FLUX 2012

spring 2012

university of oregon school of journalism and communication

fearless over fifty

Relaxation is for wimps

the record r e b i rt h

Why vinyl is here to stay

in the buff

Oregon’s nudists bare all

up in smoke Fighting fire from the skies

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ta b l e o f c o n t e n t s FLUX MAGAZINE

SPRING 2012

The Record Revival

How vinyl survived the digital age. page 10

generation x-treme Age really is just a number for these older daredevils. page 34

trash to treasure Thrifty businesses give their scraps a second chance. page 42

smokejumpers Parachuting into raging wildfires is just part of the job for these brave men and women. page 20

how these guys roll Your Confidence is Showing

Move over, ladies!

Men try on their skates for a change.

Oregon’s nudists let it all hang out.

page 46

page 14

heart of home Don’t call them housewives: For a growing number of women, homemaking is serious business. page 30

falling in line At this academy, ‘drop and give me twenty’ isn’t a request; it’s an assignment. page 58

Harvesting Hope One nonprofit refuses to let Oregon’s neediest residents go hungry.

A mourning daughter looks back at the life her father gave her.

page 52

page 68

Dear mr. Kennedy

WELCOME HOME DUCKS. Oregon Alumni, friends, faculty, staff, parents and Duck fans have all landed in one place – the Ford Alumni Center. Everyone is welcome to flock the halls of the new crossroads of the UO campus. Make your Oregon Connection at the Ford Alumni Center today.

If you were born to fly, be a part of it at the University of Oregon Alumni Association.

To find out more call 800-245-2586, visit us online or become one of our friends on Facebook. uoalumni.com An equal-opportunity, affirmative-action institution committed to cultural diversity and compliance with the Americans with Disabilities Act.

on the iPad COMING SUMMER

2012!

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7

Letter from the Editor

I

n a perfect world, our lives would flow smoothly without disruption, free of worry or confrontation. But because the world isn’t perfect, we are forced to adapt to the lessthan-ideal situations it throws into our daily lives. Some are minor, requiring a positive attitude and a bit of perseverance to overcome. Others penetrate deeper, forcing a greater change, begging us to start fresh.

This year’s issue focuses on the latter: new beginnings.

The desire to start over is a universal feeling. Who hasn’t wanted to go back and re-do things, regardless of the “no regrets” policies you adopted when you were young and naïve? This issue features many inspiring new beginnings, though they don’t all fit the same mold. Take Margarito Palacios, a migrant who left his family and career in Mexico to start over in the U.S.—don’t worry, she joined him after a few months. Thanks to years of hard work and a fostering hand from Huerto de la Familia, he started his own small business, a U-Pick farm in Lane County.

There is no age limit for change. Our “Generation X-Treme”

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FLUX SPRING 2012

story profiles four older thrill-seekers relishing in their stilltangible youth through skydiving, white water rafting, and even four-wheeling through sand dunes.

And, of course, we cannot forget the Redmond Smokejumpers. Members of this tight-knit crew full of colorful characters tell us how they chose a life-risking career.

There is even a new beginning within FLUX: this year we will release the first-ever iPad edition where our print stories will come to interactive life on your tablet. As students, learning the technology and process behind building an app of this caliber will pay off dividends when the next chapter of our lives begins—the real working world.

Of all these new beginnings, the most important is your own. Remember that with each step we form our own fresh story. Every move is an important twist in the plot, no matter what size that step is. So go forth. Dabble in new hobbies.

Learn about the vast amount of technology we have at our fingertips. Discover answers to the questions that lie ahead.

And be thankful that we don’t live in a perfect world, because without those challenges—wouldn’t life be a bit boring?

EDITOR IN CHIEF Ainslie Forsum

PUBLISHER Jonathan Weiss

MANAGING EDITOR FOR PRINT Maya Lazaro MANAGING EDITOR OF MOBILE EDITIONS Max Brown ASSISTANT MANAGING EDITOR Branden Andersen ASSOCIATE EDITORS Kelly Ardis, Jordan Bentz, Bryan Kalbrosky, Jacob O’Gara COPY CHIEF Eder Campuzano COPY EDITORS Robby Boydstun, Kelsey Drechsler, Alexandra Marga, Lily Nelson, Iam Pace, Julia Rogers DIRECTOR OF RESEARCH / MANAGING EDITOR OF WEB OPERATIONS Jasmine Eoff WEB CONTENT MANAGER Mason Trinca WEBMASTER Nick Olsen WRITERS Keegan Clements-Housser, Drew Dakessian, Erik Gundersen, Alex Hicks, Kailan Kalina, Elliott Kennedy, Laura Lundberg, Nick Poust, Neethu Ramchandar, Riley Stevenson INTERN Sam Katzman DESIGN DIRECTOR Nate Makuch MANAGING EDITOR OF VISUALS Kerri Anderson CREATIVE DIRECTOR Malaea Relampagos DESIGNERS Jeffrey Ackler, Tim Ferguson, Griffin Funk, Michelle Gant, Lindsay Gard, Elizabeth Ludwig PHOTO EDITOR Janelle Ho PHOTOGRAPHERS Michael Ciaglo, Tess Freeman, Meng Guo, Alisha Jucevic, Alex McDougall, Chris Sugidono PR DIRECTOR Sierra Baldwin PR EXECUTIVES Megan Bauer, Clarice Guido, Dana Kelly, Hannah Olson AD EXECUTIVES Robert Klein, Brandon Turner, Megan Woram, Kelsey Wilkins SOCIAL MEDIA MANAGER Rachel Koppes BUSINESS MANAGER Kelsey Drechsler MANAGING EDITOR OF MULTIMEDIA Iris Bull MULTIMEDIA PRODUCERS Nora Alvarez, Alando Ballantyne, Erik Bender, Aaron Blanton, Christopher Drachkovitch, Shelby Hawkinson, Jerek Hollender, Tommy Pittenger, Christian Prieto, Sasha Riddle, Jacob Reichman, Maile Reiniche, Austin Taylor, Cameron Twombly GRAPHIC DESIGNERS Lauren Geschke, Rebecca Schnoor, Kate Emberley BLOG EDITOR Michael Munoz BLOGGERS Sam Bouchat, Tamara Feingold, Callie Gisler, Jamie Hershman, Diana Roure, Jessica Ridgway FACULTY ADVISORS Steven Asbury, Lisa Heyamoto, Dan Morrison, Sung Park FOUNDERS Bill Ryan, Tom Wheeler Flux Magazine is produced annually by the students of the University of Oregon’s School of Journalism and Communication. © 2012 Cover photo by Alex McDougall

FLUXSTORIES.COM

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10 FLUX SPRING 2012

D R O C RE L A V I REV from d e rg e m e s m u lb a l y in v How l world a it ig d a in e c n e c s le o s b o

J

oey Larko’s fingers shuffle through the blue and black crates that lie at his feet under his desk. Just above them sit two turntables and a couple of two-foot-tall speakers where a college student would typically keep books. He lands on a bright yellow twelve-inch cardboard case with italicized Helvetica print on the cover and pulls out the album contained inside: Dutch Flowers by Skream. He switches the turntable to spin at fortyfive rotations per minute and drops the needle. A bass-filled beat follows the scratchy sound of the needle running across the album’s surface.

“I pretty much always choose vinyl if given a choice,” Larko says. “The bass is so much warmer, so much heavier. There’s nothing like it.”

Larko, a 21 year old University of Oregon student from San Francisco, has collected vinyl records for the past two years. In a time when digitally compressed music has become the way most people consume music, Larko continues to add record after record to his collection, which at last count held three hundred unique albums.

“I call it black crack,” Larko says. He spends roughly

words Branden andersen photos chris sugidono

fifteen dollars a week on new vinyl. “I just party less so I can afford it, which is better I suppose.”

Record enthusiasts like Larko are finding their way into music stores more often. According to a study conducted by the Nielson Company, 3.6 million vinyl albums were sold in the United States in 2011, a 37 percent increase from the previous year, and a number that has steadily risen since 2006. This is in stark contrast to 1993, when only 300,000 vinyl albums were sold nationwide.

In a music industry dominated by digital files, vinyl growth is unexpected. Eight-tracks, an early form of cassette tape, gained popularity in the late 1960s and early 1970s but were completely phased out of the market by 1982. Cassettes peaked in popularity during the late 1980s, but have become so obsolete that last year the term was removed from the Concise Oxford English Dictionary. Compact discs dominated the market until recently, when mp3s—which could be acquired almost effortlessly and often for free from file-sharing programs— took over.

André Sirois, a disk jockey who goes by the stage name DJ Foodstamp, refuses to “sell his soul” and use his computer when he works at a party or club. While

many DJs use the latest technology in their work, Sirois still scratches “wax,” meaning he uses a traditional turntable. “[Records] are my tools, you know?” says Sirois, who DJs for University of Oregon campus radio station KWVA and at various clubs and parties in Eugene. “I buy records to share on the radio or to cut up a gig or to practice with. If you’re a carpenter, you have a power saw and a hammer and stuff like that to do your job. For me, the more tools I have in my kit, the better the work I can do.”

Sirois says the reason vinyl has stuck around this long can be credited to DJs. In the ‘80s and ‘90s, record distribution dropped dramatically due to the introduction of tapes, and later CDs. During that time, Sirois says records were bought to sit in jukeboxes and be spun by DJs. He points out that music created today is inexpensive to produce because there are no distribution or packaging costs when it’s released digitally.

Sirois believes many modern musicians make songs that are trendy and easy to produce while sacrificing the finesse and effort associated with the creation of albums. Records, on the other hand, had to be perfected before they were printed and distributed because printing was expensive. In turn, bands that printed on records had an incentive to create high-quality music.

“There are discs from the late 1800s that still play,” Sirois says. “Show me a CD from 1985 that will work in 2035. Tell me that our dominant format now, mp3s, will be able to be read by computers in twenty or thirty years. A

vinyl record is a record of musical history that will always be played.”

Jake Pavlak has been making music since high school as lead guitarist for The Ferns. His bands have so far produced two vinyl records, and Pavlak

“

It sounds really organic when you’re listening to a record. Sometimes it sounds like you’re in the studio with [the artist].”

plans to produce a seven-inch cooperative vinyl record with another band this year.

While it hasn’t always been easy for Pavlak to “make it” in the music world, he believes in the power of vinyl and its effect on music.

“As an artist, I think my music sounds better on vinyl for sure,” he says. “We had a show a little while ago and our vinyl outsold our CDs.” Although Pavlak’s music is delivered digitally to a pressing plant in California, he finds the music still sounds better when he receives it on vinyl. He also appreciates having a physical representation of his work.

“It’s really cool to have something to show,”

Pavlak says. “If you just record and put something out on the Internet, it’s not the same. If you put out a record, you can get the press behind it, and it can be something exciting and something to look forward to.”

Greg Sutherland—a record buyer at House of Records in Eugene—sells Pavlak’s LPs in the shop.

To Sutherland, vinyl surpasses other formats not only in sound quality, but also in the experience.

“A record is a piece of art that includes visuals and sound,” he says.

To Sutherland, vinyl has numerous advantages over other formats. For instance, CD cases are made of cheap plastic and are a hassle to open.

He says many people find the adhesive ribbon on the top spine of CD cases a source of annoyance.

Sutherland also notes that mp3s are simply invisible megabytes in cyberspace and in many cases do not include album artwork.

“It’s kind of romantic to me,” Sutherland says. “Instead of [mp3s] being the future right now, it looks more like this older form that has been around since the late ‘40s or early ‘50s is going to be the future.”

Robert Bielski has collected records since 1959.

During his time as a traveling salesman, he would stop at music stores and purchase records when he heard a song that he liked on the radio.

“It was a hobby that got out of control,” Bielski says, acknowledging his addiction to collecting vinyl. “I’ve already sold off a lot of my collection, but I still have about ten thousand at home. I filled up my basement and half of my house.”

Bielski sold a small part of his collection at the

VINYLSALES Since 1993, vinyl sales have steadily risen. Between 2008 and 2011 alone, record sales increased by 89%.

2011: 3.6 million 2008: 1.9 million 2000: 1.5 million 1997: 1.1 million 1993: 0.3 million

Eugene Record Convention this past February.

Larko is a contemporary collector, as opposed to Bielski, who collects vintage records. Whereas many people believe that record collecting is restricted to older music, most of Larko’s personal collection is comprised of bands and groups that have released music in the past decade. He has to import many of his records from the United Kingdom because most of his favorite artists in his preferred genre, dubstep, are based across the pond.

“With dubstep, vinyl is so much better because you can feel the bass,” Larko says.

The compression process used with CDs and mp3s standardizes the levels on the music tracks: the softer sections are made louder and the louder sections are made quieter. Depending on the amount of compression used, a recording could lose most of its dynamic range.

“I think that a lot of kids who were born in the late ‘80s or early ‘90s grew up without records in a digital world,” Sutherland says.

“Because kids never experienced what it’s like to listen to a record, the very first time they hear it is pretty shocking to them. Mp3s and CDs don’t sound as good as records do.”

With records, there is no compression process. What a listener hears is pure, unadulterated music.

“It sounds really organic when you’re listening to a record,” Larko says. “Sometimes it sounds like you’re in the studio with [the artist].”

With records’ surge in popularity, more and more modern bands are releasing their albums on vinyl. The Black Keys’ most recent album release, El Camino, was widely sought after. House of Records received twelve copies of the album a week after its release—they sold out in a week and the shop put in special orders for more.

Oregon’s record resurgence is going strong at Eugene’s House of Records. The store has nearly 30,000 vinyl records and adds to its collection on a daily basis.

Printing fewer records allows for more exclusivity among vinyl albums. To enthusiasts like Larko, the drive to accumulate records is partially inspired by the rarity of an album. From collecting white labels— promotional vinyl discs that were handed out in limited quantity—to digging through crates to find a hidden gem, collectors will look for records few others might own.

“Exclusivity is a huge part of it for me,” Larko says. “It’s really cool to know that you’re one of a couple hundred people who have that sound in the world.”

To many vinyl enthusiasts, collecting isn’t about reselling records to make a profit. Bielski believes that fewer than 25 percent of vendors who attend the Eugene Record Convention are there to make money. Vinyl collectors are unique in that sense. Albums are typically

purchased with the intention of being opened, listened to and enjoyed, in contrast to items like action figures, which many collectors leave in the original packaging in order to preserve the toy’s condition and resale value.

Despite the convenience of mp3s and other electronic music formats, vinyl has persisted thanks to the work of collectors and DJs. The format’s organic sound continues to hold appeal for those who believe modern music formats are lacking in quality and realism. Records have inspired a community of music enthusiasts to rally around the cause, demonstrated by DJs like Sirois who continue to use turntables, or artists like Pavlak who choose to produce vinyl albums rather than mp3s. Together, their message is clear: Vinyl is here to stay.

YOUR CONFIDENCE IS

SHOW Jackie Smith, Twila Dery, and Don Dery enjoy the sun at the Willamettans Family Nudist Resort. Instead of going to Mexico for their 27th wedding anniversary, they decided to spend the weekend at the Willamettans.

WING

Members of the Willamettans Nudist Club share what inspired them to pursue a nudist lifestyle — such as church auctions and burlesque shows — and their strong sense of body acceptance WORDS Elliott Kennedy photos Tess FREEMAN

T

he clouds part slowly, reluctant to surrender their virtually permanent position in the sky. Through the gray, sunshine tumbles toward the ground where budding flowers extend their leaves and petals like outstretched arms, welcoming the warm rays of light.

Shadows fall in geometric patterns on a white cardboard sign at the edge of a road, obscuring a three-word message in navy blue, capital letters:

LOSE YOUR CLOTHES

FLUXSTORIES.COM 15

Members of the Willamettans high five after the end of the water volleyball team competition during their annual Winterfest festival. The pool and hot tub are the only place on the Willamettans grounds where nudism is required.

F

urther up Willie Lane, nestled on a densely wooded hill in Marcola, Oregon, a colorful gate stretches across the path, blocking the entry. Carved from metal and painted in various shades of yellow, orange, and green, the gate depicts three ethereal figures floating peacefully around a central sun. Glowing in the daylight, the figures pierce through the shadows of the forest. Together they welcome both newcomers and longtime members to the Willamettans Family Nudist Resort.

“This is what nudists live for,” says Sue Ott, current president of the Willamettans.

“There’s gonna be yards of grassy fields and white flesh. And at the end of the day, there’s gonna be a lot of happy, sunburned nudists.”

On the other side of the multihued gate, past the main office and through a neighborhood of weathered mobile homes, five club members have staked claim to the tennis courts. Four are playing pickleball while one keeps score. They take turns on the court and on the sidelines, giving everyone a chance to play and to pause for water. The heat of the sun bounces off the court—much like the pickleballs themselves—and radiates back

16 FLUX SPRING 2012

onto the bare skin of the players. All five are wearing athletic shoes; two are wearing shirts, and only one is wearing underwear. The rhythmic thwap! thwap! of paddles volleying

“

It’s funny how we fear our own modesty. We don’t like how much it inhibits us, but we’re afraid of what we’d do without it.”

pickleballs over a droopy net is drowned out by the deafening roar of an industrial lawn mower. Among the bits of flying grass sits the rider, a fellow Willamettans member who maintains the grounds as part of his membership. Smiling and naked, he calmly directs the yellow machine back and forth in a continuous pattern of parallel lines.

Before starting the tally for the next game, Kim Lanier lays out a blue and red-striped towel on a sun-bleached plastic chair. Settling into the soft seat, she sighs and stretches out her bare legs.

“Some are scared to death, some are looky-

loos trying to find some sexual, deviant component—and let me tell you right now, there is none,” says Lanier of the type of people she sees at the Willamettans. “Some have an image in their minds of old cartoons, with people looking over the fence or hiding their bits behind bushes. Most of them come here simply to enjoy the beauty of it.”

Located on a forty-acre parcel of land, the Willamettans is registered with the state as an RV park. While members are allowed to bring camping supplies such as tents and trailers onto the grounds during weekends and vacations, the group cannot build new cabins on the land. The few cabins that currently exist on the Willamettans’ grounds were “grandfathered in through past zoning laws,” says John Kinman, who previously served as the president of the American Association for Nudist Recreation (AANR) and the Willamettans Resort.

Lanier is among the few who live on the grounds permanently. Before the move she and her ex-husband worked in Salem and Roseburg, respectively.

“We were already members here, we loved it here, we saw a for-sale sign, and it just seemed like the best option,” she says. “It was

purely geographical.”

Longtime member Jackie Smith also lives on the grounds. After nine years as a Willamettans resident, Smith says she can’t imagine a life without nudism. But that wasn’t always the case.

“It kind of creeped me out at first, thinking about getting naked in front of other people,” says Smith, who became interested in nudism after talking with a member of the Willamettans while tending bar. “So I would always be fully clothed when I came out of my trailer.

Some days I would tell myself that I could take off my top, until one day I actually did it. I thought I would never be able to take my pants off, but three weeks later, I did that too.”

Ed Sullivan, on the other hand, had no qualms about stripping down. Since he was a child growing up in Chicago, Sullivan knew he was a nudist at heart.

“When I was in high school, I would sneak downtown to watch the burlesque shows,” he says. “The girls would do their dance, which

Rick Burge serves the ball to his opponents in a game of pickleball on the tennis courts at the Willamettans Family Nudist Resort.

Tennis, volleyball, and pickleball are the sports of choice for Willamettans members.

“

There’s gonna be yards of grassy fields and white flesh. And at the end of the day, there’s gonna be a lot of happy, sunburned nudists.”

was all fine and dandy, but during the intermission they’d show film from nudist resorts.

And that’s when I knew, when I grew up, I wanted to play volleyball with naked ladies.”

Since joining the Willamettans five years ago, Sullivan has taken on the tasks of pool cleaning and maintenance, which he usually does nude or in a bathrobe. “Except when working with muriatic acid—I won’t mess with that stuff,” says Sullivan, who also acts as second vice president on the governing board of the club.

The club is overseen by a nine-member board consisting of a president, first and second vice presidents, a recording secretary, a

corresponding secretary, a certifying officer, two members at large, and a treasurer. “Together, they do the same business any other club would do,” says Kinman.

“Like any other organization, we have to abide by Oregon insurance and tax laws, OLCC (Oregon Liquor Control Commission) regulations, and health department inspections,” Kinman says. “There’s nothing particularly special about our club except that we’re naked.”

But that element alone is reason enough to develop a strict screening process for new members. Prospective members must complete an application, an in-person interview, and a thorough background check before current members vote on admittance. If an applicant has a record of inappropriate behavior at other nudist organizations, the action is recorded in an AANR database to be referenced during future applications. With such a stain on his or her record, the applicant has little to no chance of being accepted into the club.

N

udist resorts take measures to prevent inappropriate behavior by following the general rules of etiquette established through the AANR, as well as the rules established by each individual club.

“The rules are really just common courtesy,” Kinman says.

If not here, where else are you going to find body peace?”

These general guidelines forbid taking photographs without a person’s explicit permission, promotion of “swinger” behavior, and behaving in such a way that could be construed as overtly sexual.

That last rule is one that frequently worries first-time nudists.

“The first question every man asks when he calls about the club is, ‘What do I do if I become physically excited?’”

Kinman says. “But that just doesn’t happen. Around here, it’s relaxing, not stimulating.”

Children’s participation in nudist culture is also a common point of concern, but according to the AANR website, “Children are natural nudists.”

“I think kids raised in a nudist environment are less likely to ask awkward questions because it’s all so natural to them,” says Kinman, who has practiced nudism since he was a child.

Evelyn Clements, who frequents the Willamettans club with her husband, James, and 11-year-old son, Kaleb, agrees that communication is key when practicing nudism as a family. “It’s very important for us to talk,” she says. “We want to make sure that Kaleb knows people come in all shapes and sizes, and they’re all beautiful.”

Kaleb says he was nervous at first, but started to feel more comfortable once he began making friends with

18 FLUX SPRING 2012

other young members.

“I don’t care what people say—it’s awesome here,” he says.

To an outside observer accustomed to wearing clothes for every occasion, the practice may seem bizarre.

“It’s funny how we fear our own modesty,” says Willamettans member Quentin Smith, who experienced nudism for the first time after purchasing a pass to a nudist resort at a church auction. “We don’t like how much it inhibits us, but we’re afraid of what we’d do without it.”

But at the Willamettans, both fear and modesty are unwelcome guests.

In their place are enjoyment and selfassuredness.

“I don’t know whether to use the word ‘relaxation’ or ‘freedom’ or ‘confidence,’” Kinman says. “Being a nudist is about being yourself and openly experiencing the world. I want to be able to wake up, grab my cup of coffee, and walk out on to the deck with nothing on and greet the morning sun.”

Not far from the tennis courts, a cluster of nudists greets the afternoon sun. Following a winding dirt and gravel path up a steep hill, five nudists sunbathe during the first hot day in months. A stereo system has been set up on the wooden railing near the pool. Songs by The Black Eyed Peas filter through the speakers. Sunscreen is nowhere to be found. As their bare bottoms turn pink in the sun, men and women turn over to face the sky, exposing themselves to the treetops and the few remaining clouds.

One of them, Don Dery, turns to his wife to kiss her. Today is their twentyseventh wedding anniversary. The two were planning to go to Mexico in search of sunnier weather, but changed their plans when they saw the weekend forecast. Looking into his wife’s eyes, Dery smiles and asks, “If not here, where else are you going to find body peace?”

Sharon Owensky and Quentin Smith walk Owensky’s dog Maggie through the grounds of the Willamettans Family Nudist Resort. Owensky has been a member of the Willamettans for sixteen years.

SMOKEJUMPERS WORDS LAURA LUNDBERG AND AINSLIE FORSUM PHOTOS ALEX MCDOUGALL

the men and women of the redmond air center jump out of airplanes to fight fire. Seventy pounds of gear. masks. parachutes. smoke. heat. fire.

Jesse Haury begins to remove her gear after a training jump near Redmond in Central Oregon. Haury is one of the few women in the smokejumping community, which numbers 450 in the U.S.

H

eart pounding, mind racing, thoughts come to him quickly—a collage of memories, lessons, and snippets of his training he can recite by heart. His hands go to his suit.

Reserve chute? Check. Collar up? Check. Harness clipped and ready? Check. Ralph Sweeney has jumped countless times before, but the nerves never fade. Even today, when he isn’t about to leap into a crackling inferno, the

fate of his nine team members still rests heavy in his hands. Smokejumpers take their training as seriously as they would a real wildfire. They have to. Anything less could be the difference between life and death.

The whirl of airplane blades echoes throughout the steel frame of the Sherpa C-23 aircraft, breaking through Sweeney’s reverie. Nine men and one woman sit huddled on rudimentary stainless steel seats wearing tan, padded Kevlar suits, thin

gloves, and wire mesh-covered helmets. The rookies sit silently. Some fiddle with their helmets or their chute straps while others stare out the window, taking in the majestic world into which they’re about to descend.

Sweeney gets the signal—it’s time to go.

He stands up, taking his place at the front of the line. He fastens his pack, hands moving to triple-check everything. Breathing a deep sigh, he closes his eyes to quiet his mind.

Then he’s on the precipice, wind whipping past the yawning door. He places one foot onto the crude, steel step beneath the door and prepares to free-fall 100 feet.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

Adrenaline pounds through his veins as he looks at the forest below. Hearing nothing but the purr of the turbines, he focuses on his training, replaying in his mind the

top: Flames blacken the landscape during a controlled burn near Black Butte in Central Oregon.

Smokejumpers are called in to fight fires in isolated locations that traditional firefighters cannot reach. left: Jacob Welsh jokes with Jesse Haury after fastening his gear before a training jump. The seventy pounds of essential supplies he jumps with make for hard landings on rocky terrain.

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Haury lies on a backboard during a training exercise simulating serious injury.

Jumpers must be trained to treat injuries because the group is isolated from hospitals and medical professionals.

Smokejumpers have plenty of downtime between fires when they hang out together on their base at the Redmond Air Center. They’ve cultivated an atmosphere where everyone in the tight-knit group gets along.

steps he has practiced over and over. His nerves begin to fade as courage rises to take its place. It’s time. Whether he’s ready or not, he’s going to jump.

Sweeney launches himself forward—and into thin air.

T

he Redmond Air Center is an unassuming building nestled in the high desert town of Redmond, just east of Oregon’s Deschutes National Forest. Once a home for World War II aircrafts, it now serves as a firefighting base for the United States Forest Service.

From May through October, the base is populated with some of the country’s most fearless firefighters—the Redmond Smokejumpers. The crew began its operations in 1964 when eight smokejumpers boldly leaped into their first fire on the Warm

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Springs Indian Reservation just north of the base. Since then, the crew has completed a jaw-dropping 11,321 jumps and suppressed 2,880 wildfires.

Smokejumpers are called upon to fight

“

and effectively.

Sweeney is one of many tough, determined, and highly trained smokejumpers who thrive on the thrill of the job. He has fought fires since 1995, when he answered a

To be completely exhausted at the end of the day, watching the sun go down, sitting around a fire with some people that you just worked really hard with is really gratifying and cleansing. Even if you’re covered in ash.”

some of the most remote fires that tear through the rugged West, parachuting in to contain the blaze. These intrepid men and women must be ready to travel anywhere in the United States when the alarm bell rings and are first on the scene to fires that either can’t be accessed by road or need immediate attention. It’s a demanding job that requires a steely focus earned through considerable training. An unbreakable bond of trust allows them to accomplish tasks safely

newspaper advertisement for summer firefighters. Sweeney was working for the forest service when he saw his first smokejumper.

“We loaded their gear and took them to an airport and they flew away,” he recalls.

“I was pretty mesmerized by it. I was like, ‘What is that and how do I get that job?’”

After working his way up the ranks for five years, Sweeney finally got the job.

He was appointed as a Redmond Smokejumper in 2001. During his time with

the group, he has logged more than 200 jumps and fought fires across the country in locations ranging from Alaska to the Carolinas. Wherever there are forest fires, there are likely smokejumpers, and a love of unpredictability comes standard with the job.

“When you’re riding to work in the morning and you don’t know where you’re going to be that day—it’s a neat anticipation other professions don’t have,” Sweeney says, peering out a window at the hanger that houses the red and white Sherpa.

Smokejumpers have the advantage of an aerial view of the fires they fight and must come up with a strategy for the best approach. Once they find a point of entry, they parachute down, unpack their gear, and begin extinguishing the fire until backup arrives. This unique perspective gives them a strong advantage in terms of preparation and safety, but it also requires

a bulletproof plan and top-notch training.

Smokejumpers need to know exactly what they’re up against once they hit the ground.

W

ith his heart in his throat, Sweeney counts aloud as he hurtles toward the ground: “Jump one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand, look five thousand.” The wind causes the canopy to flap loudly and, at the end of ‘look five thousand,’ it unfurls.

The vivid green forests of Oregon lay 1,500 feet below him. Bright streamers that were thrown out of the airplane to test the wind direction serve as landmarks so Sweeney and his jump partner can find the landing location. He manipulates his lines to control his parachute while communicat-

ing with his partner. They must coordinate their landings just right to avoid a collision.

When smokejumpers land, they land hard.

Sweeney rolls automatically; he has practiced this drill more times than he can count.

With more than seventy pounds of gear and the wind in his face, one misstep could lead to crushed bones. Once on the ground, he untangles his lines and pulls in his chute.

Sweeney is the jumper in charge—the person who lands first and sizes up the scene.

The role comes with heavy responsibility. If the jumper in charge doesn’t communicate well or misreads the fire, the entire mission could be compromised, causing potentially fatal accidents. Whether in training or in the field, the protocol is the same: When he hits the ground, Sweeney must immediately call the dispatchers to confirm that all of his crewmembers are safe. He then briefs the team on the plan of action—where they will enter the fire, where they will meet

FLUXSTORIES.COM 25

when they’re done, and what task each person is assigned. These can range from digging a trench around the fire’s perimeter to cutting down potential hazards such as burning branches.

But those are drills for another day.

For now, the training jump has gone perfectly. Sweeney looks at his fellow jumpers with pride.

J

esse Haury, one of the last trainees to land, surveys the cluster of smokejumpers that stand around her.

All of them are men. Of the 450 smokejumpers nationwide, only thirty or so are women. Being the only woman had been an issue for Haury at some of her other firefighting jobs, but after four years at the Redmond base, she has become a respected and essential member of the family.

“When I was on the engine, they constantly reminded me that I was a girl,” she says. “Here, it’s not an issue at all. I’ve proven I can do what they can do.”

Haury says the Redmond crew is one of the most professional she’s seen.

“There’s a lot of integrity here,” she says.

“These guys set the bar pretty high.”

For Haury, fire has been her niche, and she worked hard to find it. She struggled in school and often felt out of place, quitting college, jobs, and hobbies as she searched for her role. Growing up in the shadow of a talented twin sister, Haury never believed she measured up until she found a career in smokejumping. She finally felt like she was doing something worth noticing.

“I started on engines, I tried hot shot crew, I tried rappelling,” she says. “My goal was to try it all and see where my best fit was. When I found [smokejumping], it just finally clicked. I thought: ‘I can do this, and I can do this well.’”

But it hasn’t always been easy. The training is intense and is intended to weed out those who aren’t mentally or physically prepared for the job. Justin Wood, a squad leader at the base and Haury’s trainer, says that many people who come in for training find out quickly whether or not smoke-

26 FLUX SPRING 2012

Tony Loughton looks to the sky as fellow smokejumpers fall to the ground. Once on the ground they must pack up their parachutes and jumping gear to prepare to hike to a fire.

FLUXSTORIES.COM 27

The Redmond Smokejumpers are based at the Redmond Air Center where the Three Sisters mountains act as a picturesque backdrop. They jump out of a Sherpa C-23 aircraft that can hold up to ten jumpers.

jumping is a good fit.

“People don’t only have to prove their physical capabilities, but they need to show that they can actively learn under pressure,” Wood says. “Some people don’t necessarily know that they’re afraid of heights until they’re eighty feet up a pine tree hanging on a limb.”

Smokejumper training goes far beyond simply jumping out of a plane. For example, the minimum fitness requirements include the basics such as a certain number of sit-ups and push-ups, but trainees are also required to be able to carry 110 pounds for three miles.

The rookies are expected to climb a tree, saw off thick branches, and rappel back down—a necessary skill if their parachute gets tangled in a tree during landing. Once on the ground, smokejumpers must work quickly and efficiently, keeping their eyes trained on the flames the entire time.

28 FLUX SPRING 2012

A

fter a long day of training, Sweeney, Haury, and the rest of the Redmond Smokejumpers pack up their gear and head back to base, flush with success. Though the day was hot and everyone was tired, the stress of the day gives way to jokes and laughter. The smokejumpers are a tight-knit community who

“

every facet of people [here],” says Wood.

Every Sunday during fire season, the base hosts a barbeque for families and friends. It’s a chance for the smokejumpers to relax and enjoy their time in the woods—at least, until the Sherpa’s engines fire up again.

“To be completely exhausted at the end of the day, watching the sun go down, sitting around a fire with some people that

Some people don’t necessarily know that they’re afraid of heights until they’re eighty feet up a pine tree hanging on a limb.”

rely on their teammates to keep them safe, which forms an irreplaceable bond between people who otherwise might not have much in common.

“You got hippies to rednecks—there’s

you just worked really hard with is really gratifying and cleansing,” Sweeney says.

“Even if you’re covered in ash.”

Smokejumpers leave the plane two at a time from 1500 feet in the air and must land in difficult terrain. Because the equipment they carry is so heavy, it’s essential for smokejumpers to roll when they land.

FLUXSTORIES.COM 29

Watercolor painting requires patience—each layer of paint must dry before the next is applied.

Marina Taylor has worked on this painting for a few months.

Heart HOME of

As part of a larger cultural shift toward economic self-sufficiency, many women are returning to traditional domestic pursuits

M

WORDS NEETHU RAMCHANDAR PHOTOS MENG GUO

arina Taylor surveys her home.

Clad in a faded green skirt with an apron twisted around her waist, she is surrounded by mason jars of homegrown vegetables and unfinished craft projects in need of her attention. A cutting board’s worth of carrots await the evening meal. Light streams in through the windows, resting upon a mending basket of clothes that have been worn and torn. Her eyes linger upon the pile as she makes a list of the day’s tasks.

For the past five years, this has been Taylor’s life. Back then, a newborn baby meant a new set of priorities, and she wanted to stay home with her son. She decided to focus on creating the perfect place to live—one where dinner clucked

in her backyard before appearing on her table, where vegetables were grown in her garden and canned by hand, and where socks with holes were mended rather than condemned to the garbage can. She would often spend days without leaving her home, toiling in the kitchen in pursuit of her dream.

“Home,” Taylor says. “It’s a word that [says everything about] who I am and how I raise my family.”

Taylor is part of a growing movement among American women in their twenties and thirties who are embracing a brand of domesticity straight out of a bygone era. They can their own vegetables, teach their children at home, bake bread, and knit their own clothes as part of a back-to-basics movement that values simple living and doing it yourself.

Often referred to as “urban homesteading,” the trend is gaining ground.

FLUXSTORIES.COM 31

Blogs such as Gracious Girl, New Domesticity, and Fuck Yeah Domesticity are creating online hubs for the movement, and bookstores are overflowing with how-to guides for everything from raising poultry to re-upholstering aging furniture. According to the National Gardening Association, an estimated 38 million households grow food in personal gardens. The National Center for Education Statistics claims the number of home-schooled children has doubled since 1999. Even First Lady Michelle Obama’s home garden has added fuel to the homefire.

For many women, the return to domesticity has been spurred by a renewed sense of pride in one’s home.

“We live in a culture where we forget about words like ‘homemade’ or ‘homegrown,’ thinking that it prevents progress,” Taylor says. “But domesticity allows us to create a strong foundation upon which to progress.”

In addition, many women are drawn to the ethos of the movement’s tight-knit community.

“Women tend to be more community-

based,” Taylor explains. “Women understand the relationships between people and nature and a sustainable community. Nothing can teach you the value of a community more than being a mother.”

Others see modern homemaking as a way to take a firm stand against American consumerism.

E

lizabeth Hartman joined the movement after tuning into her consumption habits and decided that less is more. Although she can’t grow or make everything her family needs (she’s succumbed to buying blue jeans), she strives to make the majority of her food and clothing herself.

Before moving to Colorado, Hartman converted her Eugene backyard into a smallscale edible production by raising bees and chickens and growing her own produce.

“I started with some basil and tomatoes and it grew from there,” Hartman says.

With nearly any trend, however, there comes resistance. Many believe that by focusing so heavily on domesticity, women will negate years of feminist progress and

unintentionally enforce stereotypes about what constitutes “women’s work.”

“It’s a trend that’s often compared to the

We live in a culture where we forget about words like ‘homemade’ or ‘homegrown,’ thinking that it prevents progress.” pioneer wife who can’t vote or go to work and is rarely seen in the public,” Taylor says.

She found herself confronting the issue when her son once claimed that he didn’t need to do his laundry because it was a “woman’s job.”

“I realized my husband didn’t do laundry and that I enjoyed doing work around the house,” Taylor explains. “But this wasn’t a stereotype that was going to last in my house, so by the very next day, all the men in my home were doing their own laundry.”

For the most part, the backlash is

Taylor knits the body of a toy lion. Knitting is one of many activities gaining popularity.

32 FLUX SPRING 2012

F

Being self sufficient by growing vegetables and fruits in backyards is one of the hallmarks of modern domesticity. Taylor is picking homegrown sorrels from her garden.

drowned out by those who define feminism as a woman’s right to choose her own path. Mindy Lockard, an independent etiquette consultant, argues that the rise of domesticity does not jeopardize feminism at all. Her own website and blog, The Gracious Girl, provides women (and men) with inspiration, tips, and etiquette resources, such as a thank you note tracker.

She says that modern domesticity allows women to pursue their interests without being shamed, and that social media websites such as Pinterest, Facebook, and Tumblr allow them to feel more connected and empowered.

Still, many women acknowledge that total domesticity isn’t for everyone.

“Get a group of your girlfriends together, put on some music, and drink a bottle of

wine while you can 100 pounds of tomatoes,” Taylor says. “You’ll find out really quickly if this is something for you.”

She says she sometimes feels trapped in her own home, and has wanted to throw her plates against the wall. Taylor has felt frumpy and unfeminine when comparing herself to women dressed for the workplace in pencil skirts and blazers and the perfect dash of blush.

But then she reminds herself that her actions create the world in which she wants to live, and returns home to wax another block of cheese. When Taylor’s son turned five, she enrolled him in school and accepted a job as a handwork teacher at the Waldorf School in Eugene, which has allowed her to create a balance between work and home.

or Hartman, embracing domesticity feels like a calling, and has cemented her belief in gender equality.

Her voice fills with pride when she explains that her ultimate goal rests in arming her infant daughter with the domestic skills she has worked so hard to learn, and hopes that by the time her child is ready to take on the world, she’ll know a little bit about almost everything.

“For my husband and I, this is a permanent change,” she says. “What can be more empowering for a woman than being able to dress a turkey and change your oil?”

FLUXSTORIES.COM 33

generation

treme

America’s baby boomers buck stereotypes by choosing to live life in the fast lane words branden andersen

D

photos michael ciaglo

ress shoes sit in the closet collecting dust. Sneakers and slippers have become the footwear of choice. The ones with Velcro are nice because there’s no need to take Advil in order to tie them. Dreams of sandy beaches and coastal living suddenly become reality—the prospect of finally settling down sinks in.

But what now? Golf? Water aerobics? Gardening? Society says those are the only things retired folks are suited for.

But who says society is right?

Eugene Skydivers owner Urban Moore, 63, free falls from 10,000 feet with Samantha Mount, 19, in tandem. He has more than 9,300 jumps under his belt.

Chris Smalley, 58, kicks up sand while traversing the hundred-foot-high dunes of Winchester Bay, Oregon.

36 FLUX SPRING 2012

C

hris Smalley effortlessly cruises through the Oregon Sand Dunes’ hilly terrain on his 2004 Yamaha Banshee. Modifications to his quad’s suspension allow him to absorb the bumps while maintaining his speed in third gear.

Without warning, Smalley stands up and stomps down with his left foot, shifting into second gear. The royal blue four-wheeler screams as his thumb presses on the throttle. A sand dune towers 60 feet high in front of him. At 40 miles per hour, the Banshee grows louder and lunges at each shift. Smalley takes it up to fourth gear—his tires spray sand behind him as he begins to climb the steep incline.

When Smalley makes it near the top of the hill, he stops and surveys the landscape, looking for obstacles before riding back down to the base.

“You never know what or who is on the other side,” Smalley says, noting that a small child could be playing on the hill. “Most of the time, people are stupid here.”

Smalley, the oldest member of the Northwest Quad Riders club, is turning 59 this year. Being a quad rider for most of his life has taught him proper “sand etiquette.”

“I have been riding dirt and sand since I was little,” Smalley says. “When I was a young sailor stationed in San Diego, we had friends that took us out to Glamis [California] to ride once. After that, we were hooked.”

Even after a hip replacement, Smalley continues to ride, yet he does admit his mentality has changed over time. He now values quality over quantity because he cannot ride as frequently as he did in the past. The same way surfers are always searching for that “one perfect wave,” Smalley looks for that one perfect ride.

“While I am riding . . . I am by myself with my music and thoughts flowing,” he says. “It is so cool when the turns, dips, and ‘whoops’ line up to the music you are listening to—like skiing the moguls to a beat.”

He calls his riding experience “sand therapy,” as he claims it improves his mental health. Although his body isn’t in the same condition as when he started riding seriously back in his late teens, Smalley still sees these adventures as an essential part of his life and sense of happiness.

Smalley isn’t unusual. According to the AARP, about 63 percent of senior citizens say being active is the best thing they can do for their health, a statistic widely accepted among aging thrill seekers.

Freedom, selfreliance—you’re kind of the master of your own disaster. There isn’t anybody who can help you. It’s probably, to me, the freest thing that you can do that I’ve found.”

FLUXSTORIES.COM 37

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ike Cotton, a 63-year-old entertainer from Pensacola, Florida, has spent fifty years in the entertainment industry doing everything from hosting radio shows to producing television and musical shows. During this time, he has searched the country far and wide to find extraordinary members of America’s older population who, like Smalley, refuse to let age interfere with their passions.

One of Cotton’s most recent entertainment ventures started when he got a call from a friend who was working on another show at the time and wanted a new project. The friend told Cotton he noticed people all over the world wearing t-shirts bearing the slogan “Old Guys Rule.” The shirts were made by a company that celebrates the experiences of older men. From there, Cotton had the idea to begin documenting the active lifestyles of older individuals.

Titled Senior Xtremers, the show received phenomenal feedback through various social networking sites and early screenings. Cotton eventually signed a deal with Global Telemedia in Boston, ensuring that the show, which is set to come out within the next two years, will be marketed worldwide.

Cotton, who also surfs and has recently begun riding motorcycles, didn’t fully understand the importance of maintaining an active lifestyle before his team started working on Senior Xtremers. During this time, he developed a blood infection and was forced to undergo open-heart surgery at the age of 60.

After a year of recovery, he was back on his feet and working again.

Cotton says his ability to recover from a procedure of that magnitude can be directly attributed to his active lifestyle and upbeat attitude.

“I’ve always been about working hard and playing hard,” Cotton says. “I think, and the doctors think so as well, that the only reason I was able to make it through the way that I did is because I lived an active lifestyle and had a good attitude.”

For Cotton, Senior Xtremers became much more than a show. He believes his program has the power

to change people’s lives for the better.

“A big part of what we’re doing is we are inspiring a lot of people who said at first, ‘Well, it’s time to lay on the couch with the clicker,’” Cotton says. “People are coming back to us now and saying, ‘You know, I saw this and I really didn’t even live an active life.

So, I started and picked up whatever.’ And they are 60 years old.”

“On the other hand, you have the guys who have been doing it forever,” Cotton adds. “Those are the two ‘Xtremers.’”

Urban Moore, 63, falls into the latter category.

He continues to race motorcycles and even runs Eugene Skydivers, a skydiving company located in Creswell, Oregon.

“I love the teaching aspect [of skydiving], I’m

The more I do it, the less I care about the adrenaline. I care more about just being with the Earth and helping people get out there and see what there is to see.” good at it—I don’t know,” Moore says. “It beats working at Walmart.”

Moore’s skydiving career started in Idaho when he worked for the television show Idaho Recreation Reports. On the show, he taught parents and kids about sports like trap shooting, alpine skiing, and rock climbing in the Idaho wilderness. It was through this job that he met a group of men at the Lane County fairgrounds during an adventure sports convention. They first offered him the opportunity to go skydiving.

“It was pretty cool,” Moore says of his first experience. “It was totally unlike what I thought it was

Urban Moore maneuvers his parachute with John Koonce in tandem as the pair comes in for a landing after completing a jump from 10,000 feet.

FLUXSTORIES.COM 39

going to be.”

More than 9,300 jumps later, he hasn’t slowed down.

“Freedom, self-reliance— you’re kind of the master of your own disaster,” Moore says. “There isn’t anybody who can help you. It’s probably, to me, the freest thing that you can do that I’ve found.”

T

hroughout his life, Moore has been drawn to extreme sports and hobbies.

In the past he’s been an alpine ski racer, a United States Ski Association coach, a small aircraft pilot, and a track motorcycle racer.

Yet, of all the activities he pursues, his ultimate passion lies with motorcycle road racing. To this day, he continues to ride at the Portland International Raceway.

“I would say that I would probably be doing something [active] even if I weren’t doing this,” Moore says. “I’ve been active my whole life as a competitor or a coach.”

Many older thrill seekers believe that it’s activity, not relaxation, that keeps them going.

“I’m going to continue to [skydive] as long as I can in one form or another,” Moore says. “I’m not interested in quitting the jumping part of it any time soon. I mean, my knees are good, I could stand to lose a couple of pounds, but I’m not slowing up that much.”

Jack Hart, a 69-year old

40 FLUX SPRING 2012

white-water rafting guide and canoe instructor at the Eugene River House outdoor program, is also a wilderness first responder, a person who responds to medical emergencies that occur more than an hour away from a medical center.

Because of his responsibilities, Hart has set an age limit for himself to make sure he is physically capable of performing his duties.

Even though he knows he can handle anything that gets thrown at him, he has decided to quit guiding professionally next year.

“I’m not as strong as I used to be, and I’m very concerned about the wellbeing of people who I’m on trips with,” Hart says.

“I’m not going to stop rafting myself—doing it on my own—but I’m going to ask myself, ‘Am I safe enough to be taking people out here?’”

Hart, who is originally from Springfield, Oregon, has been in the water since he was 10 when he picked up canoeing as a Boy Scout. About twenty years ago, Hart tried his paddle in white-water rafting after watching people glide through the McKenzie River, a popular rafting site in Oregon. While this type of adventure has much to offer, his connection to nature is the number one reason why he still gets in the boat.

“The more I do it, the less I care about the adrenaline,”

» CONTINUED ON PAGE 70

Jack Hart, 69, works to keep his raft on course while navigating Martin Rapids on the McKenzie River. Although Hart has stopped taking paying customers on the more extreme rivers, he continues to run these rapids by himself.

“ FLUXSTORIES.COM 41

Josh Glover puts a coat of mineral oil over the breadboards and cutting boards that are made from scrap wood. After the oil dries the boards are ready to be sold at The Joinery.

Trash to

Treasure Old gelato spoons. Worn train tracks. Shredded tablecloths. The growing trend of upcycling takes trash and makes it timeless.

R

Words Elliott Kennedy Photos Alisha Jucevic

unning her fingers along the sides of a clear plastic tub, Crystal Chaffin peers inside as if memorizing its contents. She wrinkles her brow and drums her fingers against the cracked plastic—ratatat-tat!—scrutinizing the mound of old microfiche. Something in the heap catches her eye and her fingers stop tapping against the tub’s translucent surface. She grins and bites her lip, restraining a squeak of excitement as her right hand dives into the pile and disappears among the bits of brown, black, and sepia film. Her hand returns to the surface in a millisecond, clutching its prize. She holds the microfiche close to the light, inspecting the image.

It’s a hot dog.

FLUXSTORIES.COM 43

“This one is from the ‘70s,” says Chaffin, beaming with excitement as if she discovered a winning lotto Scratch-It before carefully placing the square of film in the child seat of her shopping cart.

C

rowded between the walls of the short, narrow aisle, Chaffin’s cart leaves little room for fellow shoppers to browse the shelves stocked with scratched CDs, empty tennis ball containers, and three decades’ worth of National Geographic magazines. A left turn at the end at of the aisle leads to an open space stockpiled with second-hand craft supplies. Six giant cylindrical bins are lined up in the center of the space, standing by to provide customers with an assortment of random items. Stretchy rings for a dime. Wine corks for a quarter. One of the bins displays a large, hand-written message in thick, black Sharpie: “Packing materials.

Please refrain from popping the bubble wrap.”

But none of those materials will suit Chaffin’s project. What started out as a way to save money on Christmas gifts for her nieces

and nephews soon turned into commissioned works for her friends and co-workers.

She makes stuffed robots with used fabric and other soft textiles—the microfiches are their “motherboards.”

“I’m hoping to start a website soon to more easily sell them. And I want to try using new materials, too,” Chaffin says, gesturing toward her shopping cart, which is full of bent coat hangers. “But that’s why this place is so great. You can find so much random stuff.”

Chaffin is a patron of the Scrounger’s Center for Reusable Art Parts (SCRAP), a Portlandbased non-profit organization that sells used craft materials while promoting the idea of creative reuse. Also known as “upcycling,” creative reuse is the process of transforming one or several discarded items into a new product.

Whether the end product is beautiful or utilitarian is up to the individual, says SCRAP Education Coordinator Keri Piehl. The key element is a union of sustainability and creativity.

“Reduce, reuse, recycle. There’s a reason reuse comes before recycle in that series—it’s more important,” Piehl says. “Anyone can recycle. But reusing requires you to push your

Leela Brightenburg, co-owner and designer at Bright Design Lab, upcycles wood from old barns and stadium bleachers. The metal dividers on this bookshelf are made from old train tracks and the bolts are taken from old barns.

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“

By upcycling, you’re taking something out of that wheel and that cycle to give it a higher purpose.” imagination in response to the materials available to you.”

With the increase of municipal solid waste in the United States and other developed countries, it would seem there is no end to the materials available. The Department of Health and Environmental Control defines municipal solid waste (MSW) as “household trash or garbage” and says that the majority of MSW is recyclable.

Yet much of what can be salvaged or recycled is simply discarded. According to the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), the annual production of MSW in the United States has tripled in the last fifty years from 88.1 million tons in 1960 to 249.9 million tons in 2010.

In response, major cities have enacted laws to curtail waste production, while national corporations have organized campaigns enticing consumers to behave more sustainably. Styrofoam products have been banned in Berkeley, Seattle, and Portland since 2008. Last year, Best Buy and Staples began offering gift cards and cash incentives for customers who participate in electronic recycling programs.

Other countries have also joined the war on trash. When Ireland implemented a thirty-three-cent tax on plastic bags in 2002, usage dropped 94 percent. In France, they’re not even an option.

According to Leela Brightenburg, it still isn’t enough.

“Our culture has been developing this mentality of ‘cheap and quick means better’ for a long time, so it’s going to be hard to shift back,” says Brightenburg, co-owner and designer at the interior and graphic design firm, Bright Design Lab. “But every little piece helps change the world.”

Like Brightenburg, who designs upcycled furniture out of old barn doors, high school lockers, and college stadium bleachers for remodeling contractor Hammer & Hand, other

Barbra Karr sorts through pieces of fabric at SCRAP in Portland. She uses it to make tablecloths and napkins. Karr was a board member at SCRAP when it first opened and still shops there frequently for craft materials.

people are beginning to take the phrase “one man’s trash is another man’s treasure” to a new extreme.

M

ost notable among upcycling circles in recent months is Pinterest, a social networking site that allows users to post images about hobbies that interest them. Officially called an “online pin board,” the site includes hundreds of crafts with a creative reuse component. When Time magazine listed Pinterest among its fifty best websites of 2011, the site’s web traffic exploded. Making light fixtures out of wine bottles and abstract art out of melted crayons soon became a national sensation.

“Some things are just garbage, like a used Band-Aid or snotty Kleenex. But everything else always has a possibility in it,” says Piehl, who makes light fixtures for SCRAP’s retail store out of bike helmets, old photographs, and gelato spoons. “And it’s always more rewarding and satisfying because of that transformation from garbage to gem.”

Kelley Carmichael Casey, executive director at SCRAP, calls upcycling an innovative and cutting edge trend that’s seeping into the national value system.

“When you have an idea this good and this useful, it grows and infiltrates the community at large,” Carmichael Casey says.

From scraps of fabric to scrap wood, the importance of reuse is an ever-present theme for Oregon artisans. Marc Gaudin, founder and owner of The Joinery, a wooden furniture business, directs his craftsmen to save excess items that remain after furniture production.

The wood shavings are collected and put into a machine that turns them into fire briquettes. The machine, which cost approximately $25,000 and stands as tall as the building’s workshop, prevents hundreds of tons of useless wood shavings from being sent to landfills each year. Since buying the briquette machine, The Joinery has been able to reduce its number of Dumpsters to one.

“It will take a long time to pay itself off, if it ever will,” says Gaudin of the enormous machine “But it’s environmentally correct.”

Larger pieces that aren’t viable for briquette use are collected and turned into upcycled products. These leftovers, commonly called “off falls,” are usually about the size of a butcher knife. Most of the pieces are destined to become cutting boards, which cost at least $100 each. Gaudin says students and local

school representatives often approach him about selling his items at fundraiser auctions.

In response, Gaudin makes it a practice to donate at least two cutting boards free of charge.

The largest pieces, however, are saved for a higher purpose than kitchenware. Using an “idea book,” which contains sketches, magazine clippings, and Internet images, Gaudin and his team design pieces that merge the practicality of furniture with the apparent uselessness of wood scraps. Once displayed in the show room, the scrap furniture is nearly indistinguishable from standard furniture designs.

“We needed to take what we already had in the shop, already sitting right next to the saws, and turn it into more products,” Gaudin says. “Plus, it helps us stay neat, organized, and tidy. We’re more efficient when we’re lean and green.”

Equally important to Gaudin is the character and the story behind his furniture. His upcycled furniture contains small details such as imprints from old nails and screws. Occasionally, plywood comes into the shop embedded with bullets, which Gaudin prefers to keep.

“They’re from people out in the woods doing target practice on a random tree,” he says.

“And when it gets to us, it can become someone else’s conversation starter.”

Random projectiles add a unique touch to furniture at The Joinery, but Gaudin says it’s the greenness of upcycling that makes customers happy with their purchase.

“The perception of something so small costing so much, like a scrap end table, is a hard idea to sell,” he says. “But people respond to the fact that we’re reinventing the wheel.”

The wheel of consumption, that is.

“Reduce, reuse, recycle is a great start, but even that just contributes to the degradation of the environment,” says Leela Brightenburg, cofounder of Bright Design Labs. “By upcycling, you’re taking something out of that wheel and that cycle to give it a higher purpose.”

According to Pheil, a self-proclaimed “rabid missionary” of SCRAP who convinces non-believers of the benefits of upcycling, that higher purpose is sometimes as simple as aesthetics.

“Even if upcycling doesn’t result in something useful for the whole world,” she says, “it still creates beauty for the individual creator.”

FLUXSTORIES.COM 45

HOW THESE

PHOTOS TESS FREEMAN

Eric “Doc” Ohling pushes past Eugene Emerald City Roller Girls’ Skatesaphreniks player Cathy “Krazy Kurlz” Bennett during a Wednesday night scrimmage.

When Christopher Wright opens the door of the Willamalane Sports Center’s gymnasium the terms graphic design student, father, and husband don’t define him anymore. He sits down on a bench, pulls off his gray t-shirt and replaces it with a white jersey embedded with the profile of a skull and the words “Lane County Concussion.” Suddenly, he is known only by the black words emblazoned on the back of his shirt.

“Daddy Danger,” it reads.

“Roller derby allows you to be a different person,” Wright says. “Daddy Danger will do stuff that Christopher Wright will never do.”

He laces up his skates ready to join his teammates for a scrimmage against the veterans of the sport: the women.

Roller derby is known in America as a women’s sport. The fishnet stockings, small booty shorts, and aggression don’t have the same appeal to an audience when it’s men circling the track.

But that didn’t stop the six men who started Lane County Concussion. They formed a team simply because they loved to skate and wanted to learn the tactics of the game.

Anthony Warner has skated with the team for one year. He recalls the hesitation the women displayed when they learned that Concussion members wanted to practice and scrimmage with the six female teams in the Eugene-Springfield area.

“When men dominate so many sports it was hard for the women to let men into the only sport they felt was theirs,” Warner said.

“I think they were scared of the aggression that we would bring to the sport. They don’t realize that guys are like teddy bears.”

Today, the men who skate with the Concussion have been adopted into the roller derby family. The confidence, skill, and tightknit community brings these men back to the sport week after week. Warner, who drives 50 miles each way and suffered a concussion last August, still joins his Concussion teammates twice a week to skate.

At the end of the night, the players change back into their jeans and t-shirts.

They pack up their skates and walk out laughing, recounting the scrimmage or bout play by play. Wright changes out of his jersey but the confidence he has acquired as “Daddy Danger” isn’t something he leaves on the track.

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above: Brishen “Cougar Bait” Thomas skates around the track as the Lane County Concussion jammer. The jammer’s job is to score points by passing members of the opposing team. right: Lane County Concussion members cheer in triumph after a particularly difficult practice. The Concussion started two and a half years ago with six men. Today, the team has grown to fifteen players with two of the original six men still on the team.

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top: Brishen “Cougar Bait” Thomas lines up on the track as the Lane County Concussion’s jammer in a scrimmage against the Emerald City Roller Girls’ Skatesaphreniks.

above: Elizabeth “Ophelia Melons” Braumwirt falls on top of Eric “Doc” Ohling after the pack turned a corner during a scrimmage at the Willamalane Sports Center in Springfield, Oregon. right: Leon “Papi Cock” West acts out a roller derby YouTube video he had seen that week to his family and other members of the Concussion. Both West’s wife and daughter are members of the Emerald City Roller Girls league. “It’s nice to go home with my family and we have something we love to talk about,” West says.

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Design Bridge, a multidisciplinary organization administered through the University of Oregon, helped fund the purchase of a tractor that both Huerto de la Familia and The Small Farmers’ Project use on their farms.

h a r v e s t i n g A nonprofit organization in Eugene empowers Oregon’s migrant Latino families to grow their dreams through organic farming

A

words Riley Stevenson Photos Tess Freeman and Alisha Jucevic

s Margarito Palacios drives up the gravel road to his farm, he begins to forget.

He forgets the death of his father, his lack of sleep, and the discrimination he faces on a daily basis. Palacios’ eyes wander over the rows of raspberry and strawberry plants lining the field before him. He parks his red truck in its usual spot, walks to the nearest patch of strawberries, and bends down to scoop up a handful of dirt. Rubbing the soft soil between his fingers, he assesses the terrain before rising from the ground and heading toward the shed. It’s time to work.

Despite being hundreds of miles away from his family in a country where he doesn’t speak the language, Palacios knows he’s home.

In 2008, Palacios joined a local nonprofit organization called Huerto de la Familia, a phrase that means “Family Garden” in Spanish. Huerto works to empower Latino migrants to attain economic self-sufficien-

cy and community integration through organic farming, training, and support. The organization currently serves fifty-five low-income families that come from cities and villages throughout Latin America.

Some are familiar with farming, while others were mathematicians, physicians, or professionals in their home countries.

Palacios had minimal agricultural experience when he enrolled, but was eager to learn more. Now, after several years of training and hard work, Palacios serves as a board member, assists in family recruitment, and leads farming classes.

Through Huerto, Palacios has developed confidence and a sense of purpose in the face of economic and social hardship.

“Before [Huerto de la Familia] I only thought about day-to-day life. Go to work, get my check—I didn’t think about anything else,” Palacios says. “But now that I’ve found Huerto, I think differently. I am a small business man with the desire to grow, to improve, and to help other families.”

Executive director Sarah Cantril founded Huerto in 1999 with six Latino women

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and one garden plot. Now, the organization subsidizes three gardens in Lane County, offers micro-enterprise opportunities for families and individuals, and has served more than 400 parents and children.

H

uerto offers clients educational workshops, arable land, and a sense of community. Families that apply for the program are given seeds, tools, and plots of land, and undergo organic gardening courses. Group work parties meet twice a month, but families are free to come and go as they please. Some choose to partake in workshops about food preservation and health issues, while others elect to learn independently.

Cantril describes Huerto as participantdriven, as it aims “to create leadership development within the group” by regularly asking for feedback and conducting surveys.

“When I founded Huerto, I wanted this organization to be a refuge,” Cantril says.

“I had seen a great deal of food insecurity [in Lane County]. Many Latinos were not able to provide enough for their families on a daily basis … so working with families and training them to grow their own food

seemed like a good solution.”

According to recent studies conducted by FOOD for Lane County, nearly half of those who do not have reliable access to food in Oregon are Latino. This hunger problem is reflected in national statistics as well. In 2010, the USDA reported that 13.2 million Latinos were not sure where their next meal would come from. Cantril credits this problem to limited formal education, low English language proficiency, and underemployment in Latino communities.

Palacios says Huerto has helped him move past those roadblocks. “[Latinos] don’t have the same opportunities to go to school, to get a good job,” Palacios says. “But it’s great to get involved in agriculture because it’s something that I enjoy, that will help me continue on and develop.”

For Palacios, agriculture provides secure employment because the demand for food is constant.

“No one is going to stop eating,” he says.

“And where do people get their food? Here.”

Huerto recently instituted Cambios (“Changes”), a micro-development program that offers business counseling and support to families looking to expand upon farming initiatives and create their own

When I ask families about the benefits of the garden, the first thing they say is the harvest.

The second thing they always say is it distracts them from their worries.” enterprises. Palacios and his wife Tina, along with ten other families, pioneered this program in 2011 in collaboration with Heifer International. Over the course of six months, the families came up with a farming plan, deciding what they wanted to grow, how they wanted to grow it, and where they were going to plot their land.

Heifer then awarded the group a three-year grant to fund their business, a U-Pick farm they named The Small Farmers’ Project.

At the project’s farm located in northeast Eugene, three families grow organic blackcap raspberries and a variety of strawberries, which they sell directly from the farm to a wholesaler called Organically Grown Company, which then distributes the fruit across Oregon to grocery stores such as

Because of his commitment to organic farming, Palacios was selected as a representative by the Agriculture Justice Project. Everything he learns about organic farming he teaches to the other families in The Small Farmers’ Project.

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Fred Meyer and Sundance Natural Foods.

The farm spreads across six acres and is lined with rows of raspberry and strawberry seedlings that are nurtured by experienced, caring hands. Near the entrance, a newly constructed shed that was built by students in the University of Oregon’s Design Bridge program serves as both a storage unit and a picnic area. Families use the space every few weeks or so during the summer for potlucks and musical gatherings.

For these families, The Small Farmers’ Project is much more than a farm; it’s a second home.

“This project has given me the power to voice to others that we Latinos are here to do good things, to work,” Palacios says. “By helping ourselves and helping other families, we can change the world and change lives.”

Upon immigrating to the United States at age 19 from Chiapas, Mexico in 1994, Palacios knew no English, had no work, and relied solely on his faith in finding a better life to keep himself going.

“I came to the United States because I wanted to help my family and support them,” Palacios says. He left ten brothers and sisters behind in Mexico, along with his wife, Tina.

Two of his brothers lived in Los Angeles at the time and secured Palacios a job there working in construction, which enabled him to send money back to his family. However, Palacios soon became tired of the city’s traffic and crowded living conditions and in 2007 decided to move to Oregon, where there were more job opportunities and a cooler climate.

T

ina, who joined Palacios in the U.S. three months after he settled in California, had family in Eugene who helped support the two upon their arrival.

The couple spent their nights cleaning offices in the city’s downtown business district and working on Huerto’s farms during the day. Although these jobs enabled Palacios and Tina to put food on their table and a roof over their heads, being Latinos in a predominantly white community often proved difficult.

About a year ago, Palacios was pulled over in his truck by a police officer in what

Palacios thins the branches of the blackcap raspberry plants at the Small Farmers’ Project Garden. The garden turns into a U-Pick business in June, where people can pick and purchase the ripe raspberries and strawberries.

he felt to be an act of racial profiling. The officer claimed Palacios had a broken license plate, but when Palacios asked to assess the damage, the officer denied his request and wrote Palacios a ticket—one that contained no written offense.

“There are people that think badly of [Latinos]…that carry racism in their veins,” Palacios says. “But just like in every race, there are bad people, and there are good people too.

And I consider myself a good person, who con-

tributes and helps more than anything.”

Some members of The Small Farmers’ Project have noticed cars pull up to their UPick farm and turn around when they see who is working there. Others, like Palacios, have been pulled over by police officers for seemingly dubious reasons. Cantril confesses that she has received hate mail for her work and that the gardens have been vandalized in the past.

“I may appear happy on the outside, but

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A family prepares for spring planting during a Sunday morning work party at one of the Huerto de la Familia gardens. Huerto de la Familia organizes work parties like these so volunteers and church groups may help out at the gardens.

HUERTO DE LA FAMILIA

“Access by all people at all times to enough nutritious food for an active, healthy life.”

-food security as defined by U.S. Dept. of Agriculture Since 1999, Huerto de la Familia has improved the lives of more than 320 Latino families by providing the education and resources to grow their own food.

Latinos consistently have the highest food insecurity in the nation. Huerto offers these families access to fresh and nutritious food that they might not be able to afford at the grocery store.

price per plot

$100 at a typical farm price per plot at $10 Huerto de la Familia 56 FLUX SPRING 2012

Huerto de la Familia’s education efforts increase food security throughout the year by teaching families to can, freeze, and dry produce. The farm gives people a better sense of community and social equity.

on the inside I carry the same sadness that many other Latinos feel who are here fighting for a better life,” Palacios says.

Huerto de la Familia has become a safe haven for its farmers and gardeners, an escape from the stresses of daily life for Latinos living so far from home. In this sanctuary, Palacios can get lost in his farm work and forget about the bitter stares and traffic tickets.

“When I ask families about the benefits of the garden, the first thing they say is the harvest,” Cantril says. “The second thing they always say is it distracts them from their worries.”

Despite working on the farm for up to seven hours a day, cleaning offices at night, participating in biweekly farmers meetings, and managing his own business, Palacios gives whatever he can back to his community. He writes and sends money to a boy in a rural community in Ecuador and looks for ways to translate lessons learned through Huerto back to people living in Mexico. Palacios looks back

USA POPULATION

14.5%

food insecure

Farmers sell their produce through a wholesaler called Organically Grown Company, which then distributes the fruit to local grocery stores. Everything they grow is 100 percent organic and profits are split evenly among the farmers.

fondly on the years he’s spent in the United States, remembering both his successes and his setbacks. As he prepares the soil for another year of harvest, he looks ahead to the future—unsure of what it will hold. Just like

HUERTO MEMBERSHIP

80%

food insecure

85.5%

food secure

1999

the seeds he plants, Palacios has grown and flourished under Huerto’s care.

“Now I have a better future,” Palacios says. “And it’s all thanks to Huerto de la Familia.”

13.3

MILLION

food insecure Latinos in the United States

2012

Began with 6 women and 300 sq ft of land

with a good tomato harvest a family can save a year

$420

White

Other

Black

Latino

11% 13% 25% 26%

Currently includes more than 100 families with 20,000 sq ft of land FLUXSTORIES.COM 57

Falling line in

Photos Michael Ciaglo

Words Erik gundersen

Private Silas Overton drops and gives twenty push-ups for speaking out in class. Teachers assign varying voice levels to activities and expect students’ conversations to remain under that level. Overton spoke over the level twice, resulting in a reprimand.

Private Damian Ashley, a seventhgrader in Foxtrot Company, stands in the corner of the room for misbehaving while class proceeds behind him. During a break, his commanding officer, First Sergeant James Brainard, ripped up Ashley’s promotion to Private First Class while lecturing him that actions have consequences.

Private Logan Robbins looks in a dictionary for the meaning of a word that confused him. Although Robbins asked his teacher for the meaning, he was instructed to find it himself. Effort is one of seven values and beliefs the school seeks to instill in its students.

E

ffort. Discrimination. Equality. Competition. Accountability. Discipline.

America. These are the principle tenets of the Willamette Leadership Academy in Veneta, Oregon. What originally began as an after-school program for troubled youth is now a fully functioning military charter school for middle school and high school students.

The academy uses a rigid military power structure in a charter school setting to breed discipline. While students wear uniforms, refer to superiors by rank, and march in formation, they still go home at the end of the day just like other kids their age.

Students are split into seven different battalions based on their year in school—from sixth graders through high school seniors.

Each class is referred to as a company, denoted by letters in the military phonetic alphabet such as “Alpha” (which refers to juniors and seniors), “Bravo” (sophomores), “Charlie” (freshmen), and so on.

Each morning begins with uniform inspection and roll call to the military bugle tune “Reveille.” Students are given the opportunity to gain rank within each company as a class leader, pla-

toon leader, or squad leader. Teachers, who are also known as captains, are often accompanied by battalion sergeants, or students in charge of day-to-day disciplinary action. Those who fail to follow orders are often reprimanded with “physi-

cal correction,” which typically involves doing push-ups and running laps.

While the school may be rigorous, that doesn’t mean students are deprived of the one thing kids their age seek most: fun.

First Sergeant Dan Jubber yells at Private First Class Cody Johnson after pulling him out of class for talking and failing to do schoolwork.

previous page: Children from sixth to twelfth grade, whose ages range from 11 to 19, attend the Willamette Leadership Academy. Many are not at the military school by choice. above: First Sergeant Dan Jubber reprimands Private First Class Cody Johnson for failing to keep up with jumping jacks while being punished.

“We all make mistakes, but there are consequences,” Jubber says. “These kids were never held accountable. We teach them right from wrong.” right: Private Logan Robbins leans back in his chair as Captain Garth Gerot teaches grammar to the seventh grade Foxtrot Company. The academy offers both traditional math and English classes as well as a selection of military science classes.

left: Middle school students bear crawl out to the training field after lunch where they will be “ITed� (receive individual training) for inappropriate behavior.

Such behavior can include talking out in class, disrespecting their parents, or failing to complete homework. Even though the Willamette Leadership Academy is not a boarding school, students are held accountable for their actions both in and out of the classroom.

above: Tim Spangle, Haley Frogge, and Tiffany Galt relax on the field after lunch.

Minutes later, Spangle was called over and reprimanded by his commanding officer for removing his long-sleeve shirt without permission. Spangle quickly resolved the situation and was able to avoid further punishment. right: Private Kyler Kessler yells out his company name and slogan during the final drills of the day. Every company represents a different grade level at the academy. Companies range from ‘Golf ’ company (sixth grade) to ‘Alpha’ company (an eleventh and twelfth grade mixed class). The company names denote letters in the phonetic military alphabet. After a friendly yelling competition, the students play “Taps” and are released from school.

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top: Private Scott Ream carries a tire around the exercise field as punishment. Varying levels of discipline are applied to students who misbehave, from physical correction to expulsion. bottom: First Sergeant James Brainard jokingly pulls a hat down over Private Mateo Carrillo’s eyes during reading time.

Even though teachers are expected to keep their students in line, many find that having a sense of humor can do more to build bonds and correct behavior than other measures.

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dear

Mr.Kennedy Words Elliott Kennedy Illustration Rebecca Schnoor

It was his heart.

For sixty years it beat and pumped, fluttered and thumped, unwaveringly steady and constant. Until one day it stopped. It was unexpected and unimaginable. When his heart quit beating, I was sure that mine would too. Somehow it hasn’t, but it beats more heavily now. It pumps blood throughout my body with each pulsing throb, carrying exactly fifty percent of his DNA to my double-pierced ears and nail-polished toes. And with each passing second, I miss him even more.

On November 21, 2011, I came home to find my boyfriend anxiously pacing in the living room. When I asked him what was wrong, he simply shook his head.

My cell phone rang. It was my mom. She said I needed to sit down and take my boyfriend’s hand.

“Honey, I’m going to tell you something, and then I need you to hang up the phone,” she said through my gasps. “When you can, call me back and I’ll tell you more.”

She told me that my dad had died.

For the next few hours, with my boyfriend’s hand firmly clasped to mine, I wept as I processed what had happened.

My father, James, had gone hang gliding with his friends—a common occurrence even at 60 years old. There was never a time in my memory when my father did not hang glide. It’s how he met my mother, who went flying even when she was pregnant with my sister. When I was little, I would hand my dad a plastic baggie and ask him to bring back a cloud for me. Having a

dad who could fly was like having my very own superhero.

The day he died, the skies were clear and the winds were in their favor—a perfect day for flying. My dad was among the first to take off. While circling through the air, he briefly lost consciousness. Still flying, he woke up and radioed to his chums on the ground: “Boy, do I have a story for you guys!”

A short while later, he landed smoothly in a grassy field, grinning about his inflight adventure. He unharnessed, stepped away from the glider, and suddenly collapsed. No one could resuscitate him.

Nor could anyone explain why he died.

When his heart quit beating, I was sure that mine would too.”

The doctors called it “sudden death syndrome,” a grown-up form of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. The death certificate labeled it “probable cardiac arrhythmia.” But none of that mattered to me. No explanation could bring him back.

In the weeks following my dad’s death, I came to question the human heart. I had my doubts about its relevance as an organ—why exercise and eat well for more than half a century if it was just going to quit on you? I became cynical about its place in our culture; it seems like bad ad-

vice to “follow your heart” when it’s just going to lead you to the Grim Reaper’s door.

Most of all, I doubted its physical and emotional strength—if the heart is truly as powerful as we believe it to be, why is it so easy to break?

Between the grief and numbness, fear began to steal into my heart. Worry saturated every minute of the day. How would my mother support herself and two daughters on one paycheck? Would I be able to finish school?

Who would help me lift the heavy furniture when I moved out of my apartment? Each uneasy thought built upon the last until I was left with a complex tower of anxiety, a morose game of Jenga that threatened to come crashing down around me.

On the day of my dad’s memorial service, I wasn’t sure I could talk to my family’s friends, neighbors, or coworkers without feeling like I was going to scream, vomit, or do something equally indecent. In the end, I simply lent a hand with the decorations.

My father was an elementary school teacher and his students had made one thousand paper cranes for his service, each with an individual message. They were to be hung on a tree near the podium and scattered on tables throughout the hall.

As I placed the folded sheets of multicolored paper on white tablecloths, I read each message. Two of them will be with me for the rest of my life, little reminders constructed by tiny hands that give me comfort as I grieve.

The first was a red crane with lopsided wings and a disproportionately large head.

On the larger wing was this message: “Mr.

Kennedy, you are a great teacher. I wish you weren’t dead.” Every time I read it, I can’t help but smile. I laugh in the face of death, and I giggle because I can. I look at this unknown child’s oversized handwriting and think about the wisdom behind the words.

Beneath all my cynicism and sorrow, one fact remains: I want my father to be alive.

Why should I feel prohibited from saying those words? Because they’re too raw?

Death is simple, but grief is complicated.

But I can say with absolute certainty that nothing is unresolved. I know there’s nothing anyone could have done to prevent his death. I know he would have been happy that my mom, my sister, and I were not there to see it. And I know he loved all of us more than life itself.

This is when I look to my second crane, a blue one that looks more like a paper airplane than an origami bird: “Mr. Kennedy showed me that things are amazing.”

My father was amazing.

Every summer during my childhood, he would take my sister and me to Whiskeytown Lake, where we would jump off its rocky cliffs.

During a trip to Europe when I was 10, my dad woke me up in the middle of the night and asked if I wanted to go on an adventure.

We wandered through London until sunrise.

When my sister brought home an injured piglet, he bought baby bottles for the motherless animal. My dad taught his students about science by letting them take apart our lawn mower. He taught me how to shoot a potato gun and how to build a mousetrap car.

My dad’s greatest passion was helping others realize theirs. For me, that meant going to college and simply living a life of learning, a fact that my dad understood and encouraged.

He is the reason I’m finishing college. He is the reason I’m starting graduate school in the fall. He was my loudest advocate, my cartwheeling cheerleader, and my biggest fan.

Now that he’s gone, I’m faced with the most difficult, daunting lesson I’ll ever have to learn—living without him.

But I carry “Dad DNA,” so he will never truly be gone. His strength is in my cells.

His benevolence is in my blood, running through my veins to bring life to an organ that I still have not forgiven. It’s not just his amazing spirit that I will always carry with me. It’s his heart.

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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 40

Hart says. “I care more about just being with the earth and helping people get out there and see what there is to see.”

Hart also sees canoeing as a source of personal accomplishment. Although he is on the water with people much younger than himself, his skill level is still comparable.

“There’s a sort of joy that you get out of knowing that you have the skills to still be able to go through some challenging white-water,” Hart says. “You do have a sense of accomplishment and you do have the thrill when you do that kind of stuff, so I’m glad I’m able to do that and I’m glad I’m able to run some

challenging rapids.”

As for Cotton, he believes he finally understands what drives these individuals after interviewing numerous older “daredevils” like Moore, Smalley, and Hart for Senior Xtremers.

“People who are aging today are better than our parents and our grandparents,” Cotton says. “We are all baby boomers and older.

And yeah, sure it is diet and it is exercise. But I’ll tell you, there is one common denominator with all these older people that I interview: they all have a great attitude and they stay busy and active.”

Cotton chuckles and adds, “I mean, that’s my motto: it’s hard to shoot a moving target.”

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