Some Reflections on the Power of Music (Jan. 1, ’25)
For as long as I can remember, Handel’s Messiah has been an antidote to whatever end-of-year blues ailed me. I think of it as my holiday anthem: an infusion of hope — a Prince of Peace — as the Winter Solstice dims the lights. I am not religious, I should add. Growing up, music, mostly classical music, was the soundtrack of my life. Beethoven, Mozart, Tchaikovsky, Mendelssohn, Mahler, Wagner, Dvořák, and more — they accompanied me morning to night. My mother and oldest brother, Alan, were the turntablists, moving music through the two-by-three foot speakers in the front hall of our house in Princeton, New Jersey. One minute the brilliance of Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite would fill the air. An hour later, the pathos of Brahms 3rd Symphony would cool things down. We played multiple instruments, my two brothers and I. My mother had played the piano since she was seven. At dinner, we debated what instrument was best or who was the better composer — Bach, Beethoven, or Brahms.
The Hill We Climb (Feb. 3. ’25)
Two weeks into Donald Trump’s presidency, the hill we climb towards a union with purpose has become steeper and higher than ever. The current dismantling of DEI (the culprit, really, behind last week’s DC aviation disaster?) makes this February’s Black History Month all the more notable. As snow falls today in the Rogue Valley, I decided to offer up two doses of historical action from a handful of brave Black Oregon women. (I learned today that Oregon’s state motto is Alis Volta Propriis which means “She Flies With Her Own Wings.”) The first shares an amazing interviewwith local hero, Dr. Geneva Craig, who marched on March 7, 1965 with Martin Luther King across the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, a day that came to be known as “Bloody Sunday.” Craig was a teenager then. The second offers sketches of four Black Oregon women who raised their voices — from 1862 to the present — for women’s rights and against the racism that pervaded their lives. In Oregon, this unquiet racial history began with the 1843 “lash law” (which mandated that blacks attempting to settle in Oregon be publicly whipped) and grew to include exclusive white landownership, the rise of the Klu Klux Klan, the 1950’s urban removal of Blacks in Portland, sundown towns, and decades of white nationalism. Against this dark story, these Black women flew.
Building Something New: Ashland Youth Make Theater Together (Feb. 23. ’25)
In a city where 0.53 percent of the population is Black and 18 percent are 65 and older (‘23 census), the Empowered Arts Ensemble, with its young multi-racial acting troupe, stands apart. In a tourist destination dedicated to the Bard, it centers young people as theater creators in their own right. In lieu of challenging youth on the sports field, the Empowered Arts Ensemble builds young acting muscles through theater games and improvisation in a church alcove. The winners are not only the youth, but also the local community and beyond, inspired and challenged, I hope, by these unheard and unseen voices. Through public performances and local media, this young ensemble will pose their own questions — about belonging and becoming when you’re not part of the mainstream, publicly celebrating differences, teamwork, curiosity, safety, and more.
When College Is a Balancing Act (March 19)
“My identity in my house is ‘the one that goes to college, the one that is trying to do something for her life.’ Everybody looks at me, they’re proud of me,” a student who was the first in her family to go to college told me years ago. “Just to know that somebody is proud of you makes you reach for more.” We each have our passions and one of mine, for fifty years, has been helping high school students like Shyann, marginalized by class and/or race put college in their sights. For many years, the biggest battle was encouraging these students to believe in themselves. “I’m not college material,” they said. Teachers and counselors, unwittingly or not, often fortified this message. What made these students “not college material” had more to do with the education system in which they’d been forged than anything to do with their abilities or drive. Happily, one doesn’t hear the phrase “college material” as much anymore. Today’s Damocles Sword is the cost of college attendance. For students who would be the first-in-their-family to go to college, believing in themselves is not enough.
Wildlife Crossings: Helping Animals Commute (April 20)
Roadkill — in relation to animals and not politicians — is undeniably sad. If you’re like me, the easiest way to deal with that sadness is to look the other way. But, in reality, it’s haunting. When I was eighteen, my family, for whom driving across the country was a summer habit, decided to christen the Trans-Canada Highway which had opened in July 1962, following it from Montreal to Vancouver. Car travel along this new network of largely rural two-lane roads, we quickly discovered, surprised not only the humans along the way but also the moose who called it home. By the time we reached the Canadian Rockies, we’d come across several, huge, freshly killed moose stretched out on the roadside. “This is not okay,” my older brother Tommy, who knew a lot about wildlife from reading National Geographic, said angrily.
Define “needless death,” he might have added, and roadkill was right there. Not just in Canada but around the world. It was one of life’s hard truths: out of sight, out of mind
San Francisco: She Leaves a Mark (June 9)
In Travels with Charley, John Steinbeck wrote about his love affair with San Francisco: When I was a child growing up in Salinas we called San Francisco ‘the City.’ Of course it was the only city we knew, but I still think of it as the City, and so does everyone else who has ever associated with it. Once I knew the City very well, spent my attic days there, while others were being a lost generation in Paris. I fledged in San Francisco, climbed its hills, slept in its parks, worked on its docks, marched and shouted in its revolts. In a way I felt I owned the City as much as it owned me. He spent the next the next decades traveling the world. In September 1960, the famed Steinbeck and his 10-year-old French poodle, Charley, set off on a one-man, one-dog journey that would take them about 10,000 miles through 38 states in six weeks, ending in San Francisco. He wrote about his first glimpse of “The City” after many years: San Francisco put on a show for me. I saw her across the bay, from the great road that bypasses Sausalito and enters the Golden Gate Bridge. … I’ve never seen her more lovely. When I was a child and we were going to the City, I couldn’t sleep for several nights before, out of busting excitement. She leaves a mark. San Francisco has been close to my heart all my life.
Small Wonders: Naming the Things We Love (July 4, ’25)
A few days ago, I started re-reading Barbara Kingsolver’s 2002 novel, Small Wonder, a favorite of mine. I bathed in Kingsolver’s words as an antidote to an especially destructive week for our democracy — as if it hadn’t already been destroyed enough. Yesterday’s passage of the “Big Beautiful Bill” spurred me to spend today’s Independence Day harvesting some of Kingsolver’s reminders about savoring the small wonders that punctuate our daily lives. (A note: At this morning’s Ashland July 4th parade, a group of young people holding “End Genocide” and “Free Palestine” banners kicked off the festivities — I’m not quite sure how they snuck in — followed by eight police on motorcycles and the city’s marching band.) Kingsolver reminds us to name the things we love, of graciousness among friends, about exercising resistance, about needing wild places.
Resilience Amid Uncertainty: Some Thoughts on a University in Crisis (Aug. 11, ’25))
“It’s hard to say how I ended up at SOU,” Sarah Grulikowski (’21) told me. “I’m not sure any seventeen-year-old really has a plan for how they choose a college. I was drawn to Southern Oregon University by the opportunities it provided: the incredible access to the outdoors, the world-class theater down the street, and the small class sizes.” She continues: “When I visited SOU for the first time, I was surprised by a few things. First, the woman I’d met at a coffee shop that morning was right: The library really did look like something out of Treehouse Masters. Second, the campus community was just so welcoming. I walked onto the campus that morning not knowing anyone. But by the end of the day, I’d received a tour of the theater building, met a handful of faculty, and even connected with the Director of Student Life. I immediately felt like I fit in, and that was enough for me.
The first eruption surfaced in 2023 when the university adopted a fiscal realignment plan that involved cutting 82 full-time equivalent positions, or 13 percent of university staff, and collapsing several academic departments. Falling student enrollment and chronic underfunding from the Oregon legislature (Oregon ranks 46th in state funding for higher education) had taken a large toll. Today, two years later, the hazards have grown only bigger. Student enrollment at SOU is down a stunning 10 percent for this fall and the Trump administration’s plans to amend federal student loans and Pell grants (anchors for SOU’s largely working class students) have pushed the university to what the university’s President Rick Bailey calls a “financial exigency.” The university will need to cut an additional 15 percent of its budget in the next three years to become solvent, SOU’s Board of Trustees have decided. “We’ve never been able to put money in reserves, and because of that, every time there’s a crisis, we have to do something drastic just to move forward,” President Bailey said.
The Oregon Outback: From Dark Skies to Cow Free (Aug. 20, ’25)
The persistent heat here in Southern Oregon this summer, combined with wildfire smoke, has created its own peculiar lockdown for local residents. Come early afternoon, it’s best to hibernate indoors as the heat and smoke reach their crescendo. Night offers little respite. The peak temperatures of late afternoon linger well into the evening. This past Sunday, the lockdown began early as smoke cloaked the landscape and an acrid smell hung in the air. I figured this was a good day to write, my ballast in this topsy-turvy world, and I ended up with this account of the day before: the sudden disappearance of the frogs in our pond, a morning walk in Lithia Park, a matinee and popcorn at Ashland’s Varsity Cinema, sending postcards to Montana voters while watching the Olympics.
Weed: The Sinuous Story of a Northern California Lumber Town (Sept. 22, ’25))
Two years ago, I posted a story about my then three-year-old grandson’s passion for trains and how on a Thanksgiving visit to Ashland from Denver, his home, he had patiently sat along the empty train tracks that run through Ashland, hoping to catch a “live” train. After two days of waiting, Damian gave up his vigil. No trains passed. “So it’s over,” Damian sighed. “That’s sad.” Not quite, it turns out. Two days after Damian returned to Denver, I heard a train whistle unmistakingly coming from the tracks a mile from our house. “Damian, it’s back,” I shouted into the air. Since then, every Tuesday and Thursday, once in the morning and once in the afternoon, the soulful sound of a small freight train can be heard making its way through town. What’s the story? (I faintly remembered occasionally hearing a train’s whistle when we first moved to Ashland in 2018.) The quick take, I learned, is that the train, part of the Central Oregon and Pacific Railroad line, carries wood veneer from a small lumber mill in Weed, California, owned by Roseburg Forest Products, to Roseburg’s distribution center in Springfield, Oregon, a distance of 168 miles. Scratch deeper, and history of this Northern California mill town is as sinuous as the Siskiyou Summit, 11 miles south of Ashland.
First Descent: Indigenous Youth Kayak the Klamath River (Nov. 22, ’25)
A month ago, newspapers from the New York Times to The Guardian told the story of Indigenous teens conquering Southern Oregon’s and Northern California’s Klamath River on the heels of the largest dam-removal project in U.S. history. “One year after a historic dam removal, teens inspire river restoration worldwide: ‘It turns out you can win,’” the Guardian headline proclaimed. Armed with kayaks, the 28 teens representing seven tribes set off on a descent of the 300-mile Klamath after more than a hundred years of bondage. The article continued: “Ruby Williams’s pink kayak pierced the fog shrouding the mouth of the Klamath River, and she paddled harder. She was flanked on both sides by fellow Indigenous youth from across the basin, and their line of brightly colored boats would make history when they reached the Pacific Ocean a month later — they were going to do it together.” Ruby remembers saying goodbye to her uncle as she pushed off and his saying: “Go be historic.” She never looked back. This past week, Ruby, her peers, and their elders attended the COP30 Climate Change Conference in Brazil. They petitioned the United Nations to stop recognizing dams as clean energy eligible to receive carbon offset funding.
Winter Tide: Four Poems for the Season (Dec. 19, ’25)
Snow has yet to arrive here in the Rogue Valley. Instead, for the past two weeks, heavy fog has created a moody hush, lasting all day and obscuring most everything (maybe that’s a good thing these days). The fog has now given way to rain.
No matter the weather, the arrival of the Winter Solstice makes me reach for two of my favorite things: Handel’s glorious Messiah (check out this version: Handel’s Messiah Live from the Sydney Opera House) and poetry. Here I share four “seasonal” poems you might enjoy. The first and last are by Mary Oliver. “I love this world, but not for the answers,” writes Oliver in “Snowy Night.” In “Praying” she urges: “It doesn’t have to be / the blue iris, it could be / weeds in a vacant lot, or a few / small stones; just / pay attention, then patch / a few words together and don’t try / to make them elaborate, this isn’t / a contest but the doorway / into thanks, and a silence in which / another voice may speak.” Maya Angelou calls this time of year the “glad season” in her holiday poem “Amazing Grace” — and cries for peace. A.A. Milne’s “King John’s Christmas” channels Donald John Trump, beginning each stanza with the opening refrain, “King John was not a good man.”