How I Learned to Love a Place
Before I came to Eugene, I never loved a place. I saw others do it, but never knew how. We arrived the same week the 503 area code left — August, 1995. My younger son saw bits of trash tumbleweeding through the alley downtown and (not knowing any better) remarked that the town kept house the way we do. I’ve raised my boys to believe that dusting and lawn care are nefarious sects to be avoided, if not feared. Place is the ground to each of us moving through it as figures. The figures change, but the ground stays the same. We figured out quickly enough that this was a special place on the planet. I learned later that this is also a very special time to be here, as a town struggles to become a small city.
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One of these four ideas will be developed into a column on Wednesday to be published in The Register-Guard on Friday. I’m asking you to help me choose between them. Between now and the end of Tuesday, leave comments here or send me an e-mail if you’d rather be more private. Or, at the very least, RATE the idea (and the others) so I know which one people like best. No promises, though. This ain’t American Idol. But I will post an entry on Wednesday to say which one I’m choosing (and probably why.) I plan to do this each week — often by Friday, but always by Monday, so visit often and tell me which idea intrigues you the most. Thanks!
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