"The Oregonian": Black, White, and Read No More

Remember that joke from when you were a kid --- "Question:  "What is black and white and red all over?  Answer:  a newspaper!!!"  Ha! And you thought that was so hilarious and so funny you fell all over yourself laughing. Well, if  you juggle the semantics and tense as I've done for this post, it isn't so funny. Newspapers are being "read" no more.

My family has just joined the many others who have given up on our daily newspaper. We cancelled our subscription.  This was not done lightly, and frankly, I feel like I am losing an old friend.

 Portland's daily newspaper, The Oregonian, (I affectionately call the "O") has been a part of my life since I learned to read.  I recall my Mom used it as a tool to help us learn to read.   I can go back so far as to remember when there were two daily papers in Portland, the Oregonian in the mornings, and the Oregon Journal in the afternoon.  As a young girl, I devoured those papers, absorbing all the news, gossip, cartoons, and advice they offered on a twice-a-day basis.  I loved keeping track of what was going on so I could join in conversations with adults, and realized that it put me a step ahead of  my classmates at school.  I loved reading the paper.

A few times I have appeared in its pages for one reason or another. Most of the "appearances" were favorable and made me proud that I had achieved recognition in our paper.  As a young professional I was often asked to write press releases which quite often would appear as articles in the paper.  When I owned a small retail business, I regularly purchased advertising in the Oregonian knowing thousands might read about my business.  Occasionally, I would submit an article to the editors.  If it was published,  I felt honored.

For my entire life I have looked to the Oregonian as a resource:  it has been my go-to source for current events news, sports, the cultural scene, voting information, advice columnists, horoscope, and my daily scan of the obits. I have this habit of sitting down each morning, in my most comfortable chair, with a cup of coffee and the Oregonian.  I've always suspected thousands of others did the same.  

Using an iPhone for news will never match that morning experience.  There is no sensory feedback in holding an iPhone. The newsprint of the paper smelled of ink, and rustled and crinkled when you turned the pages. And even worse, for those of us advancing toward senior status, it is darned difficult to read the small print on an iPhone, especially in the early morning.  My future looms -- less informed and way less fun.

Saying all this, I have not forgotten my many friends and acquaintances who have made their careers at the Oregonian.  Many still do. Some have been editors, or reporters or columnists, and some have been involved in circulation and advertising.  I looked up to all of them.  They worked for an iconic and historical newspaper.

Alas, it seems, declining readership and sales, the increasing trend toward computer technology, as well as a younger generation getting its news from other places, has forced the Oregonian, (and many other daily newspapers) to reinvent themselves.  It appears our Oregonian has done this with a sharp knife, slicing away at their award winning coterie of local editors and reporters, and unfortunately relying more on "canned" news from wire services and the big papers back East.  Additionally,  it seems that news space once filled with news stories, is now filled with advertising.  Yuck!  Finally, and here is the really sad news.  Our staid old historical newspaper is now presented to us in a tabloid  format!  To me it smacks of  the National Enquirer and the New York Daily News and their like, which scream out at us with yellow journalism and quasi-news in huge headlines. I just can't bear it any more.

So, after really, really trying the new-fangled "O" for several months, my family agrees, it is time.  We are cutting the cord --- breaking a lifetime habit. After June 1st, we will get the printed Oregonian no more.  We might be able to get our news from various other sources, but it won't be the same.  RIP.

A Birthday With No Memory

Irma c. 1938

Today, Mom turns 90.  There will be no celebration, no gala birthday party.  The champagne punch will not flow.  For Mom, it will be another day of merely existing.  For her family it will be a day of remembering.

 Today we will take her cake and some gifts, sing "happy birthday" and hope that she will respond in some way.  These days dementia allows her to recognize things only when all the synapses in her brain cells are connecting.  Lately, the messages seem to be getting through less and less.  Mom has been sliding downhill into late stage Alzheimer's and dementia for the last 12 to15 years.

It is hard to pinpoint when it started.  I remember, maybe15 years ago, asking her if she could pick me up at the airport, something she often did.  She told me it was too hard for her.  I didn't realize what that meant.  It meant, she couldn't remember how to get there or how to get home.

We talked on a daily basis, she and I.  Then one day I noticed she was not calling me. I was only calling her.  She couldn't remember my phone number.

She would forget she was not supposed to bend over to take care of her feet.  Several times she was rushed to the hospital by ambulance in terrible pain.  She had forgotten and reached for her toes, popping out her artificial hip.

It was a slow, insidious process.  We began to notice that she was no longer cooking.  She could not remember how to put a meal together.  She stopped driving after getting lost too many times on her way to shop or do her volunteer work at the library.  The progression was so gradual we hardly noticed.  At times she talked about feeling like her head was full of cotton.  We began to find little stashes of torn up tissues in her drawers. Huh?  She always took a brief afternoon nap, and then she began to spend her entire day in bed.  She was a woman who loved young children and worked professionally with them as a teacher.  We knew something was not right when she began losing her temper with her own grandchildren, and eventually completely lost interest in their activities.

When I tell people that my Mom has Alzheimer's, they inevitably ask me the same tiresome question, "Does she know who you are?"  The answer is, "Yes, at some level she recognizes us. On a really good day she might remember my name.  On a bad day, she will lower her head and barely respond to anything."  I believe we are familiar to her in the way we speak to her, in our demeanor and our appearance.  It has taken all of us a long time to realize the depth and complexity of Alzheimer's disease. Essentially, it is a severe brain injury. Understanding it has been a difficult process for us and very likely a frustrating experience for her.

So, on the occasion of  her 90th birthday, each of us, daughters, sons in law, grandchildren, nieces and nephews, will remember who she used to be, before this terrible illness took her brain.

IRMA, born in Portland, Oregon, a graduate of Alameda Grade School, Grant High School, and the first in her family to receive a college degree; she was an award winning equestrian, who won dozens of ribbons riding competitively during her high school years; she was a professional preschool and kindergarten teacher for more than 25 years, who was beloved by many hundreds of students who still remember her; she was a fervent  FDR liberal who taught her children, nieces and nephews, the importance of equal rights and equal education for all; she loved animals and birds, as long as they were in the zoo, not her own home; she was a marvelous cook; a gardener, and a grandmother who took an active role in raising her young grandchildren; she loved to read and took her children to the library every week; she loved jazz and Broadway musicals, and her family was the core of her existence.

She was a bright, educated, and accomplished woman, who was respected in her professional life.  Alzheimer's has taken it all away --- wrecking havoc with her brain and impacting so many of us who love her.  We have witnessed the slow mental and physical deterioration of a beautiful and bright spirit, and experienced the frustration, anger, and finally total sadness as we see our Mother and Grandmother disappearing before our eyes.

Today we mark her milestone 90th year and hope we can somehow convey to her our love and pride in the many accomplishments of her life.  We realize she can no longer understand the intangible gifts she has given to all of us.   There are so many, but perhaps the most important being, learning to be patient with her limitations, treating her situation as an illness, and finally, the importance of giving her all the dignity and respect she deserves.
  

Irma c. 1930

Irma  c. 1940

Irma  c. 1950

Irma c. 1969

Irma c. 1980

Irma c. 2012

Happy 90th, Mom.

Russian Roulette

Several weeks ago, following the advice of my inner voice that said, "go, go, go," I attended a symposium at Portland's Mittleman Jewish Community Center entitled, "Your Jewish Genes and Cancer." 

For some time I have known that I might be at high risk for breast cancer.  Both my mother and sister have dealt with breast cancer at different stages of their lives:  Mom at about age 73, and then, years later, my sister's cancer was discovered at age 44.   After their positive diagnoses, both had a lumpectomy, followed by a course of radiation, and both have been extremely fortunate --- with no cancer recurrence.  Then, last fall, while visiting relatives in the mid-West, I learned that a cousin there --- on my Dad's side --- had recently been diagnosed with breast cancer and undergone a mastectomy.

My family (both father and mother) are eastern European Jews called Ashkenazim, and generation after generation of these eastern Europen Jews living separately in ghettos in places like Latvia, Lithuania, Poland, Russia and Hungary, married among themselves which led to a proliferation of certain genetic mutations and a higher risk for some inherited diseases, among them, breast cancer.  At the April symposium, I learned that the risk of developing breast cancer among the general population is 1 in 400.  For Ashkenazic Jews, the risk is 1 in 40.  Quite a shocking difference! 

Admittedly, I have known of my risk for quite some time.  I am an well educated woman who as a rule, makes good decisions about my life.  Since my sister's bout with breast cancer, however, I have, you might say, been playing Russian Roulette. I read with interest what the so-called experts have to say about not needing a mammogram every year, and I go ahead and get one annually anyway, in spite of such "expert" opinions. And, every year I go feeling both unbelievably anxious and stressed.  And every year as I get older, that anxiety seems to increase.  

Reluctantly, following that persistent inner voice, I attended the April symposium at the Jewish Community Center.  Nothing could have prepared me for what I experienced that evening, walking into that room, seeing so many familiar faces!   I was in shock!  So many women, many of whom I have known for years, grown up with, worked with on various committees and boards, embraced me and  shared their stories of being diagnosed with BRCA1** and/or BRCA2**,  the genetic mutation that puts so many Jewish women at risk for breast cancer. Others were waiting for the results of genetic testing to determine if they are BRCA1 or BRCA2 carriers. If positive, this had significant implications for not just them, but their children and grandchildren as well. Apparently among my friends, this is a health topic that is not readily discussed. I continue to be amazed that so many women I know, are dealing with these same issues I have been avoiding.

I left that symposium a different person, certainly more aware that I had been hiding from the truth, and playing Russian Roulette with myself and my children. I need to assess my risk for breast cancer with an expert, a genetic counselor.  I need to find out what my health insurance will pay for, and what it won't pay for.  Most importantly, I need to begin to think about my options --- if --- such testing proves that I am a carrier of the BRCA1 or BRCA2 genes.  How will my family feel if it is determined a double mastectomy would be my best option?  What are my chances if I do nothing? What, what, what........

("The Angelina Jolie Factor:"  This famously beautiful young woman and mother, announced recently, she had undergone a double mastectomy and breast reconstruction after genetic testing proved she was a carrier of a  BRCA gene.  Breast cancer had been her mother's killer some years ago.)

My Portland Jewish lady-friends and vicariously, Angelina Jolie, are urging me toward genetic testing.  Yet, I continue to think, procrastinate, and have not yet made that call to the genetic counselor.  My husband's health and my mother's health seem to take up all my time, energy and priorities.  I keep promising myself to call that number, which even now, sits right in front of me.

                                            Me, my Mom, and my sister, c.1965

**BRCA1 and BRCA2 can also cause breast cancer in men.

Friends and Family:  Your thoughts and comments will be read and appreciated.

Back in the Bird's Nest!

Once the fog of re-entry settles after a month away, it actually seems good to be home.  It takes a while for my control-freak personality to get everything cleaned, and back in its own place.  The Bird's Nest looks better every day and a few days of sunshine have allowed Mt. Hood to appear in all her glory through the windows.  I've placed a bowl of green anthuriums on the coffee table for just that little touch of Hawaii.  They look beautiful, and I am finally feeling like I have time to sit down once again with a good book, or write a new blog post!

(Best of all, I am now able to add photos from my iphone to my blog!  After much computer/iphone frustration, it finally works and I am feeling that it will be a good thing to share photos along with thoughts.) 

As always, this year's Hawaii/Oahu quest was to stay as far away as possible from buses of  tourists and mobs crowding downtown Waikiki.  Staying away from throngs of people has become my great obsession as I get older. So, staying on the "other side" of the island is a must, and I purposefully plan days that largely take us to places the "hordes" have not yet found.  "Where can that be on Oahu?" you might ask. Well, there are quite a few locales that currently are almost untouched by tourists.

For example, take the lovely Turtle Bay area on the North Shore where photographic scenes like this abound.   A good lunch at Ola restaurant on the beach with sand in your toes and under your table is a great place to go for relaxation, and then if you are lucky, to catch a surf competition, Sunset Beach is ten minutes up the road. You might catch a wedding here, or a polo tournament nearby, or ponder the monument to those who spotted the first Japanese fighters as they approached Pearl Harbor in December, 1941.

Chinatown in Honolulu seems it would be overrun with tour buses. But it doesn't seem to be the case. During the day at the shops and markets, and into the evening, shoppers seem mostly local.  With our Honolulu friends showing us the way to good Chinese food, we also stumbled on a beautiful alter to the Quon Yin in the Cultural Plaza: a calming presence in the midst of Honolulu.

About as "away" as one can get from the tourist rabble is the Valley of the Temples Memorial Park at Ahuimanu, just north of Kaneohe.  The "Beyodo In" is an exact replica of a Buddhist Temple of the same name in Japan.  This year we rang the giant bronze bell three times in memory of my Dad, followed a roaming peacock, and sat before the giant golden Buddha offering incense and sending our thoughts and prayers to eternity.

 

Macabre as it seems, Oahu cemeteries drew me in this year.   Their appeal has a historical quality, and they encourage quiet and meditation.  Also, in Oahu, except for the Punch Bowl Memorial, cemeteries don't generally attract the tour bus crowd.  Yet they have a unique, and somber beauty.  The Japanese Buddhist Cemetery in Kaneohe is lovely, more so when the mountain mists are rolling through. 

What I most love about my travels, is encountering the unexpected: a bird, a waterfall, a unique flower, a vista that takes my breath away.  Now with my iphone, I am able to snap a photo and later, when I return home, a brief look can transport me back to that moment.  And, thanks to this miraculous technology, I can now share it with blog friends as well!

                                                                       ALOHA!


 

Mountains I Have Climbed

You may think I am crazy,  or perhaps living in a make-believe world:  a bona fide Jewish princess who admits to her age --- admits she may be a wee bit over-weight --- and who tells us she has climbed mountains?  No way.  I am not speaking of the many "symbolic or rhetorical" mountains that have challenged my life.  Those particular kind of "mountains" will certainly be subjects of other blogs to come.

I am actually referring to real mountains.  Well, they looked like real mountains to me.  Admittedly, my closet contains no mountain climbing gear, no crampons, no ice axes.  I will never be climbing Mt. Everest or K2.  But I have been known to meet the challenge of various mini peaks that have appeared before me, either while traveling or trying to prove to someone --- most likely to myself --- that I could really do it! 

Climbing to the top of Saddle Mountain in Oregon's Coast Range, is my first memory of reaching the top of a peak by actually trekking to the top via switchbacks and through forests, and, at the apex, finding an incredible 360 degree view.  The view was from Mt. Hood in the east, to the Pacific Ocean in the west.  Now, to be perfectly honest, my new husband at the time, had to persuade me to do this, telling me he had hiked to the top before with his elderly aunt, AND a woman who was six months pregnant!  He led me to believe it was an easy romp.  Well, at an elevation of 1,603 ft. -- 3 miles up and 3 miles down  -- it didn't seem like a piece of cake to me.  But, I did it! And not for one moment after that did I believe the story of his elderly aunt and the pregnant woman. (who later told me she never did that climb while pregnant). Humph!

In 1990, on a trip to the Middle East, we were traveling through the Sinai Peninsula, where arguably one of the highest peaks in that part of the world loomed:  Jebel Musa, (Moses Mountain in Arabic) more commonly known to us as Mt. Sinai.  Now, this is the mountain believed to be where God delivered the Ten Commandments to Moses, and, for thousands of years, monks, pilgrims and tourists have made the trek up the 7,497 ft. mountain.  If all those centuries of people could do this, so could I! 

With a small group we rose at 3 AM to begin the climb in the dark of night.  Many others were doing the same, and as we very slowly ascended through cold and dark, occasionally we encountered a bedouin man in front of a small hut selling tea.  Smelly camels climbed ahead of us, leaving us their deposits, and carrying those who could afford a ride up or those unable to climb.  The last part of the climb was through some icy terrain, but in my sneakers, I very gingerly made it to the top with the others.  I was breathless getting there, and even more so when the sun rose creating a landscape never to be forgotten!  Perhaps, surrounded by all that magnificence, Moses really did speak with God!   I vividly recall the climb down was as exhausting as the climb up.  Centuries ago devout monks carved 3,750 steps from the St. Katherine's monastery at the base of the mountain, to the top.  To this day, my knees feel the effect of taking those almost 4,000 steps down.  But, I am proud that I pushed myself to climb the Mountain of Moses --- and succeeded!

Another continent and another memorable mountain climb was in South America. We were attending the wedding of our young friend, Kari Loya, in San Juan, Argentina.  San Juan sits at the foot of the Argentine Andes and is home to some of Argentina's great wine growing areas.  Kari had included this favorite climb of his as an activity for the (much younger) wedding party.  But his Dad, my husband and I joined the younger set and took off --- up a little known peak Kari called "Tres Marias".   Located outside of San Juan and the village of Riva Davia, on the leeward (dry) side of the first Cordillera of the Andes, with a huge lake called Dique de Ullum (Dike of Ullum) beneath us, we ascended switchback after switchback in the dry, parched desert-scape of the Tres Marias.  Leading us to the top was the guiding presence of a Christian cross.  I was the last one to reach the views at the top --- of cordillera after cordillera (mountain range after mountain range), but took some great pride in knowing most of the climbers I trailed behind were significantly younger than I!  Again, I did it!

What prompted this blog was an unexpected rainy day in Oahu, Hawaii.  With time to spare on a dismal afternoon in paradise, I felt the urge to share the feelings I had earlier this week:  we had joined hundreds of tourists in a fairly rough switchback climb and 104 steps to the top of Diamond Head.  Though not a difficult climb, it was a very hot that day with little wind.  Once at the top, the magnificent 360 degree views had me recalling other breathtaking climbs which though were difficult for me, have continued as bright lights in my memory.  I think they remain fresh because they provided me (a non- athlete, non-competitor type person) a significant pride of taking on a physical challenge and the subsequent sense of achievement and accomplishment. 

If you are interested in further information:

https://www.google.com/#q=saddle+mountain
https://www.google.com/search?q=Mount+Sinai&ie=utf-8&oe=utf-8&aq=t&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&client=firefox-a
http://www.tripadvisor.com/Attraction_Review-g312784-d553115-Reviews-El_Dique_de_Ullum-Province_of_San_Juan_Cuyo.html

My Dad

Two years ago this morning, my Dad, at age 90, passed away.  He was a "gold card" member of the greatest generation.  He grew up in the depression years of the 1930's and marched off to war in the 40's.  He was humble about his accomplishments, and loved his wife and family above and beyond the reasonable.

He sustained a non-combat injury during the war, and forever-after walked with a limp.  His Coast Guard shipmates, many years later, told me he sustained the only and worst injury of any of them.  While he was in the hospital, they went on to Iwo Jima, and I don't think he ever got over not being with his buddies in the heat of that battle.

He practiced law professionally, and became a 50 year member of the Oregon State Bar before retiring.  He never became rich from his law practice, but was well known for being a good lawyer, and above all, he was known as being an honest attorney and person.  His daughters do not recall being denied anything while growing up in the 50's and 60's, and both of us graduated from universities without having to work or contribute financially to our education.

Dad loved us all without question.  He patiently saw his beloved wife, Irma, through many physical challenges, including hip replacement surgery twice, Crone's disease, the beginning stages of Alzheimer's disease, right through to the worst, when she had to live separately, because he was unable to provide her with the care she needed. 

He loved the game of golf.   Most weekends he could be found at his golf club, playing 18 holes with his buddies.  The apex of his golfing came when he was able to teach the game to all three of his grandsons.  He was so proud that each of them could drive a ball further than he could.  As his Parkinson's disease progressed his greatest frustration was being unable to golf any longer.

He loved reading a good mystery novel, watching detective and lawyer shows on TV.  He also loved chocolate candy --- any kind.  In his later years he developed at taste for Dove, dark chocolate candy.

His daughters, sons-in-law, grandsons and granddaughters miss him more than I can describe. 

We buried him with military honors, on March 23, 2012, with his golf putter and a shower of Dove dark chocolate candy.

I miss you every darned day, Dad.

Harvey W. Keller
b. February 11, 1922
d. March 21, 2012

Creating Something New

Welcome to my new blog!  This is a new thing for me, but I am excited to begin.  For some time now I have been frustrated by the limitations of Facebook.  I've wanted more space for expressing myself, and I am hoping this will be my venue.  I simply love to write and look forward to sharing my thoughts, musings, feelings, and opinions. (And also photos if I can figure out how to post them!)

I am calling this "My View(s) FromThe Bird's Nest" because of my 9th floor view from our condominium in Portland, Oregon.  Our 180 degree floor- to-ceiling windows give us the perspective of looking out at the world with a bird's eye view from our "cozy nest".

Hope to share more in my next post.