North by Northwest

Portland, OR

The Southwest 737 lifts off from SMF and heads northwest, and just as we reach 10,000 feet the sun rises between twin Sierra peaks. I think of Icarus--not because my wings are melting but because like most sons I never spent enough time listening to my father. About 90 minutes later we descend into cold and sunny PDX, where I am embraced by family who after a couple stops transport us and an energetic basset hound toward the Oregon coast. How green are the valleys and hills, a nice change from the great central valley of northern California that is already acquiring its normal shade of summer brown. The sun is full, and Mt. Hood and Mt. St. Helens are bold against the blue sky. It is Chamber of Commerce weather.

We pass through Tillamook but do not stop for cheese. I was last in Tillamook 2 years ago when one of these same family members attended a memorial service for a friend but left me to wander rainy streets and to sit comfortably in Muddy Waters Coffee and Tea Company. During that same trip we buried the cat Phoenix in the back yard, so that trip was nothing if not unique. On this visit, after Tillamook we proceed north to Manzanita Beach for a run across the sand, a nice respite for a chronically painful lower back that a day's worth of 800 mg. ibuprofen has done very little to help. I've been eating the pills like candy for the last week. On the sand, I run with Maya the Amazing Basset and am happy there is one creature that has legs shorter than my own. It's not Chariots of Fire by any means, but I'm proud that I can still out-run a hound dog, at least until it gets bored with me.

Farther north is Cannon Beach where we romp some more and search for shells of the nautical variety. Kids fly kites. Humans let their dogs run free on the beach. Seagulls--rats with beaks-- glide above us; dead ones decompose in feathery clumps at our feet. Several hours later we are in Tualatin, a place I have grown quite fond of even if I do sometimes have to bury cats.

The next day we visit Powell's Books, a place you could get lost in and not complain. I pick up a new soft-cover Moleskine notebook, Edward Hirsch's Special Orders (new/poetry); Pearl S. Buck's The Good Earth (used/fiction); and Tim Cahill's Lost in My Own Backyard (used/nonfiction). I would buy more, but I am limited to carry-on luggage, which is probably a good limitation. There are volumes of Emerson and Thoreau I caress but finally reject, and an apparently newly published collection of Vonnegut essays that will have to wait until I get home and can use my Border's gift card, a gift from a son who understands this book-thing. Some people might find this bookstore overwhelming, nearly unbrowsable because of the sheer number of possibilities. This is a bookstore that offers a color-coded map, it is so large. There is a coffee shop.

Another Southwest flight takes me southwest. The plane is full and the man in the middle seat next to me takes possession of my shoulder space and our shared armrest so that I spend the entire flight listing to starboard. He pulls one cell phone out of his pocket and one from his little cell-phone holder, and he shuts them both off. I read the current edition of Harper's Magazine and finish right before touchdown--nearing depression because of how bleak articles in the magazine make the economy out to be. The man in the middle seat turns his cellphones back on as soon as he receives permission, and I think again: what would happen if we had phones but nobody called? Hell, nobody calls mine. Outside the airport the air is too warm for early April, but it will have to do.