Coquille Sentinel - Articles -

A Christmas Remembered

no@spam.com (Chuck Palomino) — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 20:00:00 EST

Thanksgiving is over, and the big one is coming up, Christmas. I’ll try not to get into any past Christmas holiday memories. Some are a little too poignant. Occasionally fate takes a hand, and there I am, back in a memory. Recently I was rummaging through the back of a dusty upstairs closet, when buried under some things that years ago I thought I could never do without, I found a cigar box. The label, old and worn, touted, "White Owl Cigars."

Across the lid, in a child’s hand, was the penciled name, "Charlie Don, personal" (the name I was called when I was very young). Among the small childhood treasures was a blue slide whistle. On the side was printed, "Fat Bob’s Discount Fumiture," which was a reluctant Christmas gift from a fat man many Christmases ago. I must have been nine or ten years old, in 1950 something. It came to be that Fat Bob, either in the Christmas spirit or trying to increase sales, planned a program in the park to have children meet Santa and maybe get a small gift. On the evening of the anticipated occasion, the children began to gather early.

Little tykes were with mothers or older siblings to help control the mounting enthusiasm. The crowd gathered in front of a paper balustrade held up by cardboard poles. Santa's chair sat under a cardboard pavilion just as flimsy as the rest of the set. Oh, yeah, Fat Bob was cheap ... He would regret it. The children began discordant chanting, "Where is Santa? We want Santa." The tide had begun to swell, and nothing was going to hold it back. Santa trudged in from the rear of the set. He was dressed in red and white with a white beard. He carried a large bag over one shoulder and looked suspiciously like Fat Bob. Perhaps he was a relative.

The crowd began to pulse forward and broke away from controlling hands. The paper poles and the rope collapsed as every child vied to be first to sit on Santa’s lap. Santa’s eyes grew wide, and his "Ho, Ho, Ho” turned into "No, No, No" as the swell descended on him like seagulls at a landfill. He started to sit on his folding chair, but becoming aware of the impending calamity, decided discretion was the better part of Christmas spirit. The chair tipped over, and his bag fell to the ground spilling its contents. Santa tumbled to his knees as the tots reached him. One black plastic boot spun across the ground, abandoned in a panicked retreat.

He was on his hands and knees scrambling to escape from whence he came, maybe back to the North Pole. Who could guess? Mothers were shouting, kids were screaming, "Come back Santa." Oh, mercy. It was murder. Then, all attention turned to the spilled bag of goodies on the floor. I got my hands in the pile, grabbing two Baby Ruth candy bars and a plastic whistle. The next thing I knew I was being lifted to my feet by my shirt collar, and my sister was dragging me from the fray. The walk home was long and silent. I knew I was in for it when my sister told mom what happened. Mom greeted us at the door, and her first questions were, "Did he have a good time, and did he behave?" "Sure, mom, he just got a little excited." I felt a weight lift from me.

Later I went to my sister’s bedroom and asked why she had saved me. In the low light she said, "You’re my brother, and it's the Christrras Season.” I drew the two prized candy bars from behind my back. "These are for you, for pretty much the same reason, I guess.” I spent some time getting to sleep that night, thinking about what had happened. I didn't understand it all. How were the feelings of love and forgiveness and Christmas all mixed together? I had heard the words in church, but they didn't mean much. My sister’s Christmas lesson was the most valuable one that I received that year.

Sharp Edges

no@spam.com (Chuck Palomino) — Tue, 11 Aug 2009 21:00:00 EDT

The other morning I was sitting on my front porch enjoying a cup of coffee in the quiet coolness of a Coquille Valley morning. As often happens, a friend stopped to join me. I noticed that he had a new car. Knowing how tight he was with his money, (it was once said that he would squeeze a nickel until the buffalo's eyes crossed) I asked him if he had fallen victim to a momentary lack of financial clarity.

Now I must say that my limited knowledge of politics and economics complicated his response. He said that the government offered him a $4,500.00 trade in on his old beater car for a more fuel efficient one. The plan would also help stimulate the struggling Detroit automobile industry by encouraging automobile sales. "Just think," he said, "I can visit my girlfriend in Powers a lot more than I could with my old car and not use much more gas. "Two thoughts occurred to me. First, the $4,500.00 came from my tax money.

Second, how is using the same amount of gas going to make any one in O.P.E.C. nervous. I said that maybe he should thank me for helping him buy a new car and for increasing his testosterone runs to that cowgirl in Powers. He chuckled as he got up to leave. Before he got to the curb I shouted after him, "What kind of a car is that anyway?" He looked back and said, "Toyota."

Sharp Edges

no@spam.com (Chuck Palomino) — Thu, 19 Mar 2009 21:30:00 EDT

First of all let me start by saying that I don't see much humor in religion. It's a serious subject that deserves respect.

That said I must admit to being a simple soul who has to deal with the subject of my salvation in images that I can comprehend. I have a close neighbor who is a pastor and could be the poster person of what a good Christian should be. I'm not a nonbeliever but watching a good Christian doing the Lords work sometimes makes me feel like more of a heathen than I am willing to admit.

The spirit denying the flesh has always been a tough go for me. The older that I get the more I realize that there are no loopholes written in the bible. When earthly lights begin to dim and the flame on the candle of life begins to flicker it will be too late for repentance.

Will it come to pass that when the heavenly train bound for glory land pulls out of the station some of us won't be on it? Instead a dark coach pulled by fire breathing black stallions and driven by a specter in a hooded cloak with a stink of sulpher will stop, open the door and with a skeletal finger beckon for the ride into eternity....Oh mercy.

Sharp Edges

no@spam.com (Chuck Palomino) — Tue, 10 Mar 2009 19:00:00 EDT

Summers in Oregon are the most beautiful anywhere. The rain forest effect of colorful bloom, clean air and openness is unparalleled. I live for the spring and summers in Coquille.

But as with all earthly pleasures there is a price. The price comes due in the form of the wet, cold winters. It's not so much the weather that gets me down. My main complaint is the respiratory curse that comes to visit the lungs on the cold wet air.

The flu. For the older citizens (can I say seniors) like myself the effects of this ailment come and go and come and go and come and go. My head is so stuffy that my hearing that suffers from sixty years of overwork has problems with the simplest phrases. I was stopped on Highway 42 last weekend and the nice policeman asked m, "Do you know how fast you were going?" I replied with a quizzical, "Does my mother do any sewing?" and wondered why he would want to know that.

I asked him to "speak slowly and articulate" and he thought I was being a wise guy. My runny nose that requires copious amounts of Kleenex can get me into trouble. When the Kleenex is used up I start on the bathroom tissue then the paper towels. My wife inevitably has to make a McKay's run in the rain to restock. She loves me but I know she quietly abides while being driven nuts taking care of me. She sits and tries to watch television or read while I wheeze like an ancient pump organ. Raspy wind in, raspy wind out. Sometimes I even get a noise like a musical note. How entertaining for her.

For now I will follow my mother's time tested cold remedy. One third cup each of honey, lemon juice and Jack Daniel's. Then heat it, drink it, sleep and hope for an early spring.

Sharp Edges

no@spam.com (Chuck Palomino) — Tue, 03 Mar 2009 15:00:00 EST

By Chuck Palomino
Reading the sheriff's log in the Sentinel last week I came across an item that took me back to my boyhood. The item related that two goats tied to a shed at Bandon Farm and Garden ate $350 worth of plants that were for sale. How the goats got there and who they belong to is still a mystery. Oh yes, goats. Anyone who has ever had the misfortune to own one knows that they are ornery critters and will get into mischief where there is no mischief to get into.

That brings me to my story. My early childhood was spent in a simple country environment. We had lots of chickens and ducks and we had two goats. My sis and I loved them but they would test the patience of Job. They were garbage disposals from hell. At least once or twice a week, at night, they would jump the fence of their enclosure and we would find them in the morning enjoying a green salad from our garden, a main course from an over turned trash can or, sin of sins, standing on the roof of our dad's 1959 Chevy.

My sister and I fearful of our dad's wrath and a goat barbecue would throw rocks and shout insults. The commotion would rate only a casual glance from them before they trotted nonchalantly back to their pen. The item in the sheriff's log brought the memories back. There was a song we used to song that said it well. As I remember the words went something like this: Bill Hogan's goat was feeling fine. Ate three red shirts right off the line. Bill took a stick, gave it a whack, then tied it to the railroad track. The whistle blew. The train grew neigh. Bill Hogan's goat was doomed to die. It gave a cough, a cry of pain. Coughed up the shirts and flagged the train. And that's just about all I have to say about goats.

Sharp Edges

no@spam.com (Chuck Palomino) — Tue, 24 Feb 2009 15:00:00 EST

By Chuck Palomino
Looking for some happy news or any item in a local Eugene paper that would lift my usual winter spirits, I came across a piece of contemporary news that drew my attention. Before I continue, what I am about to say does not in any way endorse or criticize the moral or legal aspects of the smokable intoxicant, marijuana.

The herb that is referred to by different monikers such as weed, devil weed, and smoke or on the Mexican border, “mota.” My attention was drawn to the article and as I read I understood that the following had occurred. Michael Phelps, the Olympic swimming champ, had been photographed at a party sucking wind from a bong. I think everyone knows what a bong is. It’s a device for fogging up ones lungs before fogging up one’s head. Firing weeds from Satan’s garden packed in the barrel of the device before sucking said wind does this. For the uninitiated..... a pipe.

The age that we live in being what it is, the photo hit the front page of a British tabloid as soon as Phelps became famous. It was rumored that the paper paid $100,00 for the picture. On the talk show circuit Phelps was questioned and being the kind of person that he is admitted to the act, and said his mea culpa. I don’t think he would have lied about it even if the evidence were less convincing. That brings me to the crux of my mixed emotions about this whole affair. Several lucrative endorsements, Kellogg’s for one, have canceled contracts with Phelps. He no longer appears on the front of Kellogg Corn Flakes boxes.

I understand that the giant of the breakfast table is in business to make money. Any marketing decisions are dictated by that goal. I also believe that it is their prerogative to endorse or not endorse anyone they care to. Keeping that in mind I have always thought that fairness is at it’s best when the character of the accused is considered along with the severity and consequence of the offense. Focus, dedication and hours of hard work should count for something.

Public opinion, as always, divided between the objective and the subjective bathes it in pro and con. One thing for sure the man is a role model and hero to us who yearn for them. That comes at a cost. To paraphrase someone wiser than me, hero worship is strongest where there is least regard for human folly. As for me it is just something to think about on several levels.

Sharp edges

no@spam.com (Chuck Palomino) — Tue, 17 Feb 2009 22:00:00 EST

By Chuck Palomino

Among the shuttered
businesses in downtown
Coquille there is a small
Oddity Shop where the bittersweet
air of the past
hangs with a thick but delicate
lightness. The small
front display window is
tastefully laid with curios of
forgotten memories that are
bookmarks in time. The
shop beckons to the curious,
the bored or the dreamers
with a nostalgic nature. The
bored and unimaginative
that pass through the door
do not linger. They lose
interest and exit quickly.
For those who can be
moved by matters of the
heart the narrow aisles and
shelves are populated with
more than just discarded
pieces of the past. Their true
value lies in what they represent,
pieces of a time gone
by. A visitor might saunter
through the narrow aisles
and see a vase, ceramic item
or picture print like one that
occupied a place in the
house of an aunt, mother or
grandparent long ago. A silver
table service that witnessed
holidays when family
get-togethers were the
rule not the exception. A
paper valentine with a faded
expression of friendship or
love, empty perfume bottles
that once sat on the dresser
of a clear eyed young girl
and held sweet fragrances
that beckoned to loves long
lost or forgotten.
In the journey of life the
abandoned pieces for sale
now seek their worth in
money but there can be no
price tag on the bittersweet
essence of a memory.
It makes one wonder.
How many of the possessions
that each of us hold
dear will someday, through
a circuitous route, find a
place on a shelf in a small
shop? How many stops they
will make as they go on
ahead of us? Who will stand
to gaze and wonder for a
moment before moving on?

Sharp Edges

no@spam.com (Chuck Palomino) — Tue, 10 Feb 2009 08:30:00 EST

By Chuck Palomino
Coquille is a city of dogs I have always told my wife that I didn't care much for dogs. That wasn't exactly true. It's just that my experiences with the canine set have always been less than positive. I had a dog when I was a young boy. A little kid in bare feet and coveralls needed a dog to complete the picture. It wasn't the "Old Shep" of country song and lore. It was a stray that came to our small house in the desert one day.

My mother fed it and like my father it would disappear for short periods of secrecy but always return. The dog never had much sense and an encounter with a milk delivery truck left it with one leg less than its peers. I named the three-legged dog Rocky. After the accident my father always called it Stubby. My memories of that dog are like bits of a dream that fade when you try to remember details after awaking from a restless sleep. I never thought much about dogs after those childhood days. I grew up, got married and was blessed with a child. As the kid got older my wife suggested with subtle hints that to complete our family we needed a dog.

I resisted. The suggestions evolved. They finally arrived at, "if you love me." So, we went looking for a dog. Ain't love grand? The dog, Josie, was destined to have a short sweet life and left this earth under the wheels of a motor home from out of state. My wife and daughter grieved. I was tasked with bringing the dogs lifeless body deep into the woods and without the ceremony it deserved, interring it.

As I said goodbye to Josie I vowed that this would be the last dog I would own. I was convinced that I was bad news for dogs. Of course this was not to be. Several years later a friend was ending a short unhappy marriage to a woman who had only periods of spotty rationality. They had a dog that they wanted to have a good home. I know that dogs sometimes mirror their owner's looks or personalities. In this case if my friend's wife was certifiable or to state in the vernacular nuttier than a sack of squirrels, the dog was a perfect reflection. This hound could never seem to decide whether it wanted to be inside or outside.

When outside it would run full speed and launch its body against the back door. When inside it would whine and bark to be let out. Beyond annoying was the habit of eating anything rubber or plastic. This resulted in the loss of at least three new bicycle tires, several garden hoses, and a plastic laundry basket. I was convinced that this mutts mission in life was to terrorize me. Well...he wound up on a ranch where he had plenty of room to be as crazy as he needed to be. By the year 2000, my daughter had grown, left home and was gainfully employed in Seattle.

My wife and I, looking for a quieter life, moved to Coquille. Our house is near the park and even though my wife wouldn't broach the topic of another dog I would see her watching the daily parade of dog owners taking man's best friend to the park. She always commented on dogs riding in passing cars or on a leash in town. I knew she was pining away but my resolve was strong. Then one day an animal transport with Washington license plates arrived at our house. Into my life came a purebred, coal black two year old Pug dog, a gift to my wife from my daughter. This was Mr. Puggles. My wife hugged him with tears in her eyes.

She kept exclaiming, "Look how cute he is." In all honesty the last time I had seen a smashed face like that was in a movie. The face was on an animal hanging on the top of the Empire State Building swatting at airplanes. To make this long story short, Mr. Puggles is here to stay. My wife takes him for walks when it is warm, although he tires easily and is sometimes carried home. He spends cold mornings on my lap saying hello while I drink my coffee. I don't know what has happened to me. Have I fallen victim to a Coquille phenomenon? Maybe it is something in the water here. Maybe destiny and fate have been at work all along bringing me to this place. Even though I act jaded I think my wife suspects that a puppy has finally found a way to my hear.

Sharp Edges

no@spam.com (Chuck Palomino) — Tue, 03 Feb 2009 22:30:00 EST

By Chuck Palomino

I was thinking the other day. How hard could it be to write a story that seems to be ever popular in the crime genre? Maybe one about a big heist committed by a crew of good old country boys. It would have to take place somewhere in the back roads of America.

Maybe the Northwest would be a good setting for this spine tingling drama. Rural Oregon for example. After throwing some wood on the fireplace of my creative juices I think I have come up with a rough draft for this fictitious piece of entertainment titled, "The Big Heist." It might go like this. Some small town locals got together one night and began to hatch, what was to them, a detailed plan for a big score.

The target was the local Safeway store. The market was twice as big as the towns only Speedy Mart and after all the Speedy Mart stayed open all night. In fact, it was the only business in town, except a local watering hole, that was open after eleven at night. The crime crew agreed that the best way to be in the store after closing would be to hide in the store before it closed, so they did. The criminals hid in the bathroom, which the employees seldom went into, even to clean it. These boys stayed in that bathroom and waited for the employees leave.

Well, they waited and waited and waited. Not wanting to spend too much time hanging around in a mens room they finally put their heads together and agreed that maybe somebody was working at night. They scratched their heads, rolled their eyes and finally agreed to bust out of the bathroom, which as I said they were mighty tired of hanging around in anyway, and take over the night workers. So they did. Now they had a clear chance to loot and plunder. They found the safe but it was locked and using whatever they could find, maybe a big can of cling peaches or something like that, they beat on the old safe. The safe was tough and required more sweat than they were willing to shed. They did find $200 cash money they could split between them. Heck...That was forty dollars each.

Then they made their getaway with all the beer they could drink and potato chips and fried pies that they could shove in their face...Oh Lordie what a heist. I'm wondering if instead of the original crime crew of five maybe I should change it to three crooks and call them Larry, Curley and Moe. Now I'm still working on an ending about how justice came to visit these master criminals. On second thought, do you think anyone would believe such a tale?

Sharp Edges

no@spam.com (Chuck Palomino) — Tue, 27 Jan 2009 22:30:00 EST

By Chuck Palomino
Sometimes it is difficult to be entertaining or light hearted.

Which is the course that my column usually takes. But the events of late have bogged me down with a shadow of empathy for a group of county workers. Those losing their ability to properly feed or pay for the necessities of life for their families. For those among us who have had a jobless period in our life lying awake, unable to sleep, searching for answers to those we love that depend on us for a place to live, something to eat and clothes to wear, it is a feeling of being so powerless as to have no equal.

I don't claim to know the economics' of politics. I can however recognize thoughtless, shoddy treatment when foisted on a group of employees by an elected official(s) who operates with an arrogance of power. The same arrogance that makes it an easy task to quickly and without warning stick a knife into the backs of loyal public employees.

The same employees who need explanation and help through tough economic times. Some politicos have historically set their actions on their own benefit of cronies who embrace them. In the case of one Coos County commissioner I can only borrow the question, "Would you buy a used car from this man?"