OWP06

Walden's Pond(er)

Representative Greg Walden
House of Representatives
1404 Longworth
Washington, D.C. 20515

Attn: Valerie Henry
Legislative Assistant

Regarding: Continued Funding for Oregon Writing Project

July 20, 2006

Dear Representative Walden;

    I am writing to request your support for the Oregon Writing Project. This is a small program that has reaped giant results in a multitude of ways. The Oregon Writing Project allows teachers to come together and learn research-based writing techniques. Although districts and the state have a writing curriculum, this program provides teachers with a large bag of strategies to coax the most reluctant of writers into participating. The State writing curriculum has no value if the students refuse to participate. In the case of my special education students, they are so frustrated they gave up long ago.

   At the Oregon Writing Project, I have been given techniques, technologies, and a support network that I believe will help to bring back to my students some of the enthusiasm they lost.To say that my student’s suffer with writing assignments is an understatement. My students are what used to be called “slow learners”. These students, now in the upper grades, are long past caring if they get a poor grade report. I am leaving the Oregon Writing Project with many wonderful ideas. These ideas will encourage my students to at least try.

    Having access to the writing information, lesson plans,  and the ability to network with other teachers is "priceless" as the saying goes.  However, the Oregon Writing Project is not priceless, it requires funding.  I hope that you will see that the cost of the Writing Project is  far exceeded by it's benefits on multiple levels.  Please vote to continue funding. My student's and I need your support.

Sincerely,

Robin Rowe
PO Box 753
Gilchrist, OR 97737

9/11

    By the end of  the day most people had seen the images of the planes crashing into the World Trade Center at least once. Being an early riser I saw the whole ugly episode unfold from the beginning.  At first I thought I was watching a movie, but as the newscaster kept replaying the crash and my coffee began to kick in, I dawned on me it was real.  A plane had actually crashed into the tower! My dad was a vice president of an insurance company located on the 58th floor of  the second tower. But, the company also maintained several offices in the first tower. The first tower now ablaze, mortally wounded with a plane in it’s belly. Over the years I had met many of his co-workers that worked in the first tower. I watched the television completely helpless to do anything for them but witness their tragedy.  Every prayer I ever knew was repeated in rapid succession but they stopped as a second plane hit the other tower.  This was not the answer I intended.  My dad was in the second tower and I knew he was at his desk because he was always there and he was always early.
  I had to talk to my sister.  I woke her up and we made plans to coordinate our contacts and try to get hold of our parents.  Calls to New York weren’t getting though.  Already the phone lines were flooded with people needing to know what is happening in New York City. Being unable to get through by phone surprised me.  It was still early morning, only 20 minutes had passed since the initial plane crash. How could the phone lines be overburdened like it was Mother’s Day or Christmas? The old saying is “no news is good news”. I can tell you no news can also lead to panic. I was mesmerized by the images flashing across my television screen. I recall being scared.  I wonder if being scared makes you helpless, or being helpless makes you scared. I know it's harder to be left behind and I was very afraid of being left behind.
    The images on the television continued to deteriorate, people choosing their means of death, jumping out of buildings for a few last moments of freedom rather than accepting the claustrophobia from the fires of hell closing in. Finally, about 10 a.m., my mother called.  My dad had made it out of the tower that now lay as rubble and walked the few blocks home.
    I learned later that there were frequently false fire alarms and that most the people in the towers were annoyed at being evicted so early by another "false alarm".  My dad had traveled down to the 23rd floor stairwell when he was told the alarm a false one and that he should return to his office. But the crashing noises around him made him pause. Before heading back up he called company employees located in the other tower. The people in the first tower were told  by the fire department to stay where they were. The fire was below them and when the fire was out they would be rescued. My dad, because he was closer to the ground than his office opted to continue on to the lobby area. Dad was able to make it out of the towers, but the 200 people who where told to stay where they were until the fire was out did not.

  It is almost 5 years since 9/11 and there are requests for money to build a memorial to those who died. I am grieved by those who died but I would much rather recall the living. Yes, America was the object of a terrorist attack on that day and it was a terrible thing. But, I cannot help but think of others who live with terrorism on a daily basis. There are 60,000 dead in Iraq, there are 5,000 dead in Lebannon. There were thousands who died in the bombing of London in WWII, and millions of Jews and Gypsies killed under Stalin and Hitler. America has been spared that.  We have been so very lucky not to have war and the threat of war on our soil in the modern era. A memorial should be build not to remind us of death, but to rejoice in how lucky we are. We are able to live in peace, work and become prosperous. We can raise our children knowing they will live to see adulthood. I will not donate to the 9/11 memorial.  Instead I will send a contribution to Doctors Without Borders in hopes that they can make life a little better for someone. 9/11 was one of the worst days of my life. Whenever I give money to various organizations that help the living, I think of those who perished on 9/11.  It is my memorial to them, hopefully I have their approval. I like to think so.

Talking Hydrant

                                                                 Talking Hydrant                                                                                                                                 by Robin Rowe

  “I’m Champion Elliott Tucker of River Rock and I am a bloodhound”.  When I go to dog shows they use all those names, the rest of the time they just call me Elliott. I want to tell you about a dog show I went to in New York City. It was a very strange couple of days.  The day started off with being awakened long before I was ready to get up. “Let me sleep“! I said and once again closed my eyes.  But moments later, I was awakened again.  It was the start of my trip to New York City; I just didn’t know it yet… 
    The past few days had been worrisome. First I wasn’t allowed to go outside without a leash, and then they shoveled into a crate for a long car drive.  When we stopped at a parking lot full of cars I was thrilled.  “We’re going to another dog show,” I thought.  Dog shows are great.  I get to see my friends River and Whoopie, smell lots of other dogs, and dance around a ring for a few minutes.  If I get a ribbon, my mistress buys me a hamburger. Usually the burgers are really good, --but no onions please, (they give me gas). But, this time it wasn’t a dog show parking lot, it was an “airport” parking lot.
  At the airport they made me stay in my crate. There were all these tantalizing odors I wanted to check out. I tried whining but my mistress refused to let me out.   She said, “It’s time to go” and told the man who took me that, “We’re going to New York” to a dog show called “Westminster“.  She seemed very excited about it but all I could think of was, “Drat, I’m going to get another bath and another blow dry.   I really hate those blow dryers   They make so much racket you can’t concentrate on a good smell --like feet. I’m particularly fond of the smell of feet and shoe leather feels so good to my teeth. I only chew left shoes, I save the right shoe for my mistress to smell and chew on herself but he always gets mad when I chew on shoes.  I don’t know what the problem is, I shared.  What does she want, both shoes?  But I digress....   
  It seemed I had just gotten comfortable in that hotel room when I heard the sound that causes me instantaneous panic.  A Kleenex was being pulled out of the box which meant an ear cleaning was imminent. My mistress gave my ears a once-over looking for dirt. I don’t know where she thought I would get dirt. There wasn’t any dirt in this concrete jungle called New York City. Even though New York City was low on dirt, it did have a few trees and quite a few fire hydrants to mark my turf.  Fire hydrants are almost as good as trees when you’ve really got to go and I really had to go. It was serious, if she didn’t get me outside soon there was going to be an “accident”. Just when I was ready to burst my bladder she put on my leash for a trip outside.
  Like I said, I really, really, had to go and took off at a run from the elevator dragging my mistress behind me.  We darted past the doorman, and flew out the front door.  The fire hydrant I had declared mine was in sight. It was still slightly dark outside but something seemed a little different.  Instead of one bright yellow fire hydrant there were now two bright yellow hydrants. Where did the second one come from? No time to ponder these matters ‘cause I was barely going to make it.  I got to the first fire hydrant in the nick of time and lifted my leg, (I had just learned how to do that), and commenced with the deposit that told everyone this was MY fire hydrant.
         The recipient of my deposit was an unusually tall fire hydrant, and it kept making noises but didn‘t move.  My mistress talked to it and the hydrant talked back.  The hydrant sounded angry.  My mistress called the hydrant a fireman and I heard laughter from the men in the fire truck parked a few feet away.  But the hydrant, or fireman, continued to speak, but didn’t budge an inch. My mistress tried jerking me away, but I wasn‘t done yet.  When I finished she was still talking to the hydrant/fireman and trying to give it a useless pooper scooper bag. Then I noticed the tire on the fire truck. It didn‘t smell like any other dog had claimed it.  So, I once again showed off my leg-lift technique gave the tire the little bit of liquid I had left. Everyone was laughing except my mistress and the fire hydrant, or fireman, as she called it.
   After that, we took a “taxi” to the dog show.   I danced around the ring as usual.  I didn’t get a ribbon, but I got a hamburger anyway. We went back home the next day and I was so glad to be there. I was so exhausted from all the travel, baths, and ear cleanings I didn’t bother to chase the cat for two whole days. 
      I don’t have to worry about going back to New York City anymore.  My mistress said we can’t go back because of a fire at the building we stayed in. A couple months after we left there was a fire and the building burned to the ground.  She said it was my fault because I piddled on the fire hydrant/fireman and New Yorkers aren’t prone to forgive and forget. I’m not sure what forgive means, but I don’t forget either. The mistress may think I forgot about those new blue shoes in the closet, but I didn’t, and the left one is calling my name.

Minor Details

Robin Rowe
Paper 1

                                                     Minor Details

        Tom Lehr’s The Massachusetts Home for the Bewildered is an obscure little song that  I sing to myself whenever I think of my Granma Maggie. Just like the person in the song, life baffled her. The mundane aspects of life confused Maggie, always the square peg in the round hole. It was fitting that she lived in Hollywood, no place else would really suit.
    Even though Hollywood suited Maggie, her apartments would lose their allure. Once every few years Maggie would get an urge to make some changes to her life. The “changes” meant moving from one small apartment just off  Hollywood Blvd to another small apartment just off Hollywood Blvd.. The moves were never far, not more than 2 blocks from the old place, but that didn’t matter. Moving was like a vacation for Maggie.  Not only did she get new scenery, but she got to supervise the move and dictate how things would be done, a rare occurrence in her life.  Maggie moved by shopping bag, So when she moved, the entire family was marshaled into service. We transferred her belongings one shopping bag at a time.   
   After one move Maggie was particularly excited.  She had moved from a 1 bedroom apartment to a 2 bedroom apartment. My sisters and I were invited back to celebrate the new place with dinner Maggie prepared herself. Dinner usually consisted of cookies, Jell-O, canned peaches, black cherry soda, and bologna “for protein“. Dinner with Maggie meant  bringing enough money to stop at the corner hamburger stand before you went up to her apartment.  Living just off Hollywood Blvd did have it’s perks!
  Another perk of living off Hollywood Blvd. were the movie many theaters.  Maggie went to a movie almost every night of her adult life and when we visited, we were expected to follow that tradition after out dinner. The quality of the movie didn’t matter to Maggie.  Movies were fantasy and that is where Maggie wanted to be. Movies swept her away to a place of happiness and joy, away from life’s trials and tribulations.   Just walking down the sidewalk on the way to the movie theater Maggie would begin to transform. As we walked over the plaques with the movie stars names embedded in the sidewalk Maggie would become very animated. She spoke of the stars on the plaques as if they were old friends. They were discussed on a first name basis and she knew everything about every one of them. 
“Did you know Marilyn bought THE  white dress at Saks?”
“Jean (Harlow) and I had the same hairdresser”.
Maggie could make People Magazine look like an organization of hacks, and when it came to discussing Clark Gable her face would glow.         
      It turned out that the movie that night starred Clark Gable and Vivian Leigh.  We went to see “Gone With the Wind“. The movie picked her up and swept her away to the  Reconstructionist South. I don’t know how many times Maggie saw Gone With the Wind, but it must have been numerous because she knew the script by heart. There was no need to watch the movie, you only needed to watch Maggie.  She would recite long stretches of dialogue along with the characters on the screen.  When they would laugh, or cry, she would laugh or cry.  Those lines in the film should have been her lines, not  Vivian Leigh’s.  It should have been Maggie’s image on that silver screen. Maggie wanted to be celebrated, be a star for as long as she could remember. Even if she wasn‘t young and beautiful wasn’t too late!. She was still waiting to be discovered  at age 60, or 70. 
   Somehow that producer or director never discovered Maggie.  It wasn’t for lack of effort on her part.  Most of the time she had pink hair and wore hair trinkets that often included feathers or large bows.  She always wore four inch, wooden, high heels with lots of rhinestones that announced her coming long before she got there. And, there was the pipe.  She had a white porcelain pipe decorated with pink flowers that she only brought out for public appearances.
  The porcelain pipe was only one of her treasures, another was her autographed picture of Clark Gable But her greatest treasure was the piano she had just bought.
    Maggie, at age 60, or 70, decided that she wanted to take piano lessons. (She thought Liberace was fantastic). Perhaps piano lessons would be the trick to make that  film director take notice of her. Perhaps piano lessons would allow her to be a musical star like Frank Sinatra or Peggy Lee.  She already worked at Capital Records, she already had one foot in the door. Piano lessons could be the trick.
     The big break into show biz and the move to the new apartment were intertwined.  To Maggie, it was a 1 bedroom apartment with a music room.  Now there was a place for her piano and a place to write the tunes trapped in her head until the music lessons provided the skills to set them to paper. Watch out Liberace, Maggie was coming! The piano she bought was delivered  with a great deal of fanfare. Maggie was so very excited, so very euphoric.  The first piano lesson on was four days away, on Wednesday.  She was unable to think, or speak, of anything else. 
   She went to her piano lesson on Wednesday not knowing it was the only one she would ever take. Buying a piano and moving to a larger apartment to accommodate it seriously strained her budget. The first thing to go were the piano lessons.  Maggie was disappointed but soldiered on for a while  trying to teach herself.  But, within a few weeks the star- maker piano lost it’s attraction and was sold for a loss.  Since she no longer had the piano, there was no need for the larger  2 bedroom apartment. Within a couple months the adventure was over and she was ready for a new one. Marshal the troops! stockpile the shopping bags! Maggie was moving again.