worse before they get better.

“‘It may take four to five years before we finally see the end of the pandemic and the start of a post-COVID normal,’ Singapore’s education minister told The Wall Street Journal's Greg Ip (subscription).

“Dutch officials say there "are essentially two separate COVID-19 epidemics" — the original strain, and the burgeoning threat from mutated versions.

“There’s light at the end of the tunnel for the first epidemic: Cases and hospitalizations are down from their peak, and vaccinations are increasing.

“But a more transmissible virus means a greater share of the population — maybe as much as 85% — would have to get vaccinated to reach herd immunity. That’ll be a stretch, given widespread vaccine hesitancy.”

The potential meaning of this is absolutely stunning: There really is no light at the end of the tunnel for restaurants, bars, gyms, theaters, concert halls, group activities, family gatherings, and so on.

If this is true, there is no light at the end of the tunnel for all the folks who operate or who are employed at restaurants, bars, gyms, etc. If this is accurate, in fact, it means that the end of the tunnel isn’t even visible.  Not for any of them, not for any of us.

Please understand, this is not my effort to organize a scare tactic. This is just me musing about how careful we all are going to need to be as this epidemic continues to infect and kill thousands.

I haven’t any advice for you, but here’s what we’re doing, and will continue to do: We will get our Covid vaccinations, continue to remain close to home, wear double masks and/or upgraded masks, limit our shopping forays, avoid all travel and contact with all but our most trusted friends.

It occurs to me that if this Axios report is correct, given my position on life’s timeline (I’m 77), I’m liable to die of old age before this pandemic finally is stamped out. If it ever is.

So be it. We will continue to live as safely as we can. I hope that you will do the same thing.

-JFT

When Do We Sing?

Most of my pals know that along with folk and bluegrass music, participation in choral music is important to me. After a long career singing with semi-pro chorales in SoCal, and after moving here to Central Oregon four-plus years ago, I joined the Central Oregon Mastersingers to try to continue the music.

This ensemble is really something, every bit the measure of the best choirs I’ve ever sung with. Man, it’s fun.

Then came Covid. Because of that, we performed our 2018 Christmas concerts and then shut down. Singers expel too much breath for singing together to be safe. I have missed choral music terribly, and I know that there are choral singers everywhere just like me.

Now, for the first time, I feel a bit of hope.

I received my first Covid vaccination this morning. The second is scheduled for mid-February. While we all will have to continue to be very careful about this, I think that relative safety for live musical performances may be in sight.

That said, I think that even if all goes well, we will not be able to present our usual fall concerts. I don’t think any choir will, it’s just too soon – though some may try; I wish them well.

I do think that perhaps we choristers will be able to present our usual Christmas concerts.

We’d probably begin rehearsing for them in maybe October. What a joy that would be. And Christmas! What better time to begin again?

I’m keeping my fingers crossed that all of us, and all of you, stay well. And I’m hoping that once again glorious live music soon can ring out.

Until then, I’ll remain sequestered with my guitar and banjo. I mean, it’s not choral singing, but it ain’t chopped liver, either.

-JFT

A Year of Loss

This morning I’ve been pondering all that we have lost in the past 12 months. We’ve lost the lives of more than 330,000 Americans to Covid alone; we’ve lost faith in government; we’ve lost faith that our neighbors will not do The Right Thing; and so much more.

What we’ve gained is much more difficult for me to measure. The time for reflection and creative activities comes to mind. For Laura, that includes art classes and solo painting, working in her gardens, many games of golf, and more. For me, it’s meant not doing as much writing as I might have liked to have done but learning new things on my guitar and banjo and spending a good number of days fly fishing in the gorgeous waters that surround us.

Of great import to us, though, is that it's also meant time to reflect on personal losses. First, an old friend and classmate died this past summer. She lived alone. Her passing was not noticed for weeks. Then, within the space of just a couple of months, a beloved cousin died. Two weeks later, her husband of many years also died.

Just a couple of weeks ago, a pair of long-time neighbors, people who lived across the street from us for more than 30 years when we were in Southern California, died. Our pal Sally was first. Within a couple of months, Jim, her husband, and a stellar friend, died.

None of these deaths was the result of Covid. But because of the risk of Covid, we were unable to travel to see any of these dear folks before they left us. And because of the risk of Covid, we were not able to attend services to pay our final respects.

We’re keeping our fingers crossed that friends and relatives, many of whom are seniors, just as we are, can manage to safely navigate the dangerous waters that lie ahead of us as we head toward the summer of 2021, which is when, we hope, anti-Covid vaccines will become widely available.

The job for all of us, I think, is to take good care of ourselves, and each other, until that finally happens.

Really, friends, take care of yourselves. And take care of your loved ones. This past year has brought us all enough sadness and sorrow to last for a very long time. I’m hoping that 2021 will allow us all to celebrate the manifold joys of life. So, hang in there and be careful.

­JFT

Cat Poop Chronicles

We’ve lately been obsessed with the contents of our two cat boxes. Which is to say, we’ve been obsessed with cat poop.

Yes, we’re weird. The thing is, this is a late-onset kind of thing that involves Rio, our wonderful old Maine Coon, who you see here.

A couple of months ago he started experiencing diarrhea. I mean, to the extreme. We figured that it would go away. It didn’t.

This occasioned a trip to the vet’s office. He was examined, some blood was drawn, we were given some meds for him and sent home.

Now, this is a healthy, strong, 16-pound cat who will not be held. Forcing meds down him? Not gonna happen. First, the meds were in liquid form and were given orally using a plastic syringe. We’d squirt it into his mouth, he’d appear to swallow, and we’d let him go. Next thing we knew, the medication, which was white, appeared all over the house’s floors.

Back the vet’s. She scratched her head and recommended an ultrasound of his abdomen. The result showed irritable bowel syndrome. She had a paste of the same meds compounded. We were supposed to mix it with his food. Or maybe he’d just eat it alone. Hah! Not gonna happen.

Meanwhile, the problem continued and he started losing weight. This never is good for a feline. I trolled around through the Interwebs and found several things. First was that IBS is chronic. It never goes away. Second was that it often responds to a change in diet.

We’d been feeding our two cats, Rio and his buddy Vivian, whatever they would eat. Picky eaters, for sure. Their diet included kibble containing grain and vegetable products, and also canned food like Fancy Feast. They really liked their crunchies. But they’re not good for them. So we transitioned to an all-meat diet.

Well, duh! Cats are carnivores. Just check their teeth. All sharp, no molars with which to grind grains and vegetables.

Seems obvious, but even this has not been a slam-dunk. Ideally, you’re supposed to feed them raw chicken or turkey, fish, or beef. They won’t eat that, though Rio will snack on cooked salmon. So we’ve been buying various canned concoctions that contain meat, mostly cooked. Naturally, there’s a case at the pet-food section of Whole Foods Market that contains this kind of cat food. They seem to like that. Naturally.

This has made a big difference for both cats. Vivian, who occasionally suffered from diarrhea, now does not. And Rio is much better. Not completely well, but very much better.

He’s 17 now, so we will continue to watch him to make sure that the problem remains under semi-control. He deserves that. And as we do close inspections of the cat boxes every day, we’re no longer at max stress levels over what we find buried there. We deserve that.

See? It’s all good.

-JFT

Nope!

Do you like T-shirts? I like T-shirts. This has led to an abundance of T-shirts.

I just bought one that I really like, which caused Laura to muse that maybe, just as with guitars, “one in, one out” might be a good policy to adopt. I don’t think so, but we shall see. She is, after all, the Greek Goddess.

Anyway, this new T-shirt honors the fact that the Sisters Folk Festival, about which I previously have written, fell prey this year to the Coronavirus. That’s a shame because it not only is a wonderful event that brings fans and performers of Americana music from all over, to Sisters, but it also serves as a part of the financial lifeline that Sisters, a very small town, relies upon.

Fortunately, the folks who run the folk festival have a sense of humor. This year, instead of the usual T-shirt carrying artwork appropriate to the concert underway, they did a small run of shirts that honors the spirit, if not the fact, of the festival. The shirts also tell us that the festival will be back next year.

When I heard about these shirts, I made sure that I could get my hands on one. I drove to Sisters today, about 15 miles west of us to pick it up. It’s even cooler than I’d hoped it would be.

The theme, I was told, is “Bear with Us.”
The art on the front illustrates that. So does the art on the back.

I admire this kind of dedication and resilience. And I’ve already got next year’s festival, and the accompanying Americana Song Academy, on my calendar.

I think that this probably is my favorite new T-shirt. I’ll wear it when I go next year. But maybe not until.

-JFT

An Insufficiency of Music

Today is the day this year’s edition of the Sisters Folk Festival, which usually plays on 11 stages all around the tiny town of Sisters, was to have opened. And what a lineup of talent for those stages, from large to small, there was.

But then came Covid. In response, the folks at SFF drastically downsized the event to just one stage.

And now comes the wind, which is blowing heavy smoke from the fires in western Oregon over here to us, on the east side of the Cascades. The smoke is so heavy that it is dangerous to be outside for anything. So even the downsized version of the SFF was canceled.

Then there’s the Americana Song Academy, an intense, three-day immersion into music that would have taken place this past week. It’s thrilling, intense, and incredibly useful to musicians. Canceled. (This image shows participants in the 2019 edition of the Americana Song Academy. I'm in the middle of the back row.)

But that’s not all.

Many of my pals know that I derive huge joy and satisfaction from singing with the Central Oregon Mastersingers. This season, again because of Covid, and because choral singing requires huge expenditures of breath, we are on hiatus.

Normally we probably would have sung our fall concert and be deep in preparations for our Christmas concert. But not this year. The risk of Covid infection is just too great.

With the coming of fall and, I hope, a bit of rain, the fires and smoke probably will mitigate. But I do not think that Covid will mitigate anytime soon.

I’ll be very happy when this all ends and we can begin trying to figure out what the New Normal looks like.

I just hope that it includes enjoying and/or performing live music.

-JFT

We Shall Overcome!

“We Shall Overcome!” It’s such an iconic tune. I first heard it on the recording of Pete Seeger’s historic concert on June 8, 1963 concert at Carnage Hall. It’s long, but trust me, it’s worth hearing ­– not least because of Pete’s commentary at the beginning of the recording, but also because of the way he helps the audience along with the lyrics. Here it is:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lsg7z8BYTWo

Good stuff, no?

These days, however, there’s something that really troubles me about this tune. As you hear, Pete sings, “We shall overcome some day.”

We’ve been looking forward for “some day” for 60 years. That day still has not come.

I think that these lyrics probably reflect the gentle patience of Dr. King and the others who marched with him and supported him. That’s wonderful.

But when we will be done with waiting for “some day”? Have we not been paying attention to the passage of time? Have we been lazy, complacent, uncaring, during these past 60 years? I think we have. Meanwhile, people still suffer. How and why have we allowed that to happen?

My patience with this is exhausted. I support the Black Lives Matter marchers. And the next time that this song comes around, I’m going to sing, “We shall overcome today.” It’s time to get this done. Time for all of us.

It’s up to us all to make equality happen. We cannot, we must not, put it off any longer.

-JFT