Island light
Another Bus Therapy trip, and resolutions for the coming year
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Solstice slides away
It was here, it has gone, now it’s past. The solstice slipped through Portland before breakfast on Sunday. Now the days grow longer, each day a new surprise, like an unlooked-for gift, slipped into the mailbox while we were away.
Deep winter
The trees are finally bare Every leaf is gone The limbs scratch the sky, asking where and why, While sap flows and roots stretch all winter long.
Bronzed by the dawn
I got out early on Christmas Day to catch a shaft of brilliant dawn light illuminating downtown skyscrapers.
Sauvie Island light
This week I had another Bus Therapy adventure with a friend. We took TriMet’s No. 16/St. Helen’s Road bus to Sauvie Island. I love how the 16’s route skirts the Port of Portland and proceeds up US 30, St. Helens Road, to cross the soaring St. Johns Bridge. We remained on the bus as it wound through St. Johns, then recrossed the bridge and headed north to Sauvie Island.
To access the island, the 16 crosses the small Wapato suspension bridge. It then stops for a layover near the Cracker Barrel Grocery. Maria and I have half an hour to explore before the bus heads back on its 10-mile trip to downtown.
The bus has just the one stop on Sauvie Island. You need a car or a bicycle to fully explore this 24,000-acre island on the Columbia River, a bucolic sprawl of truck farms and nature preserves.
Dramatic light
The day we traveled was a day of clouds and sun breaks and stark winter landscapes. It was a day of sun and shadow. The light was spectacular.
At the entrance to the island, a memorial to fallen soldiers erected by the American Legion in 1961 overlooks a tall tree seems to be growing from the spreading tree in front of it.
Along a ridge, a sun break highlights a row of winter trees, golden against the evergreens.
When I tried to capture the Wapato Bridge, aiming southeast, the sharp morning sunlight blew out my phone’s camera to startling effect.
Here’s the bridge from the bus park. A woman is loading up her bike for the trip back to Portland.
The day was all about dramatic clouds and shadows.
On the way back
Passing through the small settlement of Linnton, I grab a shot—through the front window of the bus—of a sign that I had noticed on the way out: a big restaurant “eat” on top of a sign for a cannabis outlet.
Tale of a scow
Poking around the internet, chasing an idea, can be a lot of fun. Or a waste of time. You never know.
At a Starbucks, I strike up a conversation with another customer who mentions that he is retired from Gunderson Marine.
His mention of Gunderson gets me wondering.
I’ve been curious about Gunderson after seeing its huge installation along Northwest Front Avenue from the 16/St. Helens Road bus. I marveled at the long, long blank white structure. I mean long, like blocks, maybe half a mile.
I wonder what Gunderson builds behind that wall. The internet tells me that the company builds barges of all sorts: railroad car barges; self-propelled barges; deck, cargo, hopper and fuel barges. And split-hull dump scows.
And what, I wonder, is a split-hull dump scow? On the internet, YouTube has a video of one in action. The bottom of the scow splits open to dump its load, usually dredged material, into the ocean.
Then I wonder: wait, couldn’t dumping harm marine life? More quick internet research turns up an article by Cashman, a marine development firm in Quincy, Mass. It explains that a technique known as “geo-fencing” uses GPS to ensure that each load is dumped in an EPA-compliant zone.
So now I know some things about this quintessentially Portland company. And I know a little bit about a similar concern in Massachusetts. And I’m reminded that the world works around us all the time in ways we aren’t aware of.
I could have gone my entire life without knowing what a split-hulled dump scow is. But now that I do know, I’m glad I do.
And now you know, too.
Clumsiness: the poem
Butterfingers
Today I dropped the horseradish, White goop on the floor Someone didn’t screw the top on tight. That someone was me. I can’t control my elbows, knocking Anything to the floor that sits Too close to the edge of the counter. You’d think I’d know to push things back. My sleeve sends some just-chopped onions From the cutting board to the floor. You’d think I'd be prepared for things like that, but there’s always Some new step to learn In the dance of disability. Or maybe I’m just getting old. This happens.
Every month a new theme
In past years, I’ve announced a theme to write about for each month in the coming year. Here’s a list for 2026. This time, I’m including a horoscope sign for each month.
January Buy nothing. Capricorn. February Are we writing? Aquarius March Gathering inspiration where we may. Pisces April Spring cleaning. Aries May Discipline and love. Taurus June Wispy whispers of inspiration. Gemini July Wisdom from water. Cancer August Moving our energy. Leo September Ripeness and harvest. Virgo October Celebrating our ghosts. Libra November Closer to death. Scorpio December Out with the old. Sagittarius
A movie for the season
“Holy Man,” with Eddie Murphy and Jeff Goldblum, is perfect holiday viewing, a fun comedy with a great script and talented actors. It’s streaming on Prime Video.
I wrote my thoughts on this film three years ago in a posting called “Comfort and a Movie.” I have not encountered another reviewer who sees the point of this movie: what would Jesus be like if he came back as a Black man with a great sense of humor?
Eddie Murphy as Jesus, really? Yes. The clues are all over this movie. The character is named G, he walks across a busy freeway as if it’s the Sea of Galilee, and he’s ready to lay down his life for his friend (by staying in a soul-sucking job instead of continuing his quest). He also pulls practical jokes on his friends and the other salespeople on the cable shopping network where he takes a job—again to help out his friends.
He isn’t strict or somber or solemn like the golden-haired Jesus of the painting in your infant bedroom. He’s a trickster who nonetheless slips messages about love and compassion into his TV sales spiels. Just because he’s irreverent doesn’t mean he can’t be divine.
G is down with selling tchotchkes on a cable shopping network. Ratings go through the roof. He gets millions of viewers to get in touch with themselves by simply walking outdoors and touching some grass.
“Holy Man” came out in 1997. I hope you can watch it. I’m really curious whether you share my take on it.
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Self portrait
After having published a couple of photos of deep brass players at Portland’s Tuba Christmas concert, I gave these photos a closer look. I’m in them! The reflection in the bell of this tuba shows a woman in blue in a wheelchair, camera raised. That’s me.
A really good read
Oregon ArtsWatch recently published a review I wrote of Unfixed: A Memoir of Family, Mystery, and the Currents That Carry You Home, by Kimberly Warner. It is a riveting memoir about how she deals with a mysterious and debilitating illness and how it transforms her life.
Warner’s disability makes her feel dizzy and unbalanced all day, every day. The only time she’s not bothered by the vertigo is when she is in passive motion, like riding in a car. I am astounded at how she can accomplish so much—and do it so well.
Warner lives in rural Washington County. She is the founder of Unfixed Media, described as “a multimedia storytelling platform that shares and elevates the voices of people living with chronic illness and disability.” All of the videos she produces are available to stream for free.
She has a Substack, too, also called Unfixed.
Until next week
Thank you for reading. Please comment! I love comments.
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—Fran
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Fran, I really appreciate your openness to surprises: photos within photos, an expected image turned to dramatic light, one question leading to another.
A friend recently encouraged me to "Stay open to the universe." You are an excellent example of this kind of living. Thank you.
Loved the trip to the island and the tuba photo. Your year's monthly theme chart is a good idea to kee a writer focused ... at least for a while. Things change.