- Rauner to Smiddy: No debate for you
- State Roundup: Moody’s: Regardless of reform, Chicago pension will grow for years
- State Roundup: State could see up to $500 million in unexpected revenue for current FY
- Tax revenues up, Rauner to restore $26 million ‘Good Friday’ cuts
- First Friday Lineup: May 1
- State Roundup: Former governor Walker passes away
- Mayors decry local funding cut proposal, say expect cuts to services
- Senate rejects bill to ban smoking in cars with children present
- Mayors warn of critical cuts if funds are reduced
- Rebuilding Rockford
Literary Hook: A poem about discovering a place all your own
By Christine Swanberg
Author and Poet
As summer begins to wane, many of us wrap up our summers with a trip to a special place that speaks to our hearts. Sometimes, we literally fall in love with a place that seems to capture something we need. For me, it isn’t the luxurious hotel or the group effort of a cruise that satisfies me. It’s discovering something new and all your own.
Some 25 years or so ago, my husband and I discovered a magical place quite by accident—Oceanside, Ore. To get there from Portland, you have to drive through Tillamook, which is an authentic cowboy and dairy town that still has old-fashioned barber shops.
Oceanside itself has a magnificent beach flanked by cliffs and a lighthouse to the north. This place has become a favorite haunt, and I have written a number of pieces inspired by it. Perhaps you, too, have a place that has become a ritual for you. If so, you will surely understand this poem.
Again, on the Road to Tillamook
Heading west from Portland to Tillamook,
rain on the windshield,
the wipers syncopating
like the radio’s jazz, your fingers
tapping the steering wheel,
and suddenly I’m whistling a riff,
rolling down the windows,
catching a cool spray
against my shoulder,
thinking of a question to steer us
through the mountains,
deciding on no talk: just jazz,
soybean fields rolling by,
blue mountain’s rim of sun,
slash of amber cloud,
hint of moon. Then
we’re really in the thick of it:
the silence of elk.
We’re blinking past Lee’s Camp Store,
where the radio gives up the ghost.
All stillness and the Pacific’s tug.
We have mastered this: driving
where even jazz can’t follow
to the other side, a pasture of cows,
rich odor of Tillamook.
Just ahead, where we can go
no further: the sea, the sea.
Published in Poetswest and Who Walks Among the Trees with Charity.
Christine Swanberg is a local author and poet who has written several books of poetry and formerly wrote a column called “The Writer’s Garret” for this newspaper.
From the Aug. 19-25, 2009 issue