Some people just ruin things for everybody

I knew the minute I walked in the door that something was different. I hadn't actually been inside the bank in a while. Usually I do my transactions from home on my computer or outside the bank at the ATM. But it was getting late in the afternoon and I wanted to make sure the deposit got posted as quickly as possible so I can pay some bills this weekend.

The first thing I noticed was that the lobby had been rearranged and some more desks added right where the table used to be where people filled out their deposit slips. But that wasn't the only change. That honor was reserved for the bullet-proof glass in front of the tellers. I fell like I was back in Southern California again.

When I moved to Southern California 14 years ago this month, I was shocked to see bullet-proof glass when I walked into the bank to establish my account in California and get checks with my new address on them.

My friends told me that bank robbery was fairly common in the town where I was sitting up residence. Welcome to Southern California.

After living in California for more than 10 years, I got used to bullet-proof glass in the banks. In fact the only bank branches I was in that didn't have the see-through security walls were the bank branches inside grocery stores.

I got used to the glass, but I didn't like it. The glass made banking more impersonal. It didn't help that the tellers didn't seem to want people coming to their windows anyway. At one point the tellers starting asking me on every trip if I had tried using the ATM to make my deposit. For a while, they even set up an ATM in the lobby and had a bank employee going around to people in line offering to show them how to use it. I soon took the hint and started depositing my checks at the ATM and didn't have to shout through the little slots in the glass wall to deal with the tellers.

Eventually banks went to drive-up ATMs and then one employer offered direct deposit and I quit having to visit the bank at all to make deposits.

When I moved back to Oregon in 2005 I had to start going to the bank again from time to time. While my employer does pay me once a month through direct deposit, in order to get paid twice a month I have to take a draw, which is paid by check. Usually I deposit the check at the ATM but sometimes it's actually nice to go into the branch and flirt with the tellers. Maybe they don't consider it flirting, but given my lackluster social life of late, a smile from a lady qualifies as flirting in my book. Banking has been more personal and intimate on those visits because there was no bullet-proof glass. That is, until today's visit.

The branch I visit most often is on Market Street here in Salem. It's on my route between home and work, which makes it a convenient place to stop. Apparently it has proved convenient for people with less scrupulous intentions too, because that branch has been robbed twice in the last year, most recently in January. I guess that was too much for the bank. Now there is bullet-proof glass. So, now the tellers are certainly safer. But banking has become more impersonal again. I miss a lot of things about Southern California.

However, I learned today that impersonal banking conducted through bullet-proof glass was definitely not on the list of things for which I was longing.

She was my first, but I'm starting to see the light

We've been together a long time. We've covered a lot of ground together. I wasn't sure our relationship would last this long. Family and friends tell me I need to move on. But it's not that easy.

When we met, I'd only been in California a few months. She helped me get through my first long hot summer in the Mojave. We've been together ever since that July day in 1995. I was only 29 then. And, well, she was my first.

She was the first, and only, car I've ever bought new.

Well, actually she's a truck. A 1995 Dodge Dakota.

I traded in a car I loved, a 1988 Honda Prelude, for her. But the Honda didn't adapt too well to life in Southern California. Someone punched the lock and stole some stuff out of it. But that wasn't enough to jilt her. The real reason for the breakup was that she didn't come equipped with air conditioning. That hadn't been an issue when I was in college in Corvallis. It wasn't even much of a problem during summers in Eastern Oregon. It certainly was not a problem on the Oregon Coast. But in the Mojave, where, if memory serves, every day in July that summer was hotter than 110 degrees, it was a different story. No air conditioning was definitely a problem.

So I traded her in. I decided to get a pickup, because I was a long way from home, family and friends and didn't know many people in town yet. My dad always had pickups I could borrow. I had a Toyota pickup part of the time through college. I might need a truck in California.

As it turned out in the nearly 14 years since, I haven't really needed a truck all that often. But I still have her, and she's taken good care of me over the years. There have been a few bangs and scrapes with inanimate objects. And one little fender bender when I couldn't quite manage the clutch and brake fast enough at a stoplight. Not bad for nearly a decade and a half.

When I moved back to Oregon in 2005 I thought maybe that might be our last summer together. But there was really no room in the budget for a car payment, so we've stayed together. The relationship was strained when gas got up in the $4 a gallon territory. When I first bought her I could fill her up for about $15. At one point last year it cost about $75. That kept both of us close to home on weekends.

The truth is, she doesn't get all the attention she deserves because money has been tight. The new tires she got late last year weren't really in the budget either. But she and I were both glad she had them when she we needed to navigate snowy roads in December in and around Portland and Salem. The guy at Les Schwab warned me that the brakes were showing wear too, but I knew I couldn't afford that bill with Christmas coming.

But we may not be able to wait any longer. A couple of warning lights popped up on the dash yesterday. The ABS and brake lights are on, glowing steady, and I can feel the mushiness in the brakes. I am nursing them all I can, but I know there is a trip to the brake shop in my immediate future.

Tires, brakes. That's stuff that need to be replaced from time to time. But that's not the only trouble she's seen lately. Last year after watching my daughter play in the state golf tournament she refused to start. Her battery cracked and the acid damaged the cables and some parts in the engine compartment. She had to be towed to a repair shop. It was the second time she'd been in for repairs since we got to Oregon. She needs other work too. She needs shocks. The windshield has a nasty crack. She leaks oil.

And the odometer reads more than 130,000 miles. Not bad, given her age. But I'm not certain how many miles she really has left.

I never thought she'd carry me this far. Or this long. She's been a loyal and trusted companion. I'll miss her when she's gone. And I'll miss not having car payments. But I won't miss the repair bills. I guess I know where my tax refund is going this year.

Ode to a dream job

Sometimes I wonder what I would do if I wasn't a journalist. I used to be fond of saying, "I can always pump gas," based on my experience working for my dad when I was a teen. One of my jobs was servicing the airplanes, pickups and other rigs around the place. That involved pumping a lot of gas.

For a decade I had to stop saying "I can always pump gas," because it didn't make since to anyone in California when I lived there. California had self-service gas stations. Everyone pumped gas in California.

Now, I suppose, I could use the line again as a born-again Oregonian. I don't think my creditors would support the career change though.

But I may have found it. I have a new dream job.

I want to be a copy writer for Del Taco tray liners.

Seriously.

On my way home from work I decided to stop off for dinner someplace where I could get a taste of California. I have been eating at home primarily lately, and frankly, my cooking skills leave something to be desired. I needed a change. There is one Del Taco restaurant in Salem and it reminds me of SoCal. For several years I lived just a few miles down the road from Yermo, Calif., the birthplace of the Mexican fast food chain. Although, as I recall, Barstow tries to claim for Del Taco's founding. If you've ever been to Barstow, you'd understand the people there need to be known for something beyond being a piss stop between L.A. and Las Vegas.

I was never a big fan of Barstow, but I loved the California deserts. The Mojave, with it's Joshua trees, the Colorado, with it's palm trees and mountain vistas. And warm, no, HOT sun and dry air. It was nirvana, and I needed a little reminder of that Eden to start my weekend.

So there I was, enjoying my soft tacos and daydreaming about the desert when I look down and there, on thin paper lining a plastic tray, was my key to a new career aspiration.

Whoever wrote the "Ode to the Bold" as part of Del Taco's "Go Bold or Go Home" campaign may have the best job ever.

Here's an excerpt.

"Here's to the pioneers. ... To the first to look a bull in the eyes and say, 'Yea, I'm gonna ride that. And with one hand.' Here's to the uninhibited. ... The lovers that honor one another with tattoos, The streakers. And the mooners. Here's to the brave. To those who can't karaoke, but karaoke anyway. ... Or objected at a wedding that needed an objection (thank you, thank you, thank you). Here's to the rule-breakers. ... And all the 4s out thee who married a 10. Here's to you, our customers. ... For you are the bold."

Made me feel like a stud for just eating a taco. I'm glad a went for the Del Scorcho sauce.

If you are going to go bold, you have to go all the way.

I kept the tray liner. I'm thinking of having it framed.

I wonder if the tray liner writer job comes with any pirques, like free combo burritos?

A night reminiscing reminiscing about sunny days gone by

It's rather amazing to find that when I have a life, and life it, I don't have much time to post to the blog.

Last weekend, I had the distinct pleasure of taking my daughter out to lunch for her birthday. And while I did find time to write a post about that, I haven't spent much time in recreational writing since then.

On Friday, a couple of friends and former coworkers were coming through Portland and I met them for dinner and drinks. We spent far too few fun-filled hours sharing stories of the old days (roughly about 3-8 years ago) when we worked together. There were tales of people we encountered along the way.

Two members of our party are now living here in the Northwest, still enduring a winter than refuses to yield to spring, in spite of the longer days an blossoms on the trees, now being beaten off the branches by those mythical April showers. But the third member of our triumvirate still lives in sunny Southern California. I'm sure you can tell who is the sun worshipper by the photo.

It fascinates me how sometimes time can melt away when friends or family get together after an absence. Weeks, or months -- even years -- can disappear, almost as if no time at all has passed. But for our little trio, a surprising amount of time has passed. It's been about five years since we shared a good meal, good drink, good stories and good laughs.

My friends, Julie and Cindy, and I worked together at a newspaper in Palm Springs. Working in an environment of deadline pressure and high expectations forged some tight bonds, and forced some others to unravel.

I feel lucky to have made some good friends during the years I spend in California. But there is a sadness to it too, realizing that circumstances and distance have scattered us to all corners of the country. I don't see so many of the people that I grew to admire and respect, personally and professionally.

But for a few hours on Friday, time not only stood still, but the clock turned backwards to a time when the 21st century was just beginning and the sun shone every day. And the days the sun didn't shine were so unusual that it made news.

Death takes a road trip

There is a story out on the Associated Press wire about a woman who died while on a cross-country journey with her family. They were traveling in an RV and the woman died while crossing Wyoming. I've only felt like I might die while crossing Wyoming, but she actually went and did it. But the family didn't stop. They continues on their journey to Oregon before reporting the death.

The story reminds me of a story that a newspaper I worked for several years ago reported about a family that drove the patriarch of their family across the country in the back of his car, post mortem. The guy's final wish was to make one last road trip in his car, and he got his wish. Of course he got embalmed before his trip.

I wish I could find the story that was published in the Daily Press back then by then-reporter Don Holland. It was a story that could have been creepy, or morbid, but Don handled it well and it was actually a humorous story. If memory serves, my friend Mike Sweeney (the photojournalist, not the baseball player, whom I don't know) took the photo that accompanied the story, which was also tastefully done and fit the tone of the story.

I wish I had a copy of that story.

By boss back then used to say that every weird story either began or ended in the desert. In that case, he was referring to the Mojave Desert. Well, not every weird story starts or ends in the desert (although even this one started in California). Some weird stories lead right here to the Willamette Valley.