Fossil Rock

Has he lost his mind?

Can he see or is he blind?

Can he walk at all,

or if he moves will he fall?

-Ozzy

Have you ever wondered what it would have been like to walk through the hall of your high school as a student, to the beat of a bashing drum, fuzzy electric guitar, and the rest of a live rock band vibrating the floors beneath your feet?  The kids at Fossil found out exactly what that was like the other day.

A friend and fellow AmeriCorps member asked me to sub for his class for a few days recently and I jumped at the chance to teach.  We’ve been spending a lot of time networking and setting up the program so I find that I’ve usually only taught a couple of days out of the week so far.

The drive was as beautiful as ever.  The contrast of the sky from one side of the Cascades to the other is striking.  The East so saturated in vitamin D, clear and crisp and home sky so devoid of color.  My partner and I hoped up over the lip of the gorge to face the sun and the long reaching arms of the windmills for the first time in a week or more.

We made it to the school with just enough time to get briefed on the students, set up and there they were, shinning faces and all.  As I worked with the first class, the words of the secretary kept echoing in the back of my mind.  “Watch out for that Junior High class, they’ve been giving your friend a run for his money.”  Well, don’t worry too much, for I lived to tell the tail.

I’m proud to say, the first couple of classes went off as smooth as any can that you’ve planned for and never met.  It was time for the dreaded class.  A group of four seemingly docile students with a passion for music joined me in our little space.  Four students seemed so harmless.  Minding the advice I was given, I proceeded to have them play bucket drums to give them a chance to really take out any aggressions they might have on their instrument instead of me.  As I began to work with them I recognized a genuine passion for music making.  Most of them were in line with some of the better-behaved students I’d worked with.  One of them, the only boy in the class, seemed to have a bit of spunk but it wasn’t anything that couldn’t have been curbed by being given something to do.  He was eager to do well.

A few minutes into class a final kid, we’ll call him Fred McDowell, sulked through the door and that’s when the fun started.  Immediately Fred derailed spunky and all hell broke loose.  The two of them were not only successful in derailing the lesson but you could see the frustration on all three of the girl’s faces.  I got the impression they had seen this before.

Ultimately, Fred ended up in the hall until he was ready but the damage was done.  I found out later that Fred was forced into the class because he wasn’t doing so well in school and in fact was not interested in playing music at all as he shared with me more than a few times over the next couple of days.  The kids all sat with an exasperated look on their face. 

We decided the best thing to do was have some time for each of them to pick an instrument of choice and have a little dabbling time, while I traipsed around and offered advice.  Everybody picked something different.  I was totally shocked when Fred was finally ready to come back in and saw what we were doing.  He immediately grabbed the bass and started going to town.  Apparently, the teacher had been giving him some lessons.   After this we tried a final group game that Fred had suggested.  I wanted to give him a chance to be successful.  I should have known better.  Immediately the rest of the group showed animosity to the game and each other.  It was the same animosity that had been targeted at Fred.  This was a damaged society.  Barf.

That night I couldn’t sleep.  I tossed and turned trying to imagine how I was going to be able to make an impact on a group of kids whom I now had a damaged relationship with only two days left.  I went over and over the class in my head until I must have passed out eventually.  With no great ideas I trudged back to school a bit defeated.  I still had the rest of the great classes to look forward to.

I entered the room and looked around.  That’s when it hit me all at once.  We had had somebody playing a loud electric guitar, someone playing bass, another working on vocal exercises, a fourth at the piano…or should I say keys, and a final willing participant that to my later enjoyment found would be super pumped to play the drums.  Built in Rock band.  Oh man, oh man did I get excited.  I made the plan while I still had a minute.

Over the next two days Iron man shook the halls of Fossil. 

The surface of the moon

Sunday, September 11^th, 2011

Last week I traveled on the surface of the moon.  Our program  took us to the rest of the permanent sites around eastern Oregon.  We spent time meeting with all of the administrators and learning a little about the schools.  Between sites I rode in awe as we passed by gigantic windmills, huge castle shaped rock formations and the massive winding John Day Canyon.  I was reminded of a problem that my friend Wes described to me when we were riding bikes through the Red Woods when attempting to convey the scale of the desert environment:  you can’t.

Our boss is a kind young woman about my age with fierce musical skill and a humble and fun loving nature.  She took us to a great swimming hole and a hike to the palisades that I won’t soon forget.  I was able to go home with a handful of strong smelling sage.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes. Monday, August 22, 2011

Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
(Turn and face the strain)
Ch-ch-Changes
Don't want to be a richer man
Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
(Turn and face the strain)
Ch-ch-Changes
Just gonna have to be a different man
Time may change me
But I can't trace time

-David Bowie

The smell of fall is hanging thick in the hot dry summer air.  It’s the smell of burning leaves and the smell of change.  It’s the right time of the year but it feels so sudden.  It’s a distinct smell that means it’s time for bright red maple trees, Halloween and for life to bring on something new.  There are no colorful leaves here or miniature witches and Freddy Cruggers just yet.  Instead the smell is the source of the ash that lands in my hand like snow. 

The ash comes from a forest fire outside of Madras, Oregon.  Madras is the self-proclaimed gateway to eastern Oregon’s high desert.  It is so dry here that lightning from a passing storm sparked a fire that has brought firefighters from all over the state to do what they can to control the natural and unsettling blaze.  They are everywhere.  Camping outside of schools and community buildings and occupying a majority of the hotel rooms in the area.  The fires are so expected here that many of the men and women that we pass depend on them for their lively hood.

I find myself currently staying in one of the hotels with a red blinking no vacancy sign near downtown Madras.  Part of me keeps wondering why but I know the answer.  I have very recently taken an AmeriCorps State/Nation funded position through the Ethos non-profit music center in Portland, OR. 

When I first saw the job advertised I could barely believe it.  One of the more unique looking places in Portland – the same place that I’d already applied to twice - was looking for two crazy folks to travel around the state in an RV and teach music in schools that couldn’t afford music for their kids.  I wanted it but didn’t think I had a chance with all the experienced jobless music teachers in town.  Not a day before I had already been put on the schedule at a local pizza place when I got the call.

It was a pretty quick gearshift.  I went from teaching a little bit, job searching and spending a lot of time wondering “what now?”  Now I’d be spending half of my time for the next year in Portland working 40-hour weeks at the headquarters and the other half on the road with someone that I hadn’t met.  A huge feeling of relief came with that phone call.

When my incredibly kind brother-in-law found out about the job he suggested that I keep a video blog.  However, I have never been very good at spitting out words and have always thought that I had a better face for radio.  I decided instead to save no one in particular the trouble of listening to me stumble through nonsense while having to stare at my ugly mug by just writing it down instead.

After a week of training I learned that my soon to be road buddy and folks I am working for are all admirable people.  I also learned that I should not know where to expect to be more than a week in advance and that we still didn’t have an RV for the trip.  “We can stop by Camping World on the way home.” explained my new boss as he navigated a fifteen-passenger van quickly around a sharp turn overlooking a steep valley floor at the base of Mount Hood with phone in hand.  The current situation was quite characteristic of what I have observed of him.  He’s a very intelligent and creative Harvard grad and new father that always seems to be juggling multiple projects while plowing ahead full steam whether he’s on a beaten path or in the middle of the jungle.  It’s fun to watch but I’m pretty happy where I am.

The van was carrying two other AmeriCorps members to their permanent house in Madras.  Where that was, we weren’t sure yet.  The days mission was to find a home.  My partner Andrea and I were along for the ride.  We had been asked the week before to go visit each of the six permanent outreach member’s sites since we would also need to act as subs and suppliers for them throughout the year.

After digging around for a bit we checked into a hotel.  Behind the main office I found a little pool to wash the ash off from nearby fires.  A friend of mine had talked me into working toward something to stay in shape a few nights before. I decided to try for a triathlon without really considering the number of times I would find the resources necessary to swim laps in my travels. 

Hopefully, this wouldn’t be the only opportunity but I decided it would do.  That is until I tried to swim a lap that took me a little over five seconds of paddling before having to turn around.  None of the other folks in the pool seemed to appreciate my splashing around either.  It was kind of like that Wainwright song, “This summer I went swimming, this summer I might have drowned but I held my breath and I kicked my feet and I moved my arms around…” except I didn’t really have to move my arms because I could have just stood up and found the edge anywhere in the pool pretty quickly if I had been at risk.

            Once laps finished I ran into Clifford.  He was a man with a kind face from Portland that had moved to Madras for work at the hotel.  He told me about his uncle who owned the gas station down the street from our house.  After offering to give him Clifford’s regards he shared that they had not spoke in years due to a missed tee time.  Family can be hard on each other at times but to excommunicate someone from your life because of a golf game?  It made me think more about the importance of family and how easy it is to take those relationships for granted.

Later, I took a walk along the sidewalks that were still left unrolled in the town and was amazed at how much bigger it felt than my own hometown.  How could a town of this size not be able to afford music in their elementary schools when my own hometown had three music teachers in one of the elementary schools?  There must be some reasons for Oregon’s lack of music in their schools besides funding.  I hope to get to the bottom of this soon.

I ducked into a little pub that had the US open on TV.  It was the kind of place that only took six or seven bellies to the bar to feel crowded.  I tried to start a conversation with the man I was sitting next to but he was too busy socializing on a social network to socialize with anything other than his phone.  Instead, I downed the last of my pint and went back to the roads equivalent to home.