News
Opinion
ENLARGE
I went to Music on the Half Shell Tuesday, and someone had moved my blanket. I hadn't been in five or so years (maybe six), but I hadn't expected things to change. I was so happy to get one of the last spots with a good view of the stage when I laid my blanket out at 5:23 that morning, and someone had moved my blanket. I saw that, not only was the blanket moved, but that now the only view I had was of a big tree trunk.
“What jerks!” I cried (not quietly) to my daughter and her friend. “They moved our blanket!”
I didn't care that the offending party was probably one of the group sitting next to me, in the exact spot I had been so happy to lay my blanket that morning. My shock and outrage overcame my normal reticence to be rude.
My beautiful, long-legged daughter and her equally lovely friend were too caught up in their own newly graduated summer lives to pay me much mind, but I found myself seething and seeing the park with new eyes. How could people so callously ignore the law of the blankets? Now, not only are they stealing them, they are moving them to situate their own more favorably. Blankets and their placement are sacrosanct. I had been cheated of my hard-earned evening of enjoyment!
My mind becomes distracted, though, by the silver sun on the white-capped riffles in the river. Translucent green leaves wave in the soft breeze against warm skies. The music transcends, the delicious red wine in my glass draws my mouth in appreciative sips and my eyes in placid appreciation of its lovely color. The trumpet player's long, beautiful hair (he's too far away for me to be able to make out a face, but his hair stands out even at this range) reminds me of an old flame and days when life laid before me like a magic carpet ride.
My girls can only take so much relaxation, and I send them off with all our clutter (including the blanket). Now, I have only a small bag with my bottle of wine. The grants I brought with me to read during the concert have now become the cushion for a rear-end that is well-padded, but no longer adjusts well to hard ground. I am alone now, but as I listen and watch I feel again the sense of community with the others in the park.
To the right of the stage, I watch a young man I don't know (except for his name, Stephen). I watched him dance many times when I used to come to the park years ago. His moves are more elegant now, and he seems to wear the love of the music like a veil over his face. He moves in perfect harmony, the rhythms of his body expressing exactly, perfectly, the flirtatious nuances of the French song I can't understand, but, along with Stephen, enjoy with every muscle and tendon in my body.
A friendly couple move in next to me and comment on my odd shoes (they have toes, and are amazingly comfortable to my sore, tired feet). The couple own a winery, and they know all of my employers. I take a moment to say a silent thank you to Betty, who gave me the job that allowed me to stop a grueling commute north every week to work, and to Joe and Cheryl, who gave me the second job that allows me to contemplate staying here. I love these beautiful, dry grass, madrone and scrub oak hills and the magical river that runs through them. Like a moth to a flame, I can't leave. But instead of the fiery death of the moth I find peace. My heart rests. I enjoy the moment of wine, and music, and community. How lucky I am to be here!
Blanket? What blanket?
Stacey Howard is a native Oregonian who has lived in Roseburg since 2002. She's the single family construction manager at NeighborWorks Umpqua, a hostess at the Blackbird Grill and a mother of six, five of whom are in college, She can be reached at stacey2872@gmail.com.
“What jerks!” I cried (not quietly) to my daughter and her friend. “They moved our blanket!”
I didn't care that the offending party was probably one of the group sitting next to me, in the exact spot I had been so happy to lay my blanket that morning. My shock and outrage overcame my normal reticence to be rude.
My beautiful, long-legged daughter and her equally lovely friend were too caught up in their own newly graduated summer lives to pay me much mind, but I found myself seething and seeing the park with new eyes. How could people so callously ignore the law of the blankets? Now, not only are they stealing them, they are moving them to situate their own more favorably. Blankets and their placement are sacrosanct. I had been cheated of my hard-earned evening of enjoyment!
My mind becomes distracted, though, by the silver sun on the white-capped riffles in the river. Translucent green leaves wave in the soft breeze against warm skies. The music transcends, the delicious red wine in my glass draws my mouth in appreciative sips and my eyes in placid appreciation of its lovely color. The trumpet player's long, beautiful hair (he's too far away for me to be able to make out a face, but his hair stands out even at this range) reminds me of an old flame and days when life laid before me like a magic carpet ride.
My girls can only take so much relaxation, and I send them off with all our clutter (including the blanket). Now, I have only a small bag with my bottle of wine. The grants I brought with me to read during the concert have now become the cushion for a rear-end that is well-padded, but no longer adjusts well to hard ground. I am alone now, but as I listen and watch I feel again the sense of community with the others in the park.
To the right of the stage, I watch a young man I don't know (except for his name, Stephen). I watched him dance many times when I used to come to the park years ago. His moves are more elegant now, and he seems to wear the love of the music like a veil over his face. He moves in perfect harmony, the rhythms of his body expressing exactly, perfectly, the flirtatious nuances of the French song I can't understand, but, along with Stephen, enjoy with every muscle and tendon in my body.
A friendly couple move in next to me and comment on my odd shoes (they have toes, and are amazingly comfortable to my sore, tired feet). The couple own a winery, and they know all of my employers. I take a moment to say a silent thank you to Betty, who gave me the job that allowed me to stop a grueling commute north every week to work, and to Joe and Cheryl, who gave me the second job that allows me to contemplate staying here. I love these beautiful, dry grass, madrone and scrub oak hills and the magical river that runs through them. Like a moth to a flame, I can't leave. But instead of the fiery death of the moth I find peace. My heart rests. I enjoy the moment of wine, and music, and community. How lucky I am to be here!
Blanket? What blanket?
Stacey Howard is a native Oregonian who has lived in Roseburg since 2002. She's the single family construction manager at NeighborWorks Umpqua, a hostess at the Blackbird Grill and a mother of six, five of whom are in college, She can be reached at stacey2872@gmail.com.
