Portland Magazine Spring 2013

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THE UNIVERSITY OF PORTLAND MAGAZINE

University of Portland Portland Magazine 5000 N. Willamette Blvd Portland, OR 97203-5798

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U N I V E R S I T Y O F

P O R T L A N D

M A G A Z I N E

S P R I N G

A SHARP EYE

COURTESY OF HENRY HALL

THE HEROES ISSUE

Regent emeritus Larry Rockwood was born in Queen of Angels hospital in 1920 and has been chasing the angelic ever since with his cameras; his first was a Kodak box camera to which he added a homemade bellows to work the shutter. After graduating from Cal Tech he worked as an engineer for many years, and joined the University’s Board of Regents in 1969, when the University absorbed Multnomah College, famed for its engineering program. Among the 20,000 images in his library, photographed all over the world, are these; for which we thank him, and wish him well on his voyages.

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MY HERO? That’s easy. My dad. And not for the reasons you might think, like he signed up to fight a cruel and rapacious empire even though he thinks violence is a sin; or that he devoted himself to raising his kids rather than be the famous novelist he might have been; or that somehow he never grew bitter and haunted even though four of his eight kids have now, as he says quietly, gone on ahead; or that in sixty years my brothers and sister and I have known the man we can count the number of times he lost his temper on two fingers, which is an average of one meltdown every thirty years, which is terrific average, temper-wise.

Nor is he my hero because his childhood fell apart when he was eight years old and his father lost his job and his sister died and his penniless family lost their house and they took to the road for years all through the heartland until my dad washed up in New York City and diligently built a calm patient intelligent affable gentle self that earned him a free ride through college and the love of my mom. Nor is he my hero because when he got back from the war in which he and my mom were absolutely sure he was going to die, he joined millions of other veterans who could not find work, and often sat in the park, in his excellent suit and overcoat, trying not to despair, until he found one job and then another, the second of which he did brilliantly for thirty years, serving the stories and grace and brilliance of the Catholic Church he loves to this day despite its greed and cruelty and lies, which are also sins, as he says, but which our collective prayerful work may someday overcome, by the grace of the Mercy.

This is how my dad talks, gently and brilliantly, without any flash and bluster, which is part of the reason he is my hero. His ego is grinning and healthy but small enough to fit in his pocket. His patience and generosity are oceanic. His quiet simple honest grace does not flag nor does it wither. His easy open witty warm humor meets you at the door and pulls a chair out for you and gets you a cup of tea. He knows pain and loss and tragedy and horror and yet he sits there smiling gently and listens carefully and does not issue advice unless you ask politely for it, in which case he issues unbelievably wise advice, which you would be wise to act upon, trust me. He thinks of you before he thinks of himself. This is a rare and lovely flower in the forest of the world. He makes you want to be better. He makes you want to be the best self you could ever be because you want to live up to what he knows you can be. He makes you want to make him proud. You would do anything to make him proud. Trust me. You get down on your knees as often as you can and say to the Mercy o thank you thank you for giving me that man as my dad, o thank you, what a blessing he has been to my mom and my sister and my brothers who are alive and my brothers who have gone on ahead; and to me.

My hero? That’s easy. I can answer that question right quick, with alacrity, instantly, without hesitation, without having to think about it, because I have known the answer to that question ever since the moment when I was a teenager when I woke up finally and realized that all I ever wanted to be was half as good a man as my dad. Someday I hope that will happen. n Brian Doyle is the editor of this magazine, and the author most recently of the novel Cat’s Foot.

Here’s a campaign story. In 1962 an extraordinary piano is built in Hamburg, in Germany. This is a Steinway Hamburg B piano, one of the finest on earth. In 1964 the piano is purchased by a student at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music. It took six weeks to travel across the ocean and the continent. When it arrived, the student and his teacher played it and the sound was better than you could ever imagine, remembers the student, with reverence. One time the famous violist Paul Hersh sat down at this piano and played all 32 of Bach’s Goldberg Variations, from memory, straight through. Years later the student became the chairman of the board of the Conservatory, and he loaned his piano to the school for seven years, and many more superb musicians were trained on it. When the student returned home finally to his native Portland, he had the piano shipped home also for 33 more years; but last year, with their usual quiet generosity, John Beckman ’42 and his graceful bride Patricia gave it back to the Conservatory for good, and it will delight and amaze students there for many years to come. The Beckmans are accustomed to thrilling students: among the scholarships they have funded on The Bluff are ones honoring science professor Brother Godfrey Vassallo, urbane events mastermind director Bill Reed, and the peculiar editor of this magazine. To jazz and thrill and lift and astonish the University’s students yourself, call Campaign shepherd Diane Dickey at 503.943.8130, dickey@up.edu. Invent any scholarship you please. Be creative. Heck – call right now, why not?

F E A T U R E S 14 / My Job is to Put My Job Out of Business Major Paul Staeheli ’98 and the future of soldiers.

16 / The Eighth Sacrament, by Tricia Gates Brown Are mothers the greatest heroes of all? page 16

19 / A Note on Cowardice, by Chris Walsh Why is the word coward such a grave insult?

22 / The Angel of the McKenzie, by John Roscoe ’94 Sister John Maureen Backenstos ’69 and her extraordinary ministry in the wet woods.

26 / Servants, notes and photographs by Lawrence Hudetz We scream at their failings and ignore their feats. We take them for granted. Yes, we do. page 19

30 / The Pile, by Brian Doyle “Then the second plane hit. I got to the firehouse faster than fast...”

32 / The Commander, notes and photographs by Steve Hambuchen A few minutes with Tarawa veteran George Watson ’42.

36 / Silvery & Sinewy, by Ana Maria Spagna The cheerful lady who worked 35 years to let salmon back in the White Salmon River.

38 / The Revolutionary Peter Maurin, by Jim Forest The wry humble man who sparked the Catholic Worker movement, 80 years ago this spring.

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42 / Startled by Grace, by Joena Buchholz ’67 “The University enters into you. What it is most deeply is inside you...”

44 / Like Branching Lightning, by Robin Cody The long and astonishing road of University regent Ralph Miller ’73. page 26

52 / The Ring, by Chris Sperry ’89 Baseball, freedom, tears: a note by the University’s baseball coach.

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5 / Pat Casey ’80 and Tommy Renda ’09: a note 6 / The eloquent articulate passionate Kathleen Dean Moore 7 / Professor Joe Gallegos of the Oregon House of Representatives 9 / The University’s Chapel Choir on the road, laughing 10 / The eloquent articulate passionate Sister Helen Prejean 64 / Nathan Banet ’11 at Malheur National Wildlife Refuge

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page 32 THE UNIVERSITY OF PORTLAND MAGAZINE

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Cover: Tarawa veteran George Watson ’42, photographed by Steve Hambuchen (stevehambuchen.com).

See page 32 for more George.

Spring 2013: Vol. 32, No. 1 President: Rev. E. William Beauchamp, C.S.C. Founding Editor: John Soisson Editor: Brian Doyle Salty Prickly Brilliant Designers: Matt Erceg & Joseph Erceg ’55 Whimpering Assistant Editors: Marc Covert ’93 & Amy Shelly Harrington ’95 Fitfully Contributing Editors: Louis Masson, Sue Säfve, Terry Favero, Mary Beebe Portland is published quarterly by the University of Portland. Copyright ©2013 by the University of Portland. All rights reserved. Editorial offices are located in Waldschmidt Hall, 5000 N. Willamette Boulevard, Portland, Oregon 97203-5798. Telephone (503) 943-7202, fax (503) 943-7178, e-mail address: bdoyle@up.edu, Web site: http://www.up.edu/portland. Third-class postage paid at Portland, OR 97203.

Canada Post International Publications Mail Product — Sales Agreement No. 40037899. Canadian Mail Distribution Information—Express Messenger International: PO Box 25058, London, Ontario, Canada N6C 6A8. Printed in the USA. Opinions expressed in Portland are those of the individual authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of the University administration. Postmaster: Send address changes to Portland, The University of Portland Magazine, 5000 N. Willamette Boulevard, Portland, OR 97203-5798.

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L E T T E R S CHRISTINE SINCLAIR ’05 After reading that moving piece on The Best Soccer Player in the World, I can only hope that when the biography of Christine Sinclair is written that Portland Magazine’s editor is the author. My all-time favorite line about the 2005 national championship team remains “Anyone who saw them flying through the riveting fall will never forget them, and there will always be Christine Sinclair suddenly shifting from slouch to sprint…”. Thank you for helping us never forget.

Bill Zepp ’69 West Linn, Oregon

THE FOOD ISSUE Just ate up the Winter 2012 issue, a smorgasbord to feed the body, mind, and soul.

The Farm to Fork article [about Matt Domingo ’02) particularly whet my appetite for information.

Randy of the Kiokawa Family Orchards in Hood River noted how during the Second World War his family was rounded up and placed in internment camps, and spoke eloquently of his family returning to the orchard afterwards. I wondered how the Kiokawa family got their land back.

I know of places where neighbors protected Japanese-American family’s possessions, and of others where properties were looted or taken for unpaid taxes.

Possibly our youngest reader, age 1.25.

We saluted Kenneth Ford in our last issue; now let us sing his wife the artist Hallie Ford (age 15 here). Their Ford Family Foundation has given University students nearly three million dollars for scholarships. Whew.

And once awakened, my curiosity persisted. What are we doing in current conflicts that will look as unjust as the Japanese internment? Detentions at Guantanamo? Using weaponized drones in Pakistan that kill women and children? Spending half of our federal discretionary budget on military endeavors while we cut international food aid, which is less than one percent of the budget? Allowing our retirement funds to be invested in companies that exploit occupied territories?

This is one of the problems with Portland Magazine — it gets me thinking.

Mary Ryan-Hotchkiss Portland, Oregon Editor’s note: We called Randy Kiokawa and asked him. “My family got their land back after being released from the camps because they had leased it to friends. My mom’s family lost their store in Tacoma, but my dad’s family kept their land here, which we still farm. My mom and dad actually met at the

Tule internment camp. My mom was sixteen and my dad was eighteen; he was a garbageman and went all over camp for his work, and that’s how he met mom…”

The Tule Lake camp was one of ten War Relocation Authority camps set up by Franklin Roosevelt’s 1942 Executive Order 9066, which detained 120,000 American citizens of Japanese descent during the Second World War. Most Japanese-Americans from Oregon were sent by train to Tule Lake, just over the Oregon border. It was the largest of the camps (nearly 19,000 prisoners), was ministered by martial law, and did not close until 1946. The passage of the Civil Liberties Act of 1988 led to a formal apology by President George H.H. Bush, payments to survivors, and support for memorials, although there are many lawsuits still pending for redress of violation of the Bill of Rights.

LETTER FROM A SENIOR I have a healthy fascination with rooftops. Bridges, too.

Anything that will get me high above the ground is ideal. My bedroom at home opens onto the roof, and I rapidly learned how to remove the screen so I could crawl out and stargaze, or simply be alone with my thoughts instead of six siblings.

Aside from a clear perspective, rooftops are a place of solitude and meditation. They provide the space, the clarity, and the silence for me to simply contemplate God. God is everything. God is everyone. Staring at darkness while lying on a roof only makes me more aware of God’s unfading presence.

Contemplating God leads me to love; love leads me to the heart; the heart leads me to desire; desire leads me to purpose. I have a purpose — this I know,

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LETTERS POLICY We are delighted by testy or tender letters.

Send them to bdoyle@ up.edu. but I couldn’t tell you what it is. What am I called to do; who am I called to be?

I would like to love: but I struggle with trying to find love everywhere in a broken world and I struggle to witness brokenness and be unable to heal it and I struggle with suffering and I struggle with darkness.

I like light: light is love and God, it creates and renews and heals and embraces all, illuminates. Light makes sense.

But life doesn’t make sense. Life is light and darkness, joy and suffering, love and pain, empathy and disconnect. But here is what I know: To live in God is to live in hope. To be a light for Christ is to create a space for love and life, and to perpetually move toward light even if you find yourself in darkness.

Claire Cummings ’13 Portland, Oregon One of the entertaining tidbits we discovered after the food issue’s publication was this, from the University’s Association of Office Personnel Cookbook of 1979: “PRESERVED CHILDREN: Take one large field, half a dozen children, two or three small dogs, a pinch of brook and some pebbles. Mix the children and dogs well together; put them on the field, stirring constantly. Pour the brook over the pebbles; sprinkle the field with flowers; spread over all a deep blue sky and bake in the sun.

When brown, set away to cool in the bathtub.”

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Among the saints of April: Melito and Macarius, Abundias and Amphianus, Victor and Fricor, Caidoch and Cellach, Ebba the Younger and Benedict the Moor, Wigbert and Fulbert …one great thing about Catholicism is its all-star nomenclature, yes? ¶ Langston Hughes’ ‘April Rain Song’: “Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby…” ¶ May 5 is Commencement: among the honorary doctorate recipients are the swimmer and Down Syndrome activist Karen Gaffney and Kathryn Harrison of the Confederated Tribes of Grand Ronde, who worked for decades to bring her people back to civic and financial health. Talk about your heroic women. ¶ Also being honorably doctored: the American running legend Alberto Salazar, the avuncular longtime University provost Brother Donald Stabrowski, C.S.C., ethicist Kirk Hanson, and cancer innovator Dr. Brian Druker.

Receiving the Christus Magister Medal, the University’s highest honor: the gentle wry Monsignor Tim Murphy ’67 of Central Catholic High, about as close to a beloved legend as you can find in this world.

ARTS & LETTERS The spring Schoenfeldt Series visiting writer, April 4: the wonderful novelist and garden writer Jamaica Kincaid, from Antigua. Her reading is free and open to all and in Buckley Center at 7 pm; call John Orr at 503.943.7286, orr@up.edu for information. ¶ In Hunt

Melissa McCarthy at 503.943.7225. ¶ The Bauccio Lecture guest on April 11, free and open in BC Aud: Larry Baer, CEO of the World and Galactic Baseball Champion San Francisco Giants (sweeeet to write that, yes it is). ¶ May 9: His Holiness the Dalai Lama, 14th incarnation of the Buddha of Compassion, makes his second visit to campus, for two events; for information and tickets, call 503.943.7202. ¶ Two particularly interesting ideas hatched by recent Rise Campaign gifts: The Character Project (seeded by Jim and Amy Dundon Berchtold), which will eventually be the aegis for all sorts of events about values, decisions, habits, virtues, vices, and the Christian narrative that transforms the moral life of the believer; and The Humor Project (seeded by John and Patricia Beckman), which will do the same for humor as a weapon against pomposity, lies, greed, and violence; and, when not snarky, a gentle form of prayer.

THE UNIVERSITY March 19: University president Father Bill Beauchamp’s annual noon State of the University speech at the Mac Club downtown, and presentation of the University’s alumni awards for service — this year to renowned health care leader John Lee ’64, actor and filmmaker Holly Lynn Ellis ’01, and to the brilliant and generous Jack Roscoe ’64, long the residence life director and Air Force commander on The Bluff. Jack’s a whole trilogy of good stories, he is. Someday.

All alumni and friends welcome; call 503.943.7202 for tickets. ¶ The Pamplin School of Business hosts former New Seasons CEO Lisa Sedlar (March 19) and Costco VP James Murphy ’91 (April 2) for talks about the crucial and nebulous beast called leadership; both events are in Bauccio Commons at 7 p.m. ¶ The Pampschool also is hosting a trip to Ireland in late May; call

THE FACULTY April 3: philosophy professor emeritus Peg Hogan returns to campus to talk about the cost and limits of resistance.

Brilliant, opinionated, flinty, witty woman, Peg is. Don’t miss her. 7 p.m., BC 163. ¶ April 10: Physics professor Shannon Mayer and theology sage Father Tom Hosinski, C.S.C., talk about the common path of science and religion after the annual Garaventa Center high-school essay award presentation, 4 p.m., BC 163. ¶ Both these events are hosted by the energetic Garaventa Center for American Catholic Life: call 503.943.7702 for information. ¶ April 11: theology professor Sister Kathleen McManus, O.P., elucidates the 1964 Second Vatican Council essay Light of the Nations — the Church’s modern mission

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statement, as it were. 7.30 p.m., BC 163. (Boy, we are working that room hard, aren’t we?) ¶

STUDENT LIFE Student leaders for 2013-2014 are chosen in spring semester: president and cabinet, editors of The Beacon and The Log, manager of KDUP radio. ¶ We don’t spend enough ink saluting the growing energy of the graduate school. The University now offers a doctorate (nursing practice), eleven master’s degrees (including finance, directing, engineering, and ministry), and certificates in post-MBA studies and in technology entrepreneurship. Whoa. ¶ Among the housing options for students these days: five “theme houses,” in which students live communally under a rubric, often with projects. The five: the Faith & Leadership House (with daily prayer and service projects), the Green House (devoted to sustainability education and action), International House, the Honors House, and the Peer Health Educators House, for students particularly interested in health and safety issues. ¶

FROM THE PAST Among the riveting musicians born in May: Frankie Valli (May 3), Robert Zimmerman (May 24), Steve Winwood (May 12), and Arthur Sullivan (May 13). ¶ April 4, 1968: Martin Luther King is shot to death in Memphis. Genius, liar, visionary, selfish, glorious, he in so many ways was America in essence. ¶ April 11, 2003: Art Schulte retires, after 45 years on The Bluff as basically everything from teacher to acting president.

He will be inducted into the University’s Business Hall of Fame this spring, to immense applause. One of the greatest men in University history, period. Thanks, Art.

ART BY MARY MILLER DOYLE

THE SEASON

Theater this spring: from April 12-20, the comic musical Bat Boy. Ticket information: 503.943.7287. ¶ In BC Aud May 9-10, the annual hilarious often-moving always chaotic Best in the Northwest Choir Festival, a kind of massive sing-off, with hormones and excellent gowns. Well worth seeing at least once for the sheer operatic glory of the thing. ¶ Guests of the English department this spring, both at 7:30 p.m. in BC 163: novelist Lois Leveen (March 21) and poet James Longenbach (April 8). Information: 503.943.7264.¶ April 20 at 7:30 p.m. at All Saints Parish, in Portland (and also April 23 on campus): the University Orchestra with the Choral Arts Ensemble of Portland, performing Morten Lauridsen’s Lux Aeterna, and Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5.

Information and tickets: 503.488.3834.

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Every Halloween the University throws open its halls and doors for neighborhood children to trick or treat, and every year it is hilarious and moving and sweet and holy. As you see.

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A REAL MOMENT Six years ago this spring the University of Portland baseball team was playing Oregon State’s team on The Bluff, at Joe Etzel Field. In the dugout for the national champion Beavers is their esteemed coach, Pat Casey — University of Portland Class of 1980.

Casey’s team is about to win the game, but his attention is wholly focused on the opposing pitcher, lefthander Tommy Renda, who is pitching a scoreless ninth inning in relief for the Pilots. Renda pitches lefty mostly because he has a handicapped right arm, but he is a deft and athletic young man, Tommy Renda, and he handles his glove and fields his position with aplomb, not to mention

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throwing lightning with his left arm.

The game ends, both teams pour out of their dugouts to shake hands, there is a bustle of fans and coaches and umpires, but Pat Casey heads right for Tommy Renda with a baseball in his hand, and he asks Tommy Renda to autograph it for him, which Tommy does, smiling. Then there are handshakes and interviews and the world trundles on apace, but Pat Casey never forgot that moment, and it moves him still.

“In sports, you know, you live and die by competition, you get caught up in competition, but there I was in the dugout, so moved by what was happening right in front of me — there’s a guy with one arm on the mound, calm and confident! That’s a real competitor. That’s real courage.

That put everything in perspective, I thought. I was really moved and

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inspired. I wanted to ask for the autograph of a young man who inspired me and surely inspired everyone who saw him play. How he handled adversity, how he dealt with things with grace and dignity — those are the things you preach, and here they were, exemplified, right in front of us. I was so impressed. It was a real moment, you know? We think of adversity in sports terms, we think losing games is adversity, but this was real adversity, and he handled it with such calm courage. That’s the guy who should be signing autographs, not me.

“Where’s the ball? At home, in my baseball room. I know exactly where it is. It’s with a collection of balls signed by Hall of Fame ballplayers — Ken Griffey, George Brett, Tom Glavine, Randy Johnson, Tony Gwynn…in my view, they get to be in Tommy Renda’s company.”

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A KIND OF YEARNING The remarkable essayist and activiston-behalf-of-all-holy-life Kathleen Dean Moore was on campus recently as the University’s Schoenfeldt Series Visiting Writer, and a student asked her the question students always ask her, and this was her answer.

You students get it. You know that the only way to avoid run-amok climate chaos is to stop burning fossil fuels.

The difficulty of actually doing that is also something you understand. You don’t need any more dire warnings.

You don’t need any more photos of hardhatted men gazing at solar panels. The climate crisis asks something important of you, each of you in particular. You know this.

But what? Exactly what?

When I speak to student groups about the urgency of climate action, I call them to lives of moral integrity.

“You can make your life into a work of art that expresses your deepest values,” I tell them.

“Okay,” a student in the back row always answers. “Those are easy words to say. But let’s get down to it.

How am I supposed to do that?”

How, then, shall I live? It’s the world’s oldest moral question, asked again in this desperately dangerous time. It twists this old philosophy professor’s heart. I’ve thought hard about how to answer.

In the future, I tell the student, you will look back on your college years as the best years of your life. Why is that? What do you value about the college experience?

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In college, students live together; a friend is always down the hall. You share meals. You share bathrooms.

You share rooms. You share rides.

You share books. You share secrets.

You help each other learn, whether it’s how to calculate a curve or how to survive a broken heart. You walk everywhere. Everything you need is in walking distance. You watch out for each other, celebrating one another’s joys and grieving one another’s sorrows. You are members of multiple groups — majors, dorms, clubs, floors, classes, teams, fans. Even when you are doing different work, you work side by side. Your work is to learn, to imagine, to empathize, to experiment, to create.

College life, in other words, is village life. It’s a wonderful way to live. It’s also friendly to the beautiful, beleaguered planet.

But then we graduate from college and give it all up. We go our separate ways. Separate cars. Separate houses.

Separate meals. Separate thoughts in traffic. Separate truths shouted from separate car radios. Individual, often competitive, successes. And as a result, a kind of loneliness, a kind of yearning for something better, an unsettled spirit that sends us out in search of surrogates for the communities of caring we once knew. The trouble is, those surrogates are fossil-fueled.

If you don’t have a community, you’re going to have to outsource caring. You have to hire people to mow your lawn when you are sick, or water your garden when you are gone, or care for you when you are dying, or ensure you have a place to go when your house burns down, or watch out for your children when you are home late, or sing a song

while you dance. This takes money, sometimes lots of money. And the endless accumulation of money — mining it out, selling it off — is one of the drivers of climate change.

If you don’t have a community, you’re going to have to own what you can no longer borrow or share or trade. Every garage has to have a leaf blower. Every house, a library. Every child, a tutor. Every worker, a car.

Every office, a printer. Every yard, a wheelbarrow and an extension ladder. And every house, a wi-fi and a direct connection to natural gas or electricity that is centralized, distant, and destructive. Fossil fuels, again.

And as for the intangible values that a community can provide — respect, a sense of safety, opportunities to learn, entertainment, places to be outside, love — what are the surrogates for these? The biggest house on the block. A Hummer or electric fence. A set of CDs of the Great Thinkers. A flat-screen TV. Nature shows. And what can substitute for love? Nothing you can find at the mall, except maybe the latest iPhone.

All of them, destructive of the Earth.

I don’t know what the world asks of each of us in particular. But I’m convinced that we are going to have to invent new ways (or rediscover old ways) to live in harmony with the planet and with each other, and they will need to be enduring ways. In that search, which will be long and probably sad, it will help us to think clearly about when we have been happy, and why, and to figure out how to embed those values in the lives we create. As you make choices that will be your future, remember now. Savor now. Keep now close to your heart. n

Every winter for the last few years St. Andre Bessette church in Portland — the Downtown Chapel on skid road, run by the Congregation of Holy Cross — teams with local photographers to offer its community lovely portraits of themselves; the church provides Christmas cards, stationery, and postage for mailing to family and friends. And again and again, every year, as for thousands of years, the face of Christ peers out. For more information see saintandrechurch.org.

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Elected to the Oregon House of Representatives in November, standing for Hillsboro, Helvetia, and North Plains: social work professor emeritus Joe Gallegos, who wants to focus on clean air and water, education, and health care. In his 23 years on The Bluff, Joe was a noted authority on “underrepresented voices� in Oregon; he was one himself, as a farm laborer in the Willamette Valley from the age of 5. An Air Force veteran, Joe was also on the board of Catholic Charities for 20 years. Our congrats and best wishes, Congressman.

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WHICH BOOK…?

Louis Masson, who taught literature long and well on The Bluff until his retirement in 2011, is the author of the essay collections Reflections and The Play of Light.

Under the umbrella of sycamore trees shading the sidewalks between the University’s old and new science buildings, I once shared an impromptu conversation with my favorite physicist. I never knew where these conversations with Mark would lead, but I always knew I would come away with some perplexing revelation or discovery.

These usually grew from one of my questions, but this time, as we were about to part, my friend looked down over his glasses. “I have a question for you,” he said. “If a Martian landed and asked you for one book that should be read by a visitor from a different world, what book would you choose?”

A question both preposterous and penetrating; and I was caught offguard because it was a variation on a question and game I often sprung on my freshman literature students on their first day of class at the University.

In my game, I recalled for my students the final moments of the 1965 movie adaptation of the 1895 H. G. Wells novel The Time Machine, in which a scientist travels to a grim apocalyptic future. In the novel, he

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returns to his own time just long enough to share with his closest friends his discovery of a nearly destroyed world bereft of civilization — a world that has lost a sense of history, a world without even books, a world he wishes to redeem. On the last page of the novel, his friends find that he and his machine have again disappeared, presumably again to that ruined future. In the movie they also discover that his bookshelves are missing three volumes. Which books did he take? “ So,” I would ask my new students, “what books would you take to a world without books?” My hope was that they would think about books they carried in their memories (or thought they should carry). There would be overlap among their choices, of course, and they would lean toward others who shared their choices, to exchange a comment — something I encouraged, as it led to speaking to classmates for the first time.

The Bible was a popular choice, especially for freshmen who came to the University from families and communities that saw the Bible, often implicitly, as a foundation for their values and worldview. A holy book, that always reminded me of the missionaries and evangelists through the centuries who traveled to “new worlds” with their holy books: the Jesuits canoeing the lakes and rivers of the Northeast, where I grew up; the missionaries today paddling into the depths of faraway jungles.

A budding English major, say, would name a Shakespeare play.

In the last three years the University lost two of its most generous and cheerful friends and generosities, Fred and Sue Fields, who started our Schoenfeldt Writers Series, gave us Fields and Schoenfeldt halls, and did a vast amount of quiet else.

Seems to us we ought to keep thanking them even if they are gone into the Light.

Here they are on their thrilled nervous delighted giddy wedding day.

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Someone would always select an atlas or a dictionary or an encyclopedia. Once in a while, someone said they would pack a book of blank pages — a potential diary or journal, and a choice foreshadowed by not only missionaries but also history’s great explorers.

And almost all my students said they would bring a favorite story, a book read to them or by them when they were children, or a book they discovered in adolescence: The Velveteen Rabbit, The Lord of the Rings, and, lately, a Harry Potter. These were books, stories really, that they found beautiful, that pleased them aesthetically, though they would never express it quite like that. Or they were stories that grew from and preserved a memorable passage in their lives.

So when my physicist friend asked what book I would recommend to a Martian, I remembered all too well my game with my freshmen. I remembered too being a young student myself, falling in love with poetry, reading that the poet Percy Shelley had drowned with a slim volume of John Keats’s poems in his pocket.

Infatuated romantic that I was then, I too carried a slim volume of Keats; how grand to die with Keats in your pocket!

Most days, now, my pockets only contain keys, coins, wallet, and cell phone. But when I travel, I do carry, quite by coincidence, three books.

One is a New Testament; despite my wavering and ambiguous faith journey, some sparks do not extinguish.

Another is a notebook — an old habit from years of teaching and essaying.

And the third — the book with which I answered my physicist friend’s question, is the poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins — a life’s output in a thin volume that almost fits in the palm of my hand. Perhaps I even stammered something about how I thought being human meant living by and through language, and how we interpret and share our world through language, and how when we attempt to reach beyond this world to another, we must do so in and with language, and how sharing words can be one of the most intimate and treasured experiences there is, and how most beautifully Hopkins’s poems realize this.

My friend nodded, but he strolled off before I could ask him the question I now ask you: what one book would you choose? n

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A SONG FOR THE ROAD The University’s Chapel Choir sailed off around Oregon during break, singing at two parishes on the coast, a nursing care facility, a Mass with the Archbishop of Portland (the lean grinning wonderfully honest John Vlazny), and to the entire student body at Valley Catholic High School.

“We helped people pray, we served as cheerful ministers, we saw people smile and cry at the music, our students were delighted, and it was a joy to be agents of the University’s energy,” noted the articulate choirmaster Maureen Briare. Amen to that.

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On campus this past fall: the blunt eloquent Sister Helen Prejean, of the Sisters of Saint Joseph, who has spent most of her life battling the death penalty in American prisons. It is, as she says in her tart drawl, uneconomical (the U.S. spent $137 million to execute 43 prisoners last year), unfair (law enforcement professionals are the first to admit that innocent people are executed), inefficient (states with the death penalty have roughly twice the homicide rate of states that don’t), and defies the Christ. “The profound moral question is not, ‘Do they deserve to die?’ but ‘Do we deserve to kill them?,’” says Sister Helen. “We’re not the authors of people’s lives. What makes us think we can decide? Who are we to be so arrogant?” For more honest talk, see sisterhelen.org. Our thanks to Carolyn Clulee.

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The University annually sends some 300 students (about ten percent of the student body) to usually about ten countries around the world, although students can choose from forty programs in Oceania, Asia, Europe, Africa, and Latin America. Of course the experience changes them utterly. Of course they take a million photographs. Here are a few from recent voyages: Cat Croteau driving through the rusty red Outback in Western Australia; Ben Culligan shooting a lion, sort of, in Lucerne, Switzerland; Sophie Anderson catching an eagle, sort of, in Salzburg, Austria; Courtney Salisbury at the cremation ovens at Dachau concentration camp in Germany; and Lea Fairbanks at Delphi, in Greece. Wow.

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O N S P O R T S The new American women’s pro soccer league will feature at least six alumni as it opens play this spring: Christine Sinclair and Angie (Woznuk) Kerr with the Portland team, the Thorns (really, the Thorns), Megan Rapinoe with the Seattle Reign, Sophie Schmidt and Kendall Johnson ’12 with Sky Blue in New York City, and Keelin Winters with the Chicago Red Stars.

Men’s Cross Country Yet another stellar year: WCC title (their 33rd of the last 34, beating BYU by a point), NCAA West coach of the year honors for Rob Conner ’88, second in the West (ahead of Oregon), and their eighth consecutive appearance at the NCAA national championship meet, where they finished #12 in the nation. The stunning consistency among the nation’s best programs, with by far the least money, is remarkable.

Women’s Cross Country The women finished second in the WCC, behind the San Franciscans, but eighth in the entire West; Tansey Lystad (20:23) was first across the line for the Pilots at the NCAA regional 6K race, followed by a pack of four teammates finishing within nine seconds of each other.

Women’s Soccer A spectacular firstround NCAA playoff overtime win at home (during which junior keeper and National Player of the Week Erin Dees saved three penalty kicks and scored one herself (“Erin Dees is a legend,” as captain Kendall Johnson said afterwards, laughing) against Washington State was followed by a 3-0 loss to Michigan on the road. The Micaela Capelle on the fly for the Pilots this year. Women’s soccer led the nation in attendance for the eighth consecutive year: 3,313 per game.

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Pilots finished 12-4-4.

Men’s Soccer finished 7-9-3; junior midfielder Steven Evans and senior forward Ricardo Carrillo were all-WCC, and Jaime Velasco and Hugo Rhoads were named to the league’s all-freshmen team. * Evans signed with the pro Portland Timbers after the season, extending his Rose City career; he played his high school ball at Central Catholic. * WCC All-Academics: seniors Colin Anderson (3.5, science), Ben Hemphill (3.8, communication), and Joe Sleven (3.85, marketing sustainability).

Baseball The Pilots, 27-25 last year, opened play in February with 24 letterwinners returning, among them allWCC outfielder Turner Gill (.314, .394 on-base percentage) and All-American pitcher Travis Radke (2.09 e.r.a.).

Among the new faces: pitcher Zach Torson, who struck out 65 batters in 55 innings last year at Mountain View High in Vancouver, Washington.

Men’s Basketball The Pilots were 9-17 at presstime. Interesting year: they were outrebounding their opponents, but shooting 41% from the floor and 31% from long range, and averaging 15 turnovers a game. Forward Ryan Nicholas was again leading in scoring and boards (13 and 9). Injuries slowed them: starting point guard David Carr blew his knee and lost the season, and wing Kevin Bailey missed several games with a shattered nose. * Darwin Cook ’80 was named to the WCC’s hall of fame this year, along with legendary BYU football coach LaVell Edwards, among others. Cook never missed a game for the Pilots, led them to a 65-44 record, and then played eight years of pro ball with New Jersey, Washington, San Antonio, and Denver. Hen then played three years for Scavolini in Italy, where, of course, his team won the league title.

Women’s Basketball The Pilots were 10-14 at presstime, led by Kari Luttinen (12 points and 5 rebounds per game).

One highlight: they were averaging a whopping 11 steals per game. Another: the Finnish Connection, Annika Holopainen and Ellen Nurmi, both playing very well. Another: the electrifying sophomore Jasmine Wooten, who beat Loyola with a last-second basket. Another: 2012 Alaska State High School Player of the Year Hannah Mattson, a guard from Fairbanks, committed to the Pilots for the 20132014 season.

Volleyball The Pilots finished 7-23.

Highlights: senior Ariel Usher being named all-WCC; a thrilling come-fromPortland 12

behind final win at Gonzaga; and the signing of 6’ 4” blocker Katie Sullivan from Vacaville, California, and Oregon state player of the year (and four-time state champ) Makayla Lindburg from Crook County High in Prineville.

Tennis The men, led by all-WCC Michel Hu Kwo, were 4-1 at presstime; the women, with returning all-WCC players Valeska Hoath and Nastya Polyakova, were 3-3 * One highlight: Argentine Mili Cubelli’s hilarious blog: “Let me introduce our new players: Saroop Dhat, the Silent Assassin, who dissects people on the court with amazing angled shots, but never speaks except to deliver sassiness and more sassiness...Tori Troesh, who shouts ‘Fudge Muffin!’ when she gets frustrated on court...Marina Rheimers, whose phone is a prolongation of her hand and who has taken one million pictures of herself...Emily OMG Gould who is from California and was born to say OMG”...

Rowing The University’s newest team opens its season in March – half the rowers will head to Seattle to row against the Huskies, and the rest will row against Lewis and Clark on the Willamette River. One highlight of winter training: the inaugural Chiles Center Sprints, an indoor five-“boat” race on the team’s ergometer machines.

Senior Mia Tarte finished seconds off the team record, and freshman Molly Templin, a former ski racer from Anchorage, Alaska, had the second fastest time of the day. * Another highlight: a team meeting with “extreme rower” Sonya Baumstein, who with three Team Epoch teammates rowed across the Atlantic Ocean a year ago.

Track & Field Highlights of the winter: the annual Tuesday Night at the Races open all-comers meets in the Chiles Center, which this year included the shot put; the women’s team being named a national All-Academic team (again), with a team GPA of 3.47, ninth in America (wow); a sterling crop of new faces for the women, among them Anne Luijten (Netherlands), Lorea Ibarzabal (Spain), Hannah Souders (the Alaska 200-meter champ), and Alison Ryan, a shotputter from California who will also play basketball for the Pilots; and a terrific showing from freshman Danny Martinez at the annual US Cross Country Championships in February; he finished ninth in 25:02.7, just missing qualification for the World Championships in Poland.

TICKETS, SCHEDULES, STORIES: SEE PORTLANDPILOTS.COM

O N B R I E F LY The Rise Campaign, which finishes in December next year and has raised $142 million of its $175 million target to date, savored lots of fascinating generosities recently, among them $100,000 from the Yawkey Foundation, in memory of Portland native Johnny Pesky of the Boston Red Sox; Pesky and his brother Vince Paveskovich ’41 (Johnny shortened their surname to better fit a box score) grew up in the Slabtown section of Portland, around Saint Patrick’s church and the old Vaughn Street baseball park, a neighborhood that sent many a student to the University. The Yawkey gift is for scholarships for students from Pacific Northwest Catholic schools — especially baseball players, we bet.

Student Feat of the Year That would be junior nursing major Jordan Anderson saving the life of her clinical nursing client, Portland resident Kaye Exo. Anderson realized that Exo’s sudden confusion was potentially a stroke, called 911, and accompanied her to the hospital.

“Good nursing instincts,” said nursing dean Joanne Warner. “Ours is the only undergraduate program where you can kill people — or save them.”

The Best Air Force Cadet Detachment in America is, yes, ours; for the second time in eight years, the University’s corps was named the nation’s best, measured by, among other factors, service to the community. Most of the cadets major in engineering or nursing, “critical needs majors in the nation’s best commissioning program, producing incredible leaders for our nation’s defense,” said commander Col. Paul Huffman, with understandable pride. ¶ And the best student history scholarly magazine in America: the University’s Northwest Passages, for the fourth time. The journal’s advisor is the cheerful brilliant Mark Eifler.

Distinguished Guests on campus recently included the astounding small courage named Sister Helen Prejean, who awed students with her passion and compassion (see page 10); the eloquent essayist Kathleen Dean Moore (see page 6); the articulate essayist Jeff Dietrich, long the editor of the great Catholic Worker paper The Catholic Agitator; Celia Hammond, boss of Notre Dame University Australia, where 20 of our

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students study every semester; and the exuberant novelist Lois Leveen, author of The Secrets of Mary Bowser.

Student Notes Double majors among University students have nearly tripled in the last ten years, from 5 to 14%; Spanish is the most popular second major, followed by finance and German. ¶ Theology 101, which for years has been essentially a comparative religions class, changes this fall to essentially an introduction to Judaism and Christianity; the University’s increasing popularity among non-Catholic students left many students without any basic knowledge of the University’s faith tradition. ¶ The annual Villa Man Auction, a motley and hilarious talent show/date auction, raised some $29,000 for Holy Cross charities.

Faculty Feats Among professorial projects earning University Butine grants: a study of the Occupy movement in Portland; a look at Catholic life in Siena, Italy in 1336; more research into the anti-cancer drug taxol (by the glorious Sister Angela Hoffman OSB); a study of Northwest literature; a study of nursing in east India; a look at seabirds in New Zealand (the effervescent Katie O’Reilly); a look at writers and their libraries; a study of agriculture policy in Uganda; and a look at hidden Jews in colonial Latin America (the fascinating Matthew Warshawsky). Does the Rise Campaign slaver for gifts to help faculty poke and explore and

dream? Absolutely. Call Kathy Johnston at 503.943.8004 to chat about where you want your gift to go.

More Cool Campaign Gifts: $25,000 from regent Jack Block, for the new rec center replacing Howard Hall; $444,000 from the late Bill Phillips ’50, to create a science scholarship; $50,000 from Jim Serres ’53 and his lovely bride Corene to create a special history and theology collections room in the new Clark Library, which reopens this summer; $50,000 from George and Virginia Schneider and their family, to create a nursing scholarship…see the creative range of campaign gifts? See how you can point your gift anywhere you want?

Call Diane Dickey at 503.943.8130 and chat about your gift.

The gentle Vincent Judnick, a freshman, died at home over winter break of an asthma attack, and the way he was mourned on campus was deeply moving. “Your hearts are being trained here,” said Father Pat Hannon, C.S.C., told a crowded Mass in Christie, Vincent’s hall. “When you leave in a year or two, you will remember this night, you will remember it was an ordinary Monday and you came to pray for a young man some of you hardly knew...” And Vincent’s dad, to Christie’s residents: “Know that your actions, no matter how simple, mean something to many people…every bit of you that you put into this hall’s life, Vincent took from that…”

Not every day does Shipstad Hall’s director take formal vows of poverty and etc.; but Mark DeMott just did, and will be ordained a Holy Cross priest in April.

Prayers and best wishes.

Spring 2013 13

MY JOB IS TO PUT MY JOB OUT OF BUSINESS

People are pretty much the same and they desire the same things. Afghani, Iraqi, American, Muslim, Christian, gay, straight – most people just want to live, raise their families, enjoy peace.

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aul Staeheli ’98 (here serving in Iraq in 2004) is a major in the United States Army. He fought in Iraq and Afghanistan. He served inside the demilitarized zone in Korea. He led two infantry companies in combat, served in three Ranger battalions, and led a joint special operations task force in Afghanistan. Among his many awards for courage and creativity in conflict are the Bronze Star with three oak

my best team leader. I found Jesus in an Iraqi intelligence source who risked his life by confronting terrorists and warning me of planned attacks. I saw Jesus in the hopeful eyes of young Iraqi girls as they walked to their school for the first time after Al Qaeda had closed it. I saw Jesus in my medics who treated all casualties (soldiers, civilians, or enemies) with the same degree of compassion and competence

leaf clusters, which is Army code for serious achievement. No one can argue this man’s courage, commitment, diligence, and responsibility. But we believe Paul Staeheli is heroic because of his honesty and eloquence about what he does and who he is.

“The tipping point for me was when I tried to reconcile the horrible things I was forced to do, and ordered others to do in combat, with the teachings of Jesus,” he says. “This is a very difficult question when combat violates several of God’s commandments. It took a long time for me to work through this. Eventually I did find God in combat: but not where I expected, rarely in the same place twice, and never when I was looking for Him. “I found Jesus in a soldier who told me the night before we deployed to Iraq that he was gay and wondered if he could lead his team under fire when he was dealing with his own internal conflicts. He turned out to be

as if they were working on one of their family members.

“We saw Jesus in each other, risking your life to save a comrade, treating the wounded, caring for those who were either physically or emotionally sick. I reconciled the terrible deeds of combat by finding Jesus in everyday life. Knowing God was in the ordinary provided me the courage to go on and do my job.

“But my job isn’t to foment war.

My job is to put my job out of business.

People are pretty much the same and they desire the same things. Afghan, Iraqi, American, Muslim, Christian, gay, straight – most people just want to live, raise their families, enjoy peace.

In the end my job is about providing a safe passage for peace. I’d like to see a world where soldiers are unnecessary. My job is helping to make that world possible.”

Amen to that, Paul. Amen to that.

Editor

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THE EIGHTH SACRAMENT Are there seventy times seven sacraments?

By Tricia Gates Brown

PAINTING BY KARL SCHMIDT-ROTTLUFF, “LANDSCAPE WITH TWO WOMEN” ©2015 ARTIST RIGHTS SOCIETY (ARS), NEW YORK / VG BILD-KUNST, BONN

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t is my daughter’s nineteenth birthday. I drive to her small Oregon college in the sorrel glow of ill-defined weather, feeling the strangeness of going to visit my one child at her new home, to share her dorm bathroom and sleep on her crusty dorm floor. We are unnatural in our separation, Madison and I, each a single unmatched sock. We’re the sort of mother-daughter who walk with linked arms and give one another bear hugs in public, who stir each other to laughter or to such a pitch of frustration that we repel one another like colliding projectiles. It is not that we have a fraternal relationship lacking parent-child boundaries; we are simply a mom and daughter who know and love each other compassionately despite it.

This bond between parent and child strikes me now, more than ever, as sacred, and I lately wonder, in the manner of wondering for its own sake, why parenting is not a holy sacrament.

Why is marriage a holy sacrament, or confirmation, or baptism, and not parenting? I have imagined that something got missed. Maybe the symbolic number seven delimited the list and parenting simply didn’t make the cut — too hard to enforce, too hard to validate in the way of holy sacraments.

Eucharist “Don’t be obvious,” Madison says as we are sitting together in the cafeteria, “but look at that boy walking in. He has an ear bud in his ear constantly, playing loud speed metal.” The boy walks across the room to meet up with a friend whom he greets without removing his ear bud. “Whenever I see him,” Madison confides, “I think of what you always tell me about silence, and how our spirits need silence.”

Hearing this, I feel so swept away by thanksgiving that I almost float out of Spring 2013 17

the cafeteria into cloud-dappled ether.

She has been listening to me.

Baptism I want baptism for my daughter—this immersion in spirit — more than I can understand, I want her heart to connect irreversibly with the undercurrent of love that stirs life in her and heals the things we humans break and makes the sap to run and the hummingbirds to arrive at my feeder. I want her to feel surrounded by the breath of God that made her and guides her and that will receive her back as breath in the end. I worry, in a culture so cacophonous, so overwhelmed, where the young people, where my young person, will arrive at a meeting with this spirit, where they will sit down to meet themselves for the first time.

My phone rings one night. It is Madison, her voice immersed in the holy water of tears. “I’m just so bad at this,” she tells me, meaning college.

Madison, who has a learning disability, has struggled academically for as long as I remember. “I try so hard,” she sobs into the phone, “but I just can’t do it. Maybe I’m not cut out for college.

It is so hard. Especially studying for tests...I look at the same notes over and over and cannot seem to focus, and just when I think I’ve got something, it vanishes.”

I try not to hate the pain seeping through her words, the anguish in her voice. I know that the struggle is part of what shapes her, is part of the crucible of faith formation. Yet I want to gather my arms around her. She is four hours away. I want to protect her from the fear and drowning that led me to practically sell my soul when I was her age. I believe her, that she is trying, doing the best she can do, but I advise her to use different study methods, maybe work for shorter pe-

riods or at different times of the day.

“I am sorry,” is mostly what I tell her.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, “I wish there was more I could do to help.”

She hasn’t even reached the part about loneliness, which leaks out in tragic sobs that tear my heart.

Holy Orders After lunch in the cafeteria, where Madison pointed out the ear-bud boy, we head back to the dorm. She collapses her sibylline head onto my lap.

She’s had a headache for days, she tells me; asks if I will massage her neck; so I sit rubbing her slender neck and stroking her hair in the lava-lamp-lit room.

“I miss you,” she says. “It can be so lonely here.” And as I continue to stroke her temples, I fight back a monsoon of tears, praying achingly, almost desperately, into the silence, “God, help her. God, help her. God, help her.”

If a sacrament is “a visible sign of an invisible reality,” as classically defined, why wouldn’t the parent-child relationship be viewed as a sacramental sign of God’s relationship to humanity, which is characterized as a parentchild relationship with every whispered “Our Father...”? If there is anything analogous and signatory of the tender creating and guiding of a world by God, wouldn’t it be the conception and birthing of human children, and the stinging, euphoric work of holding them and releasing them and loving them into full being? Wouldn’t this be a better symbol of God’s way of leading than anything else?

Matrimony At dinner, in our favorite pizza place, we become distracted by the couple sitting across the aisle from us, who appear to be on a date and having a quarrel. Earlier the man had dropped his head to the table, burying it in his arms while the woman moved her chair beside him and draped her body across him, probably whispering consoling words in his ear. Now they have stood and are sharing a long, sad embrace in the middle of the restaurant. I wonder if we have witnessed a break-up and feel terrible in my role as witness. Just looking at the man brings up a hollow, expanding sickness that lay dormant in my gut — a feeling mildly like panic, the memory of devastating someone who loved me. Maybe I wish parenting was a sacrament because I have failed so miserably at matrimony. Maybe I want another sacrament to make up the difference.

Penance and Reconciliation Yet I have failed, too, at parenting.

Madison was a colicky, fitful baby; I a young mother, twenty-one years old when she was born, and I am sure I started failing her on the third day, when sleep deprivation caught up to me and I became exhausted and impatient. I haven’t stopped failing her since, in the innumerable, unintentional ways parents fail their children. As a parent I have always wanted, more than anything, to help my daughter see and embrace divine love. Yet I have simultaneously failed to love her in the ways I had hoped. I have ruthlessly hushed her as a small child for fidgeting and jabbering during the concerts and classes I dragged her to, shaming her for nothing more than being a kid.

Before learning Madison had a brain ill-equipped for organization, I would

If parenting was a sacrament, would we venerate it? Perhaps if parenting were venerated, the current of economics would bend to something other than competition. force her to spend painful hours cleaning her room, organizing her belongings. I descended into instinctual silences too many times to name, when what Madison needed was companionship. I’ve yelled at times. I have taken my frustrations out on her. I have spent whole days of her life consumed with my own recklessness and obsessions, too stuck in my head to be a good mother. I confess. Lord have mercy.

Despite all of this, Madison seems to know that God loves her. This is the sweetest grace of all.

Confirmation A sacrament is a conveyance of grace, a vehicle for stepping consciously into the surrounding air of holy, divine love, a bell waking us up to what is already ours. When young people are confirmed, they are anointed with oil —a sign or symbol of the Holy Spirit’s anointing of them, of the inescapable holiness of who they are and the everyday holiness of their imperfect lives.

As a parent I’ve come up blank so Portland 18

many times, wondering how to awaken my child to the divine love she is soaking in. Yet I was doing it all along by conferring parental love. In fact, parental love seems to be the main way kids are awakened to God’s love, through this primary experience of love at home. How many of us had our sense of grace shattered because parental love was poorly communicated or imparted with dangling strings? How many of us know people who have suffered this shattering?

Anointing of the Sick As evening arrives on Madison’s birthday, I am initiated into the nightly college rite of “fro-yo.” We walk to the frozen yogurt shop before returning to a friend’s dorm to watch the Grammys.

I take a seat next to Madison and massage her feet and her headache magically disappears.

The root of the word “sacrament” means “consecrate.” To consecrate something means to make it an object of veneration, or to dedicate it for a specific purpose. If parenting was a sacrament, would we venerate it? How would that veneration look? Maybe if parenting were venerated, staying home to raise children would be viewed as an exalted calling, a holy act, an ordination. Maybe the people who do it, moms or dads, would be supported and rewarded and honored instead of being ignored and dismissed, or paid with lip service rather than substance.

Perhaps if parenting were venerated, the current of economics would bend to something other than competition.

Madison and I crawl into our beds, mine a borrowed mattress thrown on the floor next to hers. She snuggles under the quilt I fashioned for her from yards of flannel and love. I turn on my side, away from her.

“Mom,” she whispers so her sleeping roommate will not hear, “will you turn around?

So I do, knowing she wants to hold my hand, that the bedtime hour of lying in the dark feeling the loneliness and homesickness of months gather like a swarm of bees around her head has come, but her mother is there and she can hold my hand. I lay there stroking the caterpillar skin on the back of her hand, thinking how much it feels like the little-girl grip I’d held and stroked every day of her young life, how the bones have the same inconsequential weight and the knuckles the soft suede ripple of a bean pod. Then she starts to cry, softly, almost inaudibly, and I do too. n Tricia Gates Brown is a writer on the Oregon coast.

A Note On

COWARDICE Why is the word coward such a grave insult?

by Chris Walsh

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hen then-President George Walker Bush characterized the September 11 terrorists as “cowards,” commentators from William Safire to Susan Sontag demurred. Their demurrals sparked outrage. You might recall the uproar after the comedian Bill Maher said that Americans “have been the cowards, lobbing cruise missiles from 2,000 miles away. That’s cowardly. Staying in the airplane when it hits the building, say what you want about it, it’s not cowardly.” This conversation was broadcast less than a week after the attacks. Raw-nerved viewers were infuriated, sponsors balked, and Maher’s talk show soon went off the air. The episode provoked considerable debate about freedom of speech and patriotism. Much less discussed was the question central to the controversy: What is cowardice?

Bush wanted to condemn the terrorists, and “coward” struck him as the nastiest and most apt epithet available.

He was not alone in this. Hillary Clinton and many others said the same thing. Yet according to the dictionary, a coward is “a person who lacks courage, especially one who is shamefully unable to control fear and so shrinks from danger or trouble.” While Bush and others used the word as if it were a weapon, a term of the greatest possible opprobrium, the dictionary definition of “coward” evokes sympathy as well as contempt. To lack courage, as the dictionary has it, is regrettable, surely, but hardly damnable. The dictionary under-emphasizes the idea, both classical and current, that cowardice is a vice, a moral wrong: a coward is not “especially one who is shamefully unable to control fear”; cowardice is always shameful.

But is it?

The Buid, a mountain-dwelling people of the Philippines, have no term for cowardice. While they have many words for “fear, fleeing, and leaving others behind,” none are pejorative, for the Buid see such feeling and conduct as the only reasonable response to danger. Not surprisingly, given the intimate relation of ideas of courage

and cowardice, the Buid have no word for courage either.

The Buid remind us that the idea of cowardice is socially constructed.

As such, it is subject to considerations of power and interest and to the vagaries of particular historical circumstance. To speak of the “essential meaning” of cowardice, then, may be misleading, for its meanings have been so various. Yet while there is no fixed idea of cowardice, even those who seek to invert the understanding of Tim O’Brien: “I was a coward. I went to the war”) assume a common understanding of it: that is what they are trying to invert.

Samuel Johnson observes the equidistance of cowardice and rashness from “the middle point, where true fortitude is placed,” noting also that the two vices have equal potential to do harm. Why then, Johnson wonders, is rashness “never mentioned without some kind of veneration,” while cowardice meets “unlimited and licentious censure, on which all the virulence of reproach may be lawfully exerted”?

The inherent drama of cowardice helps clarify and enforce moral thinking. The coward casts a shadow that throws the hero into relief, giving him substance and credibility. In a report describing a battle in which his unit had performed well, a colonel in the Union Army observed that it would be “unjust to my brave and enduring soldiers, who stood by their colors to the end, if I did not mention that many straggled from their ranks or fell back without orders.” The sports world provides many examples, from star players who change teams, to failures of nerve on the playing field. During Spring 2013 19

training sessions, coaches spur on their players with Vince Lombardi’s claim that “Fatigue will make cowards of us all.” Trailblazers fans may remember Scottie Pippen’s candid admission of his team’s game-seven choke job to the Lakers in 2000: “I realize that we sort of made cowards of ourselves in the fourth quarter.”

The charge of cowardice gives an edge or gravitas to melodrama; fear of it lends a deadly seriousness to games, the necessary shadow to the more common assertions that this or that player exhibited courage or heroism.

Without the possibility of cowardice, courage becomes a hollow idea.

Cowardice can even be said to cause, in an aptly roundabout way, courage.

James McPherson notes that in their letters home, Civil War soldiers “wrote much about cowardice because they worried they might be guilty of it, and they desperately wanted to avoid the shame of being known as a coward — and that is what gave them courage.”

It is in the same vein that Horace follows his famous testament to patriotic courage — Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori (“It is sweet and proper to die for one’s country”) — with far less famous but no less important lines: Mors et fugacem persequitur virum, Nec parcit imbellis inventae / Poplitibus tundove tergo (“Yet death harries even the man who flees, / nor spares the hamstrings or cowardly / backs of battle-shy youths”). The ancient Roman poet operates on the same principles as the Union and Confederate soldiers do; the shame of cowardice reinforces the call for sacrifice.

The idea of cowardice also delimits our dedication to what we like to think of as our highest principles. Mahatma Gandhi wrote “that where there is a choice only between cowardice and violence, I would advise violence.

Thus when my eldest son asked me what he should have done had he been present when I was almost fatally assaulted in 1908, whether he should have run away and seen me killed or whether he should have used his

PHOTO BY CHRIS FELVER / THE BRIDGEMAN LIBRARY

physical force which he could and wanted to use, and defend me, I told him it was his duty to defend me even by using violence. Hence it was that I took part in the Boer War, the socalled Zulu Rebellion, and [World War I]. Hence also do I advocate training in arms for those who believe in the method of violence. I would rather have India resort to arms in order to defend her honor than that she should in a cowardly manner become or remain a helpless witness to her dishonor."

Gandhi’s allegiance to the principle of non-violence ends where nonviolence becomes cowardice.

cowards of us all. But then, the terrorists have it easier than we do. In their righteousness they can call any fear excessive; they can demand any duty. In a liberal democracy, meanwhile, ethics are a matter of contest.

We are reluctant to mandate duties or to assert authority, and anxious to accommodate individual differences; and so our attempts to understand, from a medical standpoint, fearful failures of duty. Has the therapeutic triumphed? It used to be, goes a complaint about the culture of complaint, that people would hide their weaknesses from you; now they hit you over the head with them.

Let us be more precise about the relationship of cowardice to the body and indeed to the mind. It is fear that threatens to undo us — to immobilize us (when we become paralyzed), to infantilize us (when we become incontinent or tearful), to divide us from our fellows (when we flee) — and cowardice is said to occur when we allow fear to get the better of us, to prostrate our will. In its very contempt for the failure to exercise it, the invocation of the idea of cowardice reflects respect for will. The psychologist Paul Bloom argues that “disgust is a response to people’s bodies, not to their souls.”

But our disgust at cowardice is a response to the will’s abdication of control over the body. Since we all know such lack of control from our childhoods and dread it in our dotages, cowardice occupies a special place in the moral universe. We cannot say it is beneath contempt; it is rather situated uncomfortably close to us — close enough to receive the full force of our contempt.

Still, no one likes to be called cowardly.

The controversy over whether the term “coward” should be applied to the September 11 terrorists quickly faded, but in early 2002, as part of a campaign of psychological warfare conducted during the invasion of Afghanistan, the American military dropped leaflets featuring a doctored picture of bin Laden sporting a snazzy business suit, beardless and turban-less, a winsome smile beneath a neatly trimmed mustache. Bin Laden returned the volley less than a year later, noting that the Americans “depend on massive air strikes so as to conceal their most prominent point of weakness, which is the fear, cowardliness, and the absence of combat spirit among US soldiers.” Was Bin Laden right, or were he and his followers cowardly? Does withdrawal from Iraq and Afghanistan prove Bin Laden’s point about American cowardice, a repetition of the pattern he said we established in Vietnam, Beirut, and Somalia? Can this pattern be traced back further, to a history of fickle American foreign policy, a lack of steadfastness characteristic of a commercial democracy largely isolated from the rest of the world, as de Tocqueville pointed out long ago? Our increasing use of drone strikes has struck many in the targeted countries as cowardly, while here at home, proponents of American military intervention have implied the cowardice of critics by calling them “abject pacifists” who practice “appeasement” and “apology.” Others have wondered if curtailment of civil rights is a cowardly reaction to threats to our security. Are we abandoning our constitutional responsibilities because of fear? Is the obsession with security itself cowardly? n

Could it be that with the rise of individualism, that we have come to worry more and more about what Samuel Johnson called “cowardly dereliction of ourselves”? Without God, both freedom and responsibility become total, courage becomes the ultimate virtue, and cowardice the ultimate vice. And as one is one’s own judge and jury, court is always in session.

“I alone can absolve myself,” wrote Sartre; and “there are no excuses.”

Perhaps cowardice in the modern dispensation has been displaced from the military battlefield to the battlefield within each of us.

This displacement, however, has not been inexorable, and it is nowhere near finished. The importance of fear has not diminished in the twentyfirst century. Fear is the terrorist’s primary means and sometimes his primary end too. He wants to make Spring 2013 21

Chris Walsh is a writing professor at Boston University. This essay is adapted from his book in progress, Cowardice: A Defense.

S

he is a small round hobbit of a woman. She is 92 years young. She is as grey and grooved as the bark of the ancient Douglas firs she lives among.

She is the beloved founder of a food bank that keeps hundreds of folks across central Oregon from going hungry. She emits love and joy like heat and light from a fire. She is Sister John Maureen Backenstos ’69, of the Sisters of the Holy Names of Jesus and Mary, and I got to spend three days with her recently, and here she is.

Sister John lives with her dogs Greta and Cassie in a cabin in the woods along the McKenzie River. Thirty years ago, Sister John thought the tiny town of McKenzie Bridge would be the perfect little spot to land after forty years teaching in Oregon Catholic schools. Her dream retirement consisted of living in the woods and writing short stories. She found a house-sitting gig in McKenzie Bridge.

She basked in the quiet. She wrote a little. She showed up at the Catholic church on Sunday and introduced herself; and that’s where the retirement she’d imagined took a sharp turn.

In a small community, news travels fast. Everyone knows who’s lost a job, who’s in rehab, who’s been sent to jail. And everyone takes note when a person of heat and light and fire comes to town. Perhaps especially so when that person is an elfin nun who joins the volunteer fire department and takes weeklong solitary excursions in the woods and talks to the birds and the trees and agrees to teach Sunday school to everyone not just Catholics and hugs everyone no matter how dirty, down, or out they appear be.

Sister John had only been in town a few months when a wealthy parishioner handed her a big wad of cash and said You seem to know who the poor are; use this to help them. So she bought food staples and began delivering them in her station wagon. Only at each visit, she’d learn about someone else who could use help. Soon she was collecting and delivering donations all over Lane County, even deep in the forest to places where men were said to be living in the woods, some of them Vietnam veterans, some of them recluses. Often she’d hike up game trails and leave a box on a certain stump. Mainly she did this alone.

She was never harmed. Not once.

The Angel Of The McKenzie

By John Roscoe ’94

PHOTO BY JOHN ROSCOE

A day with a quiet smiling hero.

Volunteers materialized to help Sister John. People are drawn to heat and light and fire. The work outgrew her station wagon and shed and church.

Now it’s a genuine food bank headquartered at the local high school, with

Not everyone loves the food program.

Some argue that the generosity attracts bums and encourages dependency. Sister John doesn’t argue. She invites the skeptics to come see for themselves. More often than not they start volunteering.

Sister John still kayaks every summer, using an ingenious pulley system to lower herself into the cockpit. She still camps too, by herself, despite friends’ concerns. “I’m in a campground, with plenty of people around,” she says.

“Besides, even if I died, where am I going to find a better place to die than out in these woods?”

She gets outside every day, as often as possible, usually with her two canine roommates. Cassie is a spaniel who wags her whole body constantly unless she’s sound asleep, when she merely twitches. Greta, a sleek Lab, is a different story, a work in progress.

For the first three years of her life Greta was kept in a kennel. She had one litter after another. Finally the breeder decided she had some flaw and he didn’t want her anymore.

“When I got her, her feet had never touched the earth, can you imagine that!” Sister John says. “Now I take her for a walk every day and it brings me such joy to see her running happy and free. But I’ve had her three years now and she is still a nervous wreck.”

She points to Cassie, wagging her way through the yard in pursuit of God knows what. “That’s the difference between being raised with love and being raised without.”

We walk in the forest, Sister John and me. The fir trees are more than a

hunded feet tall. The McKenzie River goes shouting and cartwheeling among boulders and logs like an exuberant child. Sister John chants the names of plants like prayers. Deer fern, sword fern, vine maple, western red cedar.

Huckleberry, snowberry, Oregon grape. Trillium, rhododendron, wild rose. She rests against an ancient fir that is wider across its trunk than she is tall. She leans to fondle the tiny flowerettes of moss on the edge of the trail: “St. John’s violet! We wander down to the river. “Once in a while I think of all I can’t do now, the high country I love so much. I used to do big hikes every summer, fifty-milers.

But the way I look at it, I treasure those experiences. I remember so fondly what I was able to do. A spirit of gratitude keeps us from being bitter. And besides, just look around!

How could I complain?”

Next to kayak paddles and backpacks in her shed are boxes and stacks and shelves of food: chili, peanut butter, peaches, hamburger helper. In her cabin the phone rings and she rises from her recliner to answer it. Her voice is heartfelt. She knows the caller. “Now can you use some food?

There’s just no reason you should be hungry. I’ll be by this afternoon.”

The caller had gotten into some kind of trouble with the police and was short on cash. Sister John shuffles to her shed, packs a big box of food, and we set out. We stay for an hour at his thin gray house, visiting. Only the dog says less than Sister John. On the drive back to her cabin she says “I don’t believe in giving advice. You listen. That’s the best you can do.

Sometimes people think they want advice but usually they really don’t.

The biggest help I can be is to let them talk.”

Sister John was born and raised on the outskirts of Portland, a bit of a wild child, raised “by springer spaniels and trees.” Her mother was mentally ill and her father a busy blue-collar working man who didn’t believe in showing children affection, and although both loved her dearly and did their best she didn’t get the attention she craved. Her mother died when Sister John was 16. Her father almost immediately remarried and Sister John remained on the outskirts of town and family. At a high school summer camp, she met some smart, independent, adventurous, confident girls. They were all from St. Mary’s Academy. Sister John begged her father and stepmother for a transfer, and they were so pleased that she was Spring 2013 25

excited about something connected to academics that they said yes, tuition and all. They weren’t Catholic, didn’t attend any church on a regular basis.

By the time she graduated she wanted to join the Sisters of the Holy Names.

She was in love with a boy who’d come through town with the circus.

He wanted her to run away with him.

She had to tell him she had a different plan.

Her given name is Maureen and she went by Peggy Jean growing up. At St. Mary’s she discovered the Word and fell head over heels for the Gospel of John. She still swoons over the opening paragraphs, which flow strong and steady from the depths of her memory. In the beginning was the Word: the word was with God and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning.

Through him all things came into being, not one thing came into being except through him...And a few lines down, the description of John the Baptist

by John the Evangelist: A man came, sent by God. His name was John...He was not the light; he was to bear witness to the light.

Those lines struck deep and embedded in her heart and have been her “guiding philosophy of life” ever since. When she completed her training to join the Holy Names, she could think of no name more holy and inspiring than John, and when asked to submit three names from which her religious name would be chosen, she wrote down John, John, and John.

Every time I call Sister John we give each other dog updates, with joy in the telling. I ask about her health and she is matter-of-fact. She is facing the possibility of being called back to the religious community house in Portland.

She loves her sisters; they have been her family and some of her dearest friends. But it’s hard to imagine leaving her friends and home and life in McKenzie Bridge.

“I don’t ask God to change things, to make things different,” she says.

“You have to face reality and deal with it the best you can. I just want to go on living my life, taking whatever comes. I will cross that bridge when I get to it. And when I do, God will be with me, I know that.” n John Roscoe ’94 is a writer and editor with Providence Health Systems in Portland; he has written memorably of trees and cougars in these pages. Your Campaign gift, by the way, can be applied to service projects, scholarships for girls named Maureen, whatever...

PHOTO: McKENZIE RIVER BY MOMATIUK-EASTCOTT / CORBIS

dozens of volunteers and hundreds of families served each month. In addition to food there’s an entire classroom of donated clothes, appliances, toiletries, and toys.

As age slowed her down, Sister John began to feel less and less useful at the food bank. But her volunteers convinced her she had something special to offer. “You are the heart of this thing, I told her,” says Sue O’Brien, a nurse. “People need your smile and encouragement more than ever.”

Sister John listened. “You don’t have to do much,” she says. “Just be there for people. Show them you care. There is so much loneliness in this world, so many people who aren’t simply loved for who they are, right now. There’s nobody in their lives who thinks they deserve to be loved just as they are!

So now my job is just to be there and hug people. They know I love them.

That’s important.” Love is food, isn’t it?

SERVANTS

We scream at their failings and ignore their feats.

We take them for granted. Yes, we do.

Notes and photographs by Lawrence Hudetz and Rose Marie Opp. Brian Casey ‘85 Chief of Police, Dundee and Newberg, Oregon Studied history and played baseball on The Bluff. Worked his way up through the ranks as a police officer. “Worked a lot of child abuse cases and sex abuse cases, until I had my own kids, and then, well…” Worst things he’s seen? “Methamphetamine. Takes over everything. Kids get abandoned. It just baffles the mind. Abandoned newborn babies…” Worked property crimes, undercover, training other officers. And now? “Now I deal with people issues. No more investigations. But I try to benefit the department, help my officers, make our community safer. That’s the chief’s job. Also try to reduce the weight of the administration. I try to remember when I was an officer and what I disliked about what is essentially a paramilitary organization.” Best things about the job? “Saving kids from disaster. That’s the best.” Pithy advice for students interested in law enforcement? “Every public mistake you make now will make it impossible to get hired. Use good judgement.”

Portland 26

Matt McDonald ’91, Portland Police Bureau Studied health science and psychology on The Bluff. “Worked in the public safety office as a student, and then as a campus officer after graduating, and then into Portland police. Solo patrol for a while, and then a two-man beat car, night shift on Sandy Boulevard, which was a cesspool then, prostitution and drugs everywhere. It was unbelievable, some of the scary stuff those women told us. From Martin Luther King Boulevard to 13th and Sandy it was mostly white prostitutes, from 13th to 19th it was a mix of black, Hispanic, and white, and from 19th to 38th it was mostly black. Territories. I knew all of them along the street. My wife was just delighted that I knew every prostitute for miles. After that I worked in criminal intelligence and organized crime. I worked with the FBI a lot, mostly skinhead gangs, homeless kid gangs. Tons of street robberies. I was actually at the FBI academy in Quantico on September 11. We felt so helpless. It still makes me cry when I think about it, all those poor people trapped in the towers and the planes. After that everything changed here – the terrorism work got very active and energetic. Now I do a lot of training for recruits. It’s very satisfying. I have an impact on them, I shepherd them along toward being effective police officers. That’s rewarding. I have had a lot of low moments, dealing with people at the bottom, with the death of a partner investigator, with September 11, but I remember that my job finally is to keep kids safe, try to put them on the right trajectory, to make them valuable, productive members of society. That’s good work.”

Spring 2013 27

Chad Stoner ’93, Portland Police Bureau Played baseball on The Bluff, studied education and criminal justice. “Did an internship as a juvenile probation officer, and then after marriage I worked catching shoplifters for Nordstrom in New Jersey and Colorado.

Got hired with a sheriff’s office in Colorado. Worked there about a year, and then was hired by Portland Police in 1998. Worked as a street officer for a while and then moved to transit police eight years ago, this last year with Snoopy. He lives with us. He’s almost three years old now. He’s actually owned by TSA and loaned to us. There are many dogs like him in Oregon and we get called for lots of events – bomb threats, sports events, concerts, all sorts of things. He’s good at odors but if we see wires or switches we get out and the robot goes in. Me, I think being a cop is a noble profession. We get bashed in the media but we are here to protect and serve and that’s a fact. It’s very mentally taxing, yes, and you can get jaded and callous. But it’s a job where you really do make a difference. I enjoy my work. Patrol is something different every day. You don’t know what straw you’re pulling out of the hat. It could be an abandoned car to a family fight to whatever. Police have to think about the possible – you approach a car, probably it’s not going to turn into a shooting, but is it possible? Yes. So that’s your mentality going up there – be safe, protect safety...”

Portland 28

Matt Scales ’92, Captain, McMinnville (Oregon) Police Department “I thought I was going to be a teacher but I got an internship as a student with the county sheriff’s office at the Columbia Villa housing project, and I was amazed to see how the officers worked with the community, building relationships. That hooked me. I got hired here 20 years ago and now I run field operations – all patrols, canines, reserves, tactical support teams. The worst thing now? The inability to get troubled people the proper care they need. Huge problem in all law enforcement everywhere. And to be honest a lot of our problems come from broken homes. I think that’s a social problem no one talks about and we better start talking about it. Best moments? I am very proud of the work we did protecting children. We saved kids’ lives, getting them out of abusive situations, putting offenders where they belong. Those are the days that I really cherish, when I could look at a child and know we saved her, we made a life-changing difference for him.

There are other satisfactions, like when you arrest a robbery suspect, but it’s the life-changing stuff – that’s what I got into this business for, helping those who couldn’t help themselves. You get into this work because you want to help people, and then you get superb training, so that when something like the Clackamas shooting happens, you see police running in when everyone else is running out...”

Spring 2013 29

I was on the porch drinking coffee when the phone rang. Turn on the news, Mike. There was smoke pluming out of the north tower. Scrolling along the bottom of the screen is airliner hits tower, fire crews responding.

I call my firehouse. Our dispatcher is watching; he’s as stunned as anyone.

He says the city crews will get this fire, we are going to wait. Then the second plane hits. I get to the firehouse. We are 43 miles from the towers, and we know bridges are going to be shut down right quick, but we discover the 59th Street bridge is being held open for police and fire. Our chief says let’s go and we rig a truck for six guys. We know there are people trapped in there. I know better than anyone; I worked film crews down there and I know the layout and I know that a catastrophe like this will Spring 2013 31

destroy everything. Then the chief orders us to stand down; so many firefighters and police officers have immediately responded that there’s a seven-mile backup on the highways.

A lot of fire and police men and women spent that night sleeping in their cars and trucks on the highways.

“A few days later I went to The Pile.

It was still smoldering and burning.

There were photographs and posters of missing people everywhere, for blocks and blocks. We talked to guys from Engine Company Four. There were some 740 professional firefighters in New York City that day and more than 300 were dead or missing, which pretty much meant dead. There were memorial flags on fire engines and trucks in New York and New Jersey for months afterwards. Months.

The atrium between the towers was where firefighters set up their headquarters and guys who were there said they would never forget the sound of bodies falling onto the atrium roof: people who had decided not to burn to death.

“Even now, eleven years later, firefighters remember. For me it’s a matter of respect. Anyone who died in uniform, be it the services, firefighters, law enforcement, I try to be at the funeral, or escort them home. I ride my motorcycle in the Patriot Guard here. Anyone in any uniform, I pay my respects, either sending them off to trouble, or welcoming them home, or witnessing the last rites. I probably attend twenty events a year. One sweet one recently was welcoming the Oregon National Guard home from the wars. The University offered the Chiles Center for their homecoming.

I was proud of that. That was the right thing to do.

“I go back to The Pile every time we get back to New York. I used to go with my brothers in uniform and now I go with my family. My kids were harrowed by it when it happened, like millions of other kids. We go to pay our respects. One thing you learn in uniform is that when a brother dies, you show up. That’s the right thing to do. So we do that.” n Brian Doyle is the editor of this magazine, and the author most recently of the essay collection Grace Notes.

PHOTO OPPOSITE: JERRY HART

was born in New York City, on Staten Island,” says Sergeant Mike Kranyak, in his eleventh year now as University Public Safety Officer, or campus cop. He’s the one famous among students for always being on his bicycle, rain or shine, sun or snow, day and night, and for always eerily being right there grinning on his bicycle just as you are about to or have made a slight error in judgment as regards campus rules and regulations; he is also famous for talking bluntly, while smiling broadly, to students about their slight lapses in judgment while not necessarily pursuing the absolute maniacal letter of the law, and for never ever forgetting a name or a face. You make a slight error in judgment as a freshman, and you will be greeted cheerfully by name on graduation day, four years later, by Sergeant Mike Kranyak, who will actually care about your safety and character and future.

“Right after I turned nineteen years old I joined the Marines,” says the Sergeant. “That was 1983. For a while I served with a unit stationed on and off the U.S.S. Denver. We would be helicoptered off the ship to deal with trouble.”

“Trouble?” I ask. “Where exactly were you working during those years?”

“Everywhere,” says Sergeant Kranyak. “How about those Yankees?”

“I stayed eight years in the Marines,” he continues, “finishing as, no kidding, a Marine game warden at Camp Pendleton, in California. You wouldn’t believe the wilderness there — 95,000 square acres of forests and mountains.

There’s buffalo and bears and cougars there, and Hell’s Angels, and all kinds of people out shooting in the woods, perhaps not realizing that this is a major Marine Corps base. I finished up in the Marines in 1991, and returned to New York to work in the film industry, mostly as a gaffer — lighting and electrical work for movies and commercials, all sorts of things. I worked with Spike Lee, and the Coen brothers, David Lynch, Sesame Street — man, I worked with Elmo, how many guys can say that? And I joined the fire department in my town. Thought I could be of help. Glen Cove Fire Department, north shore Long Island.

“On the morning of September 11,

PHOTO: ©JACQUES LANGEVIN / SIGMA / CORBIS

“I

The COMMANDER Photographs and notes by Steve Hambuchen.

Portland 32

A visit with George Watson ’42, who fought in a war, was saved by his class ring, and thinks war is foolish.

I

got picked in the first Army draft, way before the war started, early in 1940. But when I got my physical examination they said I had perforated ear drums from when I was a kid and I was classified 4-F. So I went right to the Marines and joined their Officers Program because I knew that I was all right. The Marines said I had to have a college degree. I promised I would finish my degree and the Marines let me sign up. At first they let me stay in school, even after the war started, but then in January of 1942 they said, on second thought, we need you now.

When graduation came around my mother was there and she picked up my diploma.

I was a tank commander. Second Marine Division. Driving a tank was just like driving a tractor, so nearly all the tank guys but me were farmers. I got about fifteen minutes of training before I was turned loose with a crew.

I was on Tarawa in the South Pacific. An island about a mile long and about 600 yards wide. Supposedly we were going to walk onto the beach and just take the island. As it turned out, it took four days. On the first day of fighting, my light tank never made it to the island. I left it in about 25 feet of water.

There was lots of shelling, lots of fire; they were crossing the fire so densely that it was hard to get through it. The bow of my boat got shot right off and exploded and sank along with my tank.

There was a bottle of South African brandy in my tank, too. My crew and I had to swim and crawl our way in.

Took us probably an hour to get all the way in to the island. We came up along the wharf that stuck way out in the water over the coral reef and Spring 2013 33

the minute we got to shore I found a tank there with no crew so I just took it and operated with it. I learned later the tank commander had been hit and the crew were out looking for what to do. In the meantime we took it. We drove off and did a lot of shooting. We wound up driving down the air-strip that made the island so valuable to the Japanese and we were driving right into the sun. When you’re in a tank, all buttoned up, all you’ve got are the periscopes, and our driver couldn’t see a thing. We drove right into a hole left by a big shell and couldn’t get out the other side. So there we were.

Stuck in the hole. Our turret was out of the hole and machinegun fire was coming past us in waves. But I realized the Japanese weren’t shooting at us, they were just covering the field with fire.

So I told my crew I’m going to wait till the fire goes by and jump out.

When the machine-gun fire went past, I threw open the hatch and jumped out. I landed in the hole and they threw our machine-gun out after me. It landed right on my head and about knocked me out. Eventually another tank came up and covered us enough to get us into the palm trees. We were behind the lines all the time working our way back to the command post.

Later on we were taking out the Japanese pill boxes; more than 500 of them. There was an enemy soldier inside one and I was leaning up a wooden post by the entrance to the pill box, thinking about what we were going to do. Well, I decided to just take a chance and run across there, but just as I took off, my University of Portland class ring got caught on a

Going into the service, during the Second World War, that was the right thing to do...

nail and jerked me back. It just about tore my finger off, but gunfire came flying out right where I would have been. My ring saved my life.

There were about 6,000 Japanese soldiers on the island and we took it with about 12,000 men. We didn’t take many prisoners. We lost a lot of guys.

My best college friend, Hal Lower, head of the student activity council, he went into the Air Force as a bombardier, and was shot down over the Marshall Islands. Eddie DeFreitas, our quarterback, he was killed too.

A lot of friends didn’t come home.

My brother Wally was in the Army in the Battle of the Bulge, and another brother was in the Navy in the South Pacific, but we all made it. When I got home I finished a year’s worth of chemistry in a summer and became a pharmacist like my father. I still have my license. My brother Wally and I worked together all these years.

We had two pharmacies, one in the Heathman Hotel and the other on Salmon Street. And I was the lucky fellow who was married to Louise.

We met at the University. She was from Baker, and was a nursing student, and ended up being an Army nurse.

We were engaged twice, you know; she gave me back the ring, because we never saw each other, but when I got home on leave I went right to her and the flame was reignited and we got engaged again.

We were married in Portland and honeymooned in San Francisco while we were both on leave; Louise was in the Nurse Corps by then. And we were blessed with three children, all of whom were home for Christmas this year, with the grandchildren.

Going into the service, during the Second World War — it was what I thought I should do. It was the right thing to do, even though so many of my friends were lost in the war. But I’d never encourage kids toward war.

You really have to wonder about war.

I don’t ever advocate for it. Never. n Portland 34

...But I’d never encourage kids toward war. I don’t ever advocate for it. Never.

Spring 2013 35

H

eroes? Real ones? Here’s one: Phyllis Clausen, who worked for 35 years to restore salmon to the White Salmon River, in Washington.

Talk to the mild-mannered 88- yearold about her decades of full-time unpaid work, and she’ll interrupt to deflect credit. It could not have been done without the cooperation of tribes and agencies and locals, she’ll say, or the leadership of American Rivers, or the help of her husband, Vic. What made her do it? She softens.

The river.

One glorious Independence Day weekend in the early 1970s, Phyllis Clausen caught her first glimpse of the White Salmon River. She and Vic had decided to pick cherries and heard they’d find good ones up the wild river that bisects the bottom hem of Washington State, dropping fast from the flanks of Mount Adams to the Columbia Gorge. They rumbled along side roads, and stopped to gape at whitewater charging over basalt at Husum Falls. They landed in Trout Lake, a tiny upriver town, found twenty acres for sale, and bought it.

That day, she fell in love. Plain and simple. Fell so hard that for the rest of her life, she’d ask herself every single day: What can I do for this river?

Yakama historians say the White Salmon River was, for centuries, home to more than 8,000 salmon and steelhead per year. Then, in 1913, Condit dam went up. Nine hundred men, mostly Greek immigrants, did the work, and the result was large in stature, 125 feet tall, but small in production, only 14 megawatts. Still, that was enough to power Crown Willamette in nearby Camas, and it seemed worth it. Engineers didn’t ignore the fish: Twice they constructed fish ladders; twice floods took them out.

For sixty years, salmon were exiled from the river.

In 1976, a proposal arose for six new dams on the White Salmon. Maybe it was the last straw. Maybe the

timing was wrong. Opposition grew fast, not in Portland or Seattle but in Trout Lake, where a makeshift group, Friends of the White Salmon River, arose to successfully fight the proposal and to consider other threats. The biggest, of course, was Condit.

Phyllis and Vic Clausen joined the first year, and eventually Phyllis became the director. For twenty years she toiled in a thousand small ways to make connections, the most important with American Rivers, the national advocacy group that built the broad coalition — tribes, nonprofits, recre-

ation enthusiasts, and government agencies — that called for Condit to come down.

Some activists depend on drama.

They dress kids as salmon and send them breaking through paper dams as cameras roll, stunts that garner attention and sometimes galvanize opponents. Phyllis Clausen took another route. She was the realist who strove to unite, to innovate, to follow through on details. She was Oz behind the curtain, the operator behind the scenes.

If it sounds glamorous, it wasn’t.

Mostly she attended meetings. She and Vic lived mid-week in Vancouver, a boon. She’d attend a meeting in Trout Lake, hear what people believed was going on, and then visit officials downtown to find out what was really going on.

Was she a spy? She laughs. Not a spy. Not even a politician.

She worked with plenty, Republicans and Democrats alike, and rePortland 36

spected them all. Theirs is a hard job, she says, one that requires a gift for balance and compromise and equivocation. A gift she didn’t have. Not when it came to the river.

In 1996, the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission issued an environmental impact statement requiring fish ladders at Condit, and the issue became a no-brainer. Retrofits would be too expensive. The owner, PacificCorp, decided to decommission the old dam. But the process took another fifteen years.

Does Phyllis have regrets? Sure.

She has regrets for the steelhead fishermen who lost their good fishing spot below the dam, for the cabin owners on Northwestern Lake who lost waterfront property.

What about for herself? What about that fifteen-year wait?

No regrets, she says.

The wait allowed her to concentrate on other protections like the Wild & Scenic River designation for the upper river that passed in 2005.

After a time, she no longer believed she’d live to see Condit removed. Still, she told herself: I’m going to push as long as I’m alive. For the sake of the river.

Then it happened.

In fall 2011, Condit dam was breached, and by fall 2012, the last of the debris was removed. Photos appeared from Husum Falls of a single steelhead, silver and sinewy, leaping high, fighting its way home — a triumph of unspeakable magnitude. Talk to those that know and they’ll say Phyllis Clausen’s humility and persistence, her view of herself as one citizen among many, helped make that triumph possible.

Are you a hero?, I ask.

No, indeed, she cries.

But I beg to differ. n Ana Maria Spagna is a writer in Stehekin, Washinton; her most recent book is the terrific Potluck: Community on the Edge of Wilderness.

PHOTO AT RIGHT: SARAH EHLEN

Silvery & Sinewy

The Revolutionary Peter Maurin The wry humble man who sparked the Catholic Worker movement eighty years ago this spring.

By Jim Forest

Bowery flop houses. His days were spent either at the New York Public Library or expounding on street corners his ideas to anyone who showed interest. After all, he reasoned, “the way to reach the man on the street is meet the man on the street.” A born teacher, lively, insightful and good humored, he found willing listeners, among them George Shuster, editor of Commonweal magazine, who gave him the address of Dorothy Day, a Portland 40

Catholic convert living in lower Manhattan who supported herself and her daughter as a freelance journalist.

Maurin introduced himself to Dorothy on the 9th of December 1932 — a day that ought to be hallowed ever after in American Catholicism.

To many, Maurin would have seemed just one more eccentric street-corner prophet, of which New York had many.

It says a great deal about Dorothy Day

DOROTHY DAY, MANHATTAN, 1960. PHOTO BY MOTTKE WEISSMAN. OUR THANKS TO THE CATHOLIC WORKER ARCHIVE AT MARQUETTE UNIVERSITY.

orothy Day is unquestionably on the short list of history-changing Catholics of the 20th century; the Catholic Worker movement that she founded in 1933 led to the creation of countless houses of hospitality — places that welcome those whom many people prefer to avoid — and also to a continuing radical critique of America’s reliance on violence. In recent years the Archdiocese of New York has been pursuing her canonization. Much less well-known, however, is Peter Maurin, the man who was chiefly responsible for the Catholic Worker movement’s visionary qualities.

Maurin never wrote a memoir; it took Dorothy Day years to piece together the main elements of his life.

He was born into a peasant family in Oultet, a village in the Languedoc region of southern France, on May 9, 1877. At sixteen he entered the Christian Brothers, a teaching order which stressed simplicity of life and service to the poor. In 1898-99, his community life was interrupted by obligatory military service, in the course of which Maurin perceived a basic tension between religious and political obligations. In 1902, when the French government closed many religious schools, Maurin left the order and became active in Le Sillon, a Catholic lay movement which advocated Christian democracy and supported cooperatives and unions. In 1908, disenchanted with the movement’s increasingly political character, Maurin withdrew. The following year he emigrated to Canada, homesteading in Saskatchewan. After that effort failed, he took whatever work he could find, first in Canada, then in the United States: digging ditches, quarrying stone, harvesting wheat, cutting lumber, and laying track. He worked in brickyards, steel mills, and coal mines. He was briefly jailed for vagrancy and for “riding the rails” — ticketless travel in freight cars. For a time he earned his living teaching French. He never married. In 1932, he was handyman at a Catholic boys’ camp in upstate New York, receiving meals, use of the chaplain’s library, and living space in the barn.

Through his years of reflection and hard labor, Maurin, like Saint Francis before him, came to embrace poverty as a gift from God. His unencumbered life offered time for study and prayer, out of which a vision had taken form of a social order instilled with basic values of the Gospel in which it would “be easier for men to be good.”

As often as his work allowed, he made his way to New York City, staying in the dormitories of inexpensive

PHOTO ON PRECEEDING PAGE COURTESY OF JIM FOREST

D

that she quickly came to regard him as an answer to her prayers, someone who could help her discover what she was supposed to do with the rest of her life.

Maurin saw Dorothy as a new Saint Catherine of Siena, the medieval reformer and peace negotiator. Maurin believed Day could “move mountains, and have influence on governments, temporal and spiritual.” But first she needed a truly Catholic education.

Maurin wanted her to look at history as centered less on the rise and fall of nations than on the lives of the saints.

She had to understand that sanctity was what really mattered and that any program of social change must emphasize sanctity and community.

Maurin proposed that Day start a newspaper to publicize Catholic social teaching and promote steps to bring about the peaceful transformation of society. Day agreed, though unsure how she would ever find the money for such a venture. “In the history of the saints,” Maurin assured her, “capital is raised by prayer. God sends you what you need when you need it.

You will be able to pay the printer.

Just read the lives of the saints.”

The name Maurin proposed for the paper was The Catholic Radical. In Maurin’s view, a radical — from the Latin word radix meaning root — is someone who doesn’t settle for cosmetic solutions, he said, but goes to the root of personal and social problems. Dorothy Day felt that the name should refer to the class of the readers she hoped the paper would attract and so named it The Catholic Worker.

“Man proposes and woman disposes,” Maurin responded meekly.

But when the first issue of was ready for distribution, on May 1, 1933, Maurin was disappointed with the content. Too much in the new paper struck him as too similar to other journals of radical protest. Maurin’s objection wasn’t simply that Dorothy’s voice rather than his own dominated its pages. What he found missing in the paper was a presentation of basic ideas and principles, a coherent strategy for a new social order. If the first issue were pruned of his Easy Essays and the occasional quotations from the Bible and papal encyclicals, it seemed to him that most of the surviving material — stories about strikes, trials, racism, child labor, and economic exploitation — could have been published in any radical publication. He asked that his name not be included among the list of editors in future issues; he wanted to be held responsible only for what he signed.

Maurin thought protest would do

little to bring about real change.

“Strikes don’t strike me,” he said, arguing that the old order would die from neglect, not censure. What was needed first of all was a vision of a future society, and with this a program of constructive steps with which to begin realizing bits of the vision in one's own life. The Catholic Worker, Maurin said, should not just one more group of complainers. It should work for what he called “the green revolution.”

The Greeks used to say that people in need are ambassadors of the gods...

He saw no point in struggling for better hours or more pay in places where the work was dehumanizing.

It was time, he said, “to fire the bosses.”

But where, he was asked, could they go? How would they live? “There is no unemployment on the land,” Maurin replied. The Catholic Worker should stand for a decentralized society stressing cooperation rather than duress, with artisans and craftsmen in worker-owned small factories and agricultural communities. Coming together in agricultural communities, worker and scholar could labor, think, and pray together, in the process developing “a worker-scholar synthesis.”

Maurin was often accused of being a utopian romantic longing to travel backward rather than forward in time.

But Day gradually became more open to his critique of assembly-line civilization and came to share his view that improved, unionized industrialism wasn’t enough, that community was better than mass society.

In his “easy essays,” Maurin repeatedly advocated renewal of the ancient Christian practice of hospitality: People who are in need and are not afraid to beg give to people not in need the occasion to do good for goodness’ sake.

Modern society calls the beggar Bum and panhandler and gives him the bum’s rush.

But the Greeks used to say that people in need are ambassadors of the gods...

Spring 2013 41

Every home, Maurin said, should have its Christ Room, and every parish a house of hospitality ready to receive the ambassadors of God; and within a year of its founding, the Catholic Worker movement was known as much for its houses of hospitality as for its newspaper.

Catholic Workers also took up Maurin’s summons to start farming communes, which he preferred calling “agronomic universities.” In 1938 Maurin moved to Mary Farm, a ten-acre property the Catholic Worker community bought in Easton, Pennsylvania.

Unfortunately there was always a surplus of people who preferred a discussion of theology or politics to work on the fields or the repair of a broken hinge. “It seemed,” Day noted, “that the more people there were around, the less got done.” Small matters took on divisive significance. Maurin alone seemed to look after basic chores. In 1944 part of the farm was sold, and another part given away to a cantankerous group that regarded themselves as the “true Catholic Workers.” Other farms were set up, but these tended to be more rural houses of hospitality than agricultural communities. (Some Catholic Worker farms have worked well as farms, including the quite productive Peter Maurin Farm in Marlboro, New York.)

In 1944, following what appeared to be a minor stroke, Maurin slowly began losing his memory. His last five years were lived quietly at the Catholic Worker’s Maryfarm Retreat Center near Newburgh, just north of New York City. He died quietly in his room on May 15, 1949, six days after his seventy-second birthday. The funeral Mass in New York City two days later was loud and triumphant, crowded not only with friends, Dorothy Day felt, but with angels and saints. The undertaker tried to sell Dorothy artificial grass with which to cover the “unsightly grave.” She refused, recalling how Peter loved the earth and enjoyed working it with his hands.

Maurin’s death was reported by The New York Times and the Vatican newspaper, L’Osservatore Romano.

Time magazine noted that Maurin was buried in a “castoff suit and consigned to a donated grave,” appropriate arrangements for a man who “had slept in no bed of his own and worn no suit that someone had not given away.” n Jim Forest is a writer and photographer living in The Netherlands. Among his many books are Living With Wisdom, a biography of Thomas Merton, and All Is Grace, a biography of Dorothy Day.

STARTLED BY GRACE “The University enters into you.

What it is most deeply is inside you...” here are many ways to walk into Joena Buchholz’s story. You could start with how she went to bed with a fever in December and woke up in February missing her hands and feet.

You could start with the night she went on a date with a boy named Herman and they stayed up until dawn talking and she walked home and said to her roommate I am not going to get married anytime soon but when I do he’s the one. You could start with how when she was hammered by a sudden savage illness, hundreds of people around the world dropped what they were doing and reached for her and changed everything from horror to grace. You could start with the words my enormous and immense and holy and amazing family, which are the words she uses when she talks about what happened.

Or you could start by saying, as she does, that this is the best University of Portland story you ever heard, and there’s something deep in this story about what the University is all about, and what it instills in its students, and what they never forget, and how real heroism has to do with endurance and humor and patience far more than with glory and adulation and fame.

Most heroes aren’t famous. Most heroes are us.

So here is a story of us.

Two years ago Joena and her husband Herm flew to Germany. Joena is a Salzburg Program alumna and Herman is a Buchholz and they love Germany and their daughter Jill and her family live there. It was just a normal trip, says Joena. I always get a cold after a flight, and three days after we landed I felt a fever coming on, and I went to bed. That was December 15. When I woke up it was February. The first thing I heard was my daughter’s voice. I thought I had been asleep for a day. I had been in a coma for six weeks. I had an infection so severe that my hands and feet were amputated. I knew nothing of this. I remember dreaming that I was traveling and was desperate to get home. I remember in my dream that I was alone and thirsty and my hands were freezing.

On the first day of February she asked for ice cream. She had not eaten for six weeks. She wept a lot. She could still feel her toes and her fingers. She

moved from intensive care to regular care to a rehab center in Switzerland.

She dreamed of prosthetic arms that would end not in hands but in knife, fork, spoon, and knitting needle. At the end of February she got to wash her hair for the first time in three months. In July she was wheeled into her daughter’s house for her granddaughter’s sixth birthday party and she said she felt like she had been given one day of her old life back by God after eight months of being dead. Then she and Herm flew home to Portland.

But everything was different at home. Their townhouse didn’t fit. Their car was useless now. The bills were terrifying. Joena couldn’t work with older people as she had before; Herman was retired from his job.

But there were their University classmates. And their Salzburg Program comrades. And Herm’s fraternity brothers. And other fraternity friends.

And other alumni. Hundreds of people, says Joena with amazement. Hundreds.

People we don’t even know. Friends we didn’t know. Nurses, mothers, cops, day traders, priests, grocers, financiers, computer experts, an insurance chief, a fire chief, a fighter pilot, so many more. They set up funds for us. They found an apartment for us. They stored our stuff for us. They found a van and bought it and handed us the keys. They found the greatest wheelchair ever. They negotiated insurance for us. They did everything for us.

They just decided to do all this. They just wanted to. That’s who they are.

Maybe that’s where the University really is, is inside people.

I was so lucky, says Joena. She is sitting in the greatest wheelchair ever, in the new apartment in Sellwood.

She and I just shook hands; the place where her right hand used to be is infinitesimally soft, as soft as a baby’s cheek. Her husband is sitting next to her. Her new right arm is on the table.

It’s the depth of people, says Herm.

That’s the closest I can come for finding the right word. The depth of people makes me cry.

My word for it is grace, says Joena, and she is smiling like a summer morning. You would not think a woman who lost her hands and feet and almost died and has to crawl around the couch on her knees for her daily walk would be beaming but you would Spring 2013 43

be wrong about that. There is such a thing as grace, says Joena. It’s not trite.

It’s not imaginary. It’s real. It is amazing. That song is right. My family is a grace. And there is a University of Portland grace. It’s a cheerful communal energy. We reach for each other.

The whole ones reach for the broken one. You stand by your friends even if you don’t know their names. You do anything for them. That’s love. It’s not because you went to classes with them. It’s because the University enters into you. What it is most deeply is inside you.

Do you have dark days, black days?

I ask, staring at the arm on the table.

Her right arm was christened Ice Cream by her granddaughters, her left arm Blueberry.

Oh, no, no, she says, smiling. No. Because every day something exhilarating happens. Every day I am startled by the grace of others. Every day.

Who could have dark days when that happens? Not me. Not me. n Brian Doyle EDITOR’S NOTE It was the University’s Class of 1964 that led the charge for Joena and Herm Bucholz, and we thank them publicly, especially John Lee, and Doug Edwards ’67; and the alumni of Central Catholic High, Upsilon Omega Pi and Iota Kappa Pi, many generous souls at Providence Health Systems, and especially the University’s Salzburg Program alumni. Among the many energies now in motion on Joena’s behalf are a trust fund (for information on making a gift to it, email John Lee at jpsalee@comcast.net, or Doug Edwards at doug.edwards@live.com), and perhaps the creation of a scholarship for students interested in helping souls like Joena and Herm who are faced with a sudden blizzard of pain and confusion.

To make Rise Campaign gifts to help the nurses and scientists and engineers and counselors who help the broken among us, call the University’s deft Campaign wrangler, Bryce Strang, at 503.943.8009, strang@up.edu. And listen to Joena: “Whatever gifts we can make for kids who really want to go to the University but don’t have the money, we should make. That was me.

Father Ambrose Wheeler saved my education. Who’s helping the kids today?”

PHOTO: GETTY IMAGES

T

LIKE BRANCHING LIGHTNING The long and astonishing road of University regent Ralph Miller.

By Robin Cody

W

olfgang Müller could hardly have drawn a more unlucky year — 1938 — to be born Jewish in Germany. The son of shopkeepers, he popped into the world in Essen, eight months before Kristallnacht, the eruption of rage and violence that ratcheted up Jewish persecution from unconscionable to horrifying. Even before Kristallnacht, the Nazis had bullied Jews to emigrate. They boycotted Jewish shops and plastered storefronts with graffiti. Deutsche kauft nicht bei Jüden.

On Kristallnacht, November 9, the Night of Broken Glass, shop windows all across Germany were shattered; in Essen, the synagogue went up in flames. It wouldn’t be long before the Nazis began rounding up Jews and sending them to the camps for forced labor or death.

Wolfgang’s grandfather had a string of five men’s clothing stores, and his father, Hans, ran the shop in nearby Düsseldorf. Storm troopers vandalized the store on Kristallnacht. The next day they busted into the house and trashed that, too. Still in November, someone overheard Hans telling a Hitler joke. The Nazis came to the house and jailed him, but his accuser failed to show up at the trial. In January the judge gave Hans 30 days to leave the country or to be thrown back in jail. After paying the Reichsfluchsteuer (tax for ‘fleeing’ Germany), he was granted an exit visa for man and wife — but not for Wolfgang and his sister, Gabriella.

A cousin in New York sponsored Hans’s exit to America, and the Hebrew Immigration Aid Society directed him to Gainesville, Florida. Mother and kids stayed behind, with her parents in Köln, while conditions worsened in Germany. When the English began bombing, there were blackouts.

Jews, with yellow stars stitched to their clothing, were excluded from bomb shelters. Amid the tumult and rising horror, Hebrew Aid tried to arrange passage for Mullers through France, but Marseille was crawling with brown shirts. Maybe through Spain, if the family could get there...

In March of 1941, mother and kids

stood in line for three days in occupied Paris for visas through Spain to catch one of the last refugee ships to steam freely from Portugal to America. Wolfgang had his third birthday in San Sebastian, where he was astounded to see what he had never seen: night lights. In Lisbon, to get little Wolfgang on board the ship, she hid the fact that he had come down with an illness, possibly measles. When the ship was safely far enough out to sea, she sought a doctor, and discovered a veterinarian; the ship had been dedicated to the transport of animals, and only recently had been assigned the more profitable traffic in refugees.

Frau Müller spoke four languages but no English. At Ellis Island she and the children endured a long serpentine line through the immigration hall and then misunderstood the official she came face to face with. The man evidently had a problem with the three-year-old at her side. Terrified, speechless, she thought they wouldn’t let her boy in. But it was just his name, Wolfgang, that wouldn’t do. When the mother didn’t — couldn’t — come up with a more American name, the official called the boy Ralph.

So Ralph Miller, not Müller, entered American life. He grew up to play America like Monopoly, like his own personal board game. He bought broken companies and fixed them and sold them for a lot of money. Lucky for the University of Portland, the Jewish Community Center, the Robison Jewish Home, the Humane Society of Southwest Washington and others — “a million here, a million there,” he says — he can give time and money away. Ralph is ‘retired.’ But you’ll find him here at the office every workday at 6:30 a.m. Today he tells the Wolfgang Müller part of the story as it was told to him, as family history.

And he tells it as he does most anything — with a crackling energy, like branching lightning.

“Let’s go for coffee,” he says. When Ralph says Let’s go, you gather your wits and papers right now, and he’ll still beat you out the door. He is not Portland 44

the six-footer he used to be, and there’s a hitch in his stride these days, but the pace is rapid, his talk rat-a-tat. On the way to the parking lot he talks the family from Gainesville to Wisconsin to Longview, and he continues the story in the car — a white Mercedes S63 V-8 Biturbo. If he had a plane, we’d fly.

“Dad’s first job was on the green chain at Longview Pulp and Fiber. The nastiest most dangerous job in a sawmill. Then in Portland they found a small Jewish community. And jobs.

Dad drove a laundry truck for Rawlinson’s Cleaners. At night he was a bellman at the Hotel Washington. In the basement of the Multnomah Hotel you’d find my mother, the laundress, and she kept us little ones with her ten hours a day. I smell laundry soap and feel the humidity just telling you this!”

“We were poor,” he continues, “but we didn’t know it. No matter your condition, there are people with less.

A rabbi would come by the house with pushkas, what you’d call piggy banks. Put your pennies and nickels in. I understood this was to share with others. A month later the rabbi would come back to pick up the pushkas and give us empty ones. I also understood — from an early age — there were people who didn’t like us.

But the neighborhood had many decent hard-working families, mostly Catholic or Jewish.”

Ralph attended Shattuck and Failing grade schools. The family enterprise by that time was Miller’s Midget Market, “like a convenience store but with groceries and homemade dishes.

My mother’s potato salad was very good.” At Broadway and Harrison, the market opened every morning at eight, and when Ralph’s father came home for a nap, his mother took over the store. The delivery van doubled as the family car, a dark green Dodge station wagon, an aromatic, smelling of fruit. Summers, Ralph’s mother sent him off at daybreak with a steel thermos of cold milk to catch the bus for pickers to Sandy Boulevard berry

Kristallnacht, the Night of Broken Glass, in November, 1938, was a coordinated attack on Jews in Germany and Austria by the Nazis. Some 300 people died, 30,000 were sent to death camps, 1000 synagogues were destroyed, and 7,500 businesses smashed.

fields. Breakfast waited there on the vines. “At home Dad spoke German, for mother’s benefit. My sister Gaby and I spoke English. We were a family of readers. We all read the same book.

Dad made us look up the words we didn’t understand, and he did that too.

Together we played ‘Word Power’ in Reader’s Digest. When I was at Lincoln High, my folks were big on parentteacher conferences. Very big. Assimilation was the goal, and education was the key. Education is what it was all about.”

And enterprise. Education and enterprise are what it’s all about. Enterprise assumes competition, and Ralph came to the University of Oregon as a sweet steely mix of wide-eyed observer and budding competitor. He did well. Within weeks of graduating with a degree in accounting and a two-year Army reserve officers training corps obligation to his country, Ralph was on active infantry duty. The lieutenant became platoon commander and then executive officer of a rifle

company. In June of 1961 he had only eight weeks left to serve. His parents, with Ralph’s future on their minds, drove up to Fort Lewis parade grounds for Division Day. “After the division was dismissed, I met them at a corner of Gray Field for a walk and a talk. It was morning, still. Nice day. I was in my dress greens.” Imagine a square-shouldered spit-polished paragon of military bearing, his father a dapper 5-foot-4 in coat and tie, crisp white shirt and slacks, both parents beaming. “We were on our way to lunch,” Ralph says.

“They were saying, ‘You’ll be coming home soon. You could move into the house, into your old room. With your accounting degree...’ But I told them I might stay in the service. I was in line for orders to Cambodia as an infantry advisor. I could stay in the Army and retire at age 36.

“They were stunned. I might have hit Dad in the chest with a two-by-four.

They were genuinely, deeply, disappointed. We kept walking. Nobody wants to be a disappointment to his parents. Dad went into his yourmother-and-I-spiel about their sacrifice, their hopes for me. But it wasn’t a spiel. It was true. There had been no money for my sister — who graduated number five in her class at Lincoln — to go to the UW with her Spring 2013 45

friends. Their sacrifice had been all for me. Then Dad changed tack. He said, Come out for a year. Consider your options. Just for one year. The Army will take you back. You could retire at 37 and still get on with your life.” So...

Ralph says he has three fathers. The first, of course, is his real dad, long gone. Also gone is Frank Eiseman, his first boss at Arthur Young & Company.

Bless their souls, he says. The third is John Elorriaga.

“I was in my early thirties,” says Ralph. “John was in his late forties, president of Columbia Corporation.”

Ralph is sitting behind his desk in a bright spacious office complex at Tech Center in Vancouver. It’s 7 a.m. and adjoining offices are empty, but Ralph is jacked up to mid-day speed. His eyes, though, are barely visible. He squints when he’s happy, and business talk is endlessly amusing to him.

“Columbia,” he says, “was a publicly owned industrial conglomerate of companies without anything in particular in common. Forest products.

Manufacturing. Trading. Columbia was huge. Fortune Magazine ranked us number 700 of U.S. corporations.

When John hired me, I was still working nights on my masters degree at the University of Portland. I watched John’s leadership. I saw his charac-

ter, his intelligence, his instincts...”

Wait. Night school?

“Started on an MBA in 1962 and didn’t graduate until 1973,” says Ralph, beaming. “One night course at a time.

Before I finished I was running my own companies. The University, you know, was in bad financial shape then. Just terrible. They asked me to teach a course, and I did, for a dollar a semester. That’s right. I taught mergers and acquisitions while I was still a graduate student. Then they didn’t pay me the dollar!”

Really?

“Well, they did, finally, ceremoniously. When I was all set to graduate in 1971, the dean of business, Kent Collings, a good guy, said now you have to take the Graduate Record Exam. But the GRE didn’t exist when I started! That’s true, he said, but the GRE is now required of all students.

He wanted me to raise the school’s average GRE scores, is what he wanted.”

“Ralph is one tough son of a buck,” says John Elorriaga outside his office in Big Pink, downtown Portland. John was the CEO of U.S. Bank when they

built this building. He built this building. At age 88, now, John still has a commanding presence and the fatherknows-best hair and all his marbles and two alert, mischievous eyes. He grabs your elbow and pulls you into his office. “Ralph is the best businessman I’ve ever seen. Have a seat here,” he says. It’s an order. What is it about these guys? There’s an exuberance here you don’t see much in people their ages, or even in people, much.

But Ralph has it and his third dad has it too.

“Ralph was a young CPA with Erickson-Eiseman,” John says, “and then at Acme Trading. He was just a kid, nervous as can be, red-faced if you said a word to him. But Ralph knew the numbers. He understood the numbers. You couldn’t help but notice him. I brought him over to Columbia to work for me, as my assistant. And he is a worker! Let me tell you a story.

At about this time Nixon was worried about inflation. We got a letter from a new Federal Office of Wage and Price Control. There was going to be a cap — a limit, to be negotiated — on earnings as a percentage of revenues.

Hans and Annaliese Muller, Ralph’s parents.

To be negotiated? It was vague, but alarming. They could cap our earnings at one or two percent. I put Ralph on this. Go see what the rules are. Twice a week, after his Tuesday and Thursday night classes, he took the red-eye to Washington, D.C.” “And got sent to this office and that office and to a suboffice of another office,” says Ralph later. “This was a brand new agency. You could see right away they were making up the rules.

I flew back there twice a week for six weeks, nine at night to six in the morning. Shower at the airport. Put on a suit. Calculations and negotiations, then take the same plane back to Portland. Same plane, different crew, same passenger. Back and forth and forth and back...”

Says John Elorriaga, shaking his head, “Ralph got us six percent! That meant ten million dollars, easy, to the company.”

Before John moved on to U.S. Bank, he was grooming the Wunderkind to be his successor at Columbia Corporation. But Ralph is not a big organization man, unless maybe it’s his own organization. “I said, Stay right here!”

John says. “You’ll replace me! But there is no arguing with Ralph. I sent him to Pierce Pacific, and he turned that company around. Pierce Pacific had lost seven figures for seven consecutive years. Ralph made that company hum. The people he keeps love him. Those are people who will work as hard as he does.”

That’s one way to say he doesn’t keep everybody, and Ralph is the first to say he can be a hard man to work for.

The business he built for himself was Manufacturing Management, Inc., or the MMI Group. “Buy a small company that had been profitable but is under economic stress,” Ralph says.

“Leadership is the key. A lousy company with a strong leader can do a good job against the competition. It’s a pretty simple formula,” he says, as if you could do this yourself. “When you can’t grow a company more, sell it and buy a bigger company! We had different industries. Recycling. Cabinet making. Aircraft parts,” he says, genuflecting to the north, toward Boeing.

“We had our own ship.”

“Ralph sold that business and calls himself retired,” says John Elorriaga, “but he’ll be over in China next week trading scrap metal. You’ll never get ahead of Ralph. He’s like a son to me.

We have dinner as couples. Have you met Sandi? Sandi is the best thing ever happened to Ralph. There’s two peas in a pod, those two. Give Sandi a call.”

Portland 46

Ellis Island, in New York Bay, was the door to America for more than 12 million people between 1892 and 1954, as many as 11,000 a day. More than 100 million modern Americans trace their ancestry to a descendant who walked on Ellis Island.

I give Sandi a call. Ralph is in Taipei.

Sandi takes the call at the beach. She’ll be back in town Wednesday, and where can we meet? “Or maybe,” she says, “we could do this by phone.”

O, no. Please. I’d rather see you.

“There’s not much to see, buster,” she says, laughing. “But sure. Come to the house.”

So what does this tell you already?

Sandi is agreeable and snap-quick funny and you might hear some unbuttoned talk, buster. On Wednesday, at the big hilltop home in Camas, that’s what you get with Sandi, a high-spirited sprite with Lily Tomlin glasses and a gift for stories. Here’s a short one: “Mutual friends wanted us to meet.

They said Ralph was fun and dated lots of women — no one more than once. He’s older and has thinning hair, they said. He’s Jewish. But what do I know about Jewish? I’m from Roseburg. We had a wonderful dinner and shook hands and I thought that was that. Later I told people I couldn’t shake him off with a stick. Ralph doesn’t like me to say that... (beat) ... because it’s not true.”

From Roseburg Sandi had landed a receptionist job in the city and worked

her way through PSU in six years. By her mid-thirties she was a program manager at Tektronix, in information systems. Ralph, at work and with civic affairs, was putting in 20-hour days. Sandi had a pretty golf swing.

Ralph had played competitive tennis after military service and started golfing with Sandi. They were having more fun together than apart. But neither would change his or her stripes just for marriage.

“I care less about people than Ralph does,” she says, with a straight face.

“I fund-raise for animals.”

That’s a complete short story right there, but Sandi does care — a lot — about the scholarship she and Ralph set up at the University, years ago now.

The Ralph and Sandra Richardson Miller Endowed Scholarship. It supports students born overseas, or whose parents were. “Every October,” she says, “we’ll have 20, 25 students out here to dinner. We get to meet them.

Their stories resonate with Ralph,” she says, “and his with them. Students graduate and write to us.” Sandi pops up and away and returns with a fat album of photos and letters. She begins flipping pages. “This Vietnamese girl is in medical school at UCLA. This one is a CPA. It’s like having a bunch of children... (beat) ...only better.” She points to the photo of a boy on crutches, wearing a neck brace.

“Kalen Tse was born in China. After dinner one night, the others left and Spring 2013 47

Kalen was still talking to us. He’s the nicest boy, brilliant. I better call my dad, he said. Ralph said we could drive him back. No, thank you, Kalen said.

His father brought him and had waited in the parking lot all through dinner!

We got his father to the dinner next year. We learned that he swam — swam — from the mainland to Hong Kong to reach freedom. He came to America and did well, and he and his wife adopted children from China.

At the orphanage they saw this child who had a crooked spine, or for some reason couldn’t walk. Nobody was going to take that little boy. That’s why this couple took him.”

And she cares about animals. Yes, she does. Her overriding philanthropic passion is for the health and safety of animals. At the Oregon Humane Society and the Humane Society for Southwest Washington, she boosted outreach programs for spaying and neutering as alternatives to euthanasia.

Passion is not too strong a word for this. Her shoulders straighten and her eyes light up when she talks about the Free Surgical Clinic, a mobile unit for spay and neuter. “Look at the zip codes. Most abandoned animals come from neighborhoods where people earn less, or are from a different culture and don’t understand. We spay and neuter animals there for free. Education has a lot to do with it. I have a tiny foundation that coordinates many groups — Furry Friends, the Feral

The University’s current Ralph and Sandi Miller Scholars, left to right: O Catedrilla, from the Philippines, who vividly remembers receiving her U.S. passport for the first time as a child; Daphne Baracena, from the Philippines, who became an American citizen as a child in Guam; Melody Kidd, from the Philippines, who received her citizenship the same day as her mom; Bamirse Papraniku, from Macedonia, whose dad earned political asylum

and brought his family to Alaska; Michaela Mareva, who moved from her native Bulgaria to America at age 8; Charmaine Wan, from Hong Kong, who earned her citizenship in Hawaii; Bianca Singh, from Canada, who received her American citizenship last year in large part so she could vote and join the Peace Corps; and Ashley Tiongson, from the Philippines, who achieved citizenship in Florida.

Below, His Affableness Ralph Miller; above, some of the University’s new riverfront land, which we would not have without Ralph’s calm hand on the steering wheel.

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Cat Coalition — for spaying and neutering.” Does Sandi care about animals?

Oh, yes. Yes, she does.

Ralph already was a seasoned international businessman when he attended Harvard’s nine-week Graduate School of Business Executive Education Program, but he learned and he loved to learn. “We did case studies,” he says.

“Bright people can have different approaches to problems. Pick from the best ideas. The cases were about morality and ethics, not just finances.

Say an executive of yours is kidnapped in Argentina by guerillas demanding ransom, and the government there will bar any company that pays ransom from ever again doing business in the country. What to do? O.K., now what if the executive is your son? Does that change it? A fellow from Brooklyn spoke up forcefully. He said, It does not matter, in any case, what’s right for the company or for yourself. Do what’s right in the eyes of God. I’d never heard it spoken that way. I never forgot that.”

Not that Ralph or anyone can know the mind of God. It’s about listening.

It’s about hearing other smart people think through problems through from all angles. It’s a faith in education, ignited long ago by his parents and still burning strong.

But here’s a question: why should Sandi, who grew up relatively untouched by religion, and Ralph, unshakably Jewish, be so closely allied with a Catholic university? Why are Ralph and Sandi so thoroughly committed to the U of P? “Because Ralph is a believer,” says Father Bill Beauchamp, the University’s president. “Because he believes in our mission. As simple and telling as that.” Teaching, Faith, Service, say the University’s flags, the University’s tenets, and Ralph would fly those same flags, adding only Enterprise.

“Faith is a way of living your beliefs,” he says, “and service is a way of life.”

And has he served! The Oregon State Fair Commission and the Portland Model City Program. Bob Straub’s campaign for Governor. Multnomah County and the State of Oregon. Of most organizations he supports, Ralph ends up treasurer. And to so many he and Sandi give money. Why are we giving away so much money?, Sandi asked, early in their marriage.

Because we can, was Ralph’s short answer. It’s how he was raised. The rabbi came around with a pushka.

Charity is fundamental to Judaism and Christianity alike, and even to capitalism, according to Ralph, the arch capitalist. “Nobody, no matter

how well off, did it all by himself.

Where would I be without the Hebrew Immigration Aid Society, or without public schools and a society of laws?

Pay it forward. That’s what makes a civilization. Especially here.”

For all the generosity Ralph and Sandi have slathered on the University, for all the young men and women elevated by their scholarship, Ralph’s most enduring legacy is a stretch of land that will not be fully developed for many years: the University’s riverfront campus, 35 acres (eventually nearly 80) north of the bluff along the Willamette River.

A stretch of waterfront rich with possibility. It could host ball fields.

Green trails. Salmon restoration projects. A boathouse. Parking, down there, could free up land on the upper campus to better purpose than housing cars. The University had eyed this property for fifty years before it came up for sale in 2005. Here was a project that Ralph, uniquely, could sink his teeth into. Acquisition and merger, to him, is meat to a cougar.

But wait. Could the meat be tainted?

The property had been zoned industrial use. Willamette Western, a marine construction company, operated here until bankruptcy in the 1990s.

Twenty-five years ago you’d have seen barges and cranes and maintenance sheds down there. Jay Zidell bought the land out of receivership and put it up for sale in 2005. “You have to be sure what’s there,” Ralph says.

“We’re going to have students there, and parents don’t pay tuition for environmental remediation.”

“Ralph had experience with business on the river,” says Father Beauchamp.

“He knew the Zidells. He asked the tough questions. He slowed us down.

You’d assume, maybe, that he’s not supportive. But he was just making sure we took care of things. Ralph listens carefully. He deliberates.”

Ralph was slow to speak up?

“Oh, no,” says Father Bill with a tight smile. “No, no. Ralph spoke up.

Believe me.”

“The board of regents had always been enthusiastic,” says Ralph, “but they thought we could wrap this up in twelve months. They’d never been through a regulatory process. I had.

You have the EPA, DEQ, the local tribal people, the neighborhood association. You can’t count on the EPA answering a letter in twelve months.

This project would have a 100-year payoff. So what if it takes us ten years to wrap up? A team of us went up to the EPA in Seattle and met with senior people. At first it was confrontaSpring 2013 51

tional. You can’t do this. You can’t do that. They’re used to fighting guys like me in the business world. I said to them, I thought our job here was to figure out how to do it right. We’re not fighting you. We’re not GE. This is for young people! I gave them the old schmaltz. You, I said, have a lifechanging chance here! You have a chance here to do something extraordinary!

“And they were wonderful. They bought into it. They laid out the path of what we’d have to do to make the land useable. And from there we began testing. What’s there, and where? We found hydrocarbons, all right, and the leftovers from sand blasting, but nothing of major concern. Nothing we can’t correct. Overall it will cost less than four million to make the site ready. We’ll raise some low-lying spots to get solid foundations, and we’re well on the way to get EPA’s seal of approval. Maybe a year from now.”

The Board of Regents approved the purchase. Then Father Tom Doyle rose, and with solemn and appropriate and entertaining ceremony, presented Ralph with a test tube of dirt from the new land.

Ralph beams at the memory, but he’s not much for trophies. “I have it around here somewhere...” He has not framed and mounted the dollar they paid him for teaching mergers and acquisitions, either. And no photos remind him of Wolfgang Müller’s lousy opening hand in life, or of tough times at Miller’s Midget Market in Portland.

His great good fortune was those decent hard-working parents, he thinks, and his job is to pay forward, not look back.

Very seldom does the University of Portland award an honorary degree to a regent. That would seem...unseemly.

Self-congratulatory. But in 2009 the University draped an honorary doctoral hood on Ralph Miller, nee Wolfgang Müller. The citation reads, in part, “...and for his diligence, intelligence, will and calm creativity for engineering the purchase of...” Calm? They gave him the old schmaltz, they did, and it worked.

“I opened that letter,” Ralph says, “and just sat there, stunned.” He wipes at his eyes. “I couldn’t believe they would do that. I thought,” he says, “if only my parents could be alive to see this...” n Robin Cody, winner of the Oregon Book Award for his classic Voyage of a Summer Sun, is also the author of a novel, Ricochet River, and an essay collection, Another Way the River Has.

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Ring

Baseball, freedom, tears: a note.

By Chris Sperry ’89

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he American college tradition of the class ring began in earnest at American service academies nearly 200 years ago. The United States Military Academy was the first to honor its graduates with a class ring in 1835; the Air Force Academy is the only service academy to have done so for every graduating class since its founding in 1859. In the original concept, the class ring commemorated stellar achievement, and was not intended for everyone. Yet today, in a culture where every Little Leaguer gets a trophy, the class ring has worked its way down to every high school in America, and is available to anyone who can fill out the order form.

To me, though, The Ring still says something of courage, and commitment, and incredible accomplishment.

I wear one ring: the wedding ring that my wife put on my finger 21 years ago, a ring that says something powerful to me of love and commitment and faith. I hope to wear another: a baseball championship ring, something I’ve been pursuing my whole life and never won yet, although I am determined to win a championship for our Pilot baseball program. I dream of the day when I share that achievement with our coaches and players, past and present, who played a role in making the dream a reality. And with all of the obstacles that any team must overcome to achieve such a goal, when that happens for the Pilots, you can bet there will be rings for us. Perhaps our ring will look like the one my pitching coach, Larry Casian, sports on special occasions, which commemorates his role on the pitching staff of the 1991 World Series Champion Minnesota Twins. Or one of the five championship rings that my best friend Hank Jones has earned so far during his 37 years with the Los Angeles Dodgers.

But the ring I will never wear is the one I have been thinking about this week, just after our baseball team played the United States Air Force Academy. Three months earlier, the coaching staff at the Academy called inquiring about my interest in having a flyover by a military aircraft of some type, if it could be arranged. I was thrilled, but was forced to wait until the days leading up to the game to learn if the formal request had cleared the Pentagon. It did, and we were told to anticipate two F-15 fighters flying over The Etz at 1400 feet.

I asked my friend Carvel Cook, who manages the grounds on campus, to throw out the first pitch of the series.

Carvel does not wear The Ring; he is not the product of any service academy, though his training was more dangerous and demanding than anything I will ever be faced with. Drafted in 1969, Carvel was sent to Vietnam, and he can tell you, bluntly, what it’s like to stare down the wrong end of an AK-47 as a member of C-Company, 4th Battalion, 23rd Infantry, 25th Infantry Division, United States Army. His training came from Viet Cong soldiers trying to kill him every day for two years.

My buddy Mike Kranyak, who is the lead public safety sergeant on campus, doesn’t wear The Ring either.

He enlisted in the Marines in 1983 and stayed until 1991, serving in covert overseas operations. When he left the Marines he joined a New York state fire department and was dispatched to Manhattan on September 11, 2001, because murderers had attacked the World Trade Center.

When I meet people like Carvel Cook, and Mike Kranyak, and Academy baseball coach and C-17 pilot Major Mike Kazlausky, I am humbled beyond words. I feel selfish. I feel that I have not done anything to deserve the life of freedom I’ve led.

Winning and losing baseball games — something I fret over most of the year — seems childish and pointless compared to the dangers faced by the men and women who fight for my opportunity to worry about such trivial things. After all, when my team has a bad day we regroup, maybe practice a little harder, and get ready for our next game. When military personnel has a bad day, their children are orphaned.

As a kid growing up in Washington state, I dreamed of playing professional baseball. I pursued that dream.

I graduated from the University of Portland and signed with the Los Angeles Dodgers. Ultimately I fell well short of a big league career because Portland 52

I wasn’t good enough, but today I coach the game I love. I am a lucky man, lucky beyond words; but I am luckier still, because that woman gave me a ring, and because I am an American, and people like Carvel Cook and Mike Kranyak and Mike Kazlausky stood up for my freedom, and the freedom of the boys in my dugout, and the freedom of every American who reads these words.

So I cried, when the Air Force team, standing straight and proud in front of their dugout, was called to attention

by Major Kazlausky, and every player saluted my friend Sergeant Carvel Cook, after he had thrown a ball just a bit low to our catcher, Ben Grubb.

And I cried, when Carvel stood by me and my players and coaches, and Major Kazlausky called his team to attention again, and commanded them to present arms, and they saluted the American flag, and my team held their caps over our hearts, and the Star Spangled Banner began.

And then we waited for the F-15s.

We didn’t wait because the jets were late. They weren’t. We waited because in our best civilian efforts to time a few things correctly on the ground, we were early.

Both teams and the generous crowd stayed on their feet.

Five seconds.

Ten seconds.

Fifteen seconds.

Perhaps thirty seconds passed before the roar of the powerful F-15 engines was heard faintly in the distance, and finally we spotted them, beyond in center field, two small gray birds soaring through the beautiful blue sky.

I watched in amazement as the two pilots flew over at 1,000 feet and 300 miles per hour at exactly 1400 hours, on a direct line from second base to home plate.

I cried, behind my sunglasses.

The jets passed over the stadium and then gained altitude and split apart like a leather flight jacket being unzipped.

I cried behind my sunglasses for the first three outs of the game. We won the game 1-0 on a tremendous pitching performances by senior Kyle Kraus, who went eight strong innings, righty Owen Jones earning the save.

In the days following the game I tried to figure out why I cried so hard.

Part of it, I think, was knowing full well that the pilots never made a single practice run to familiarize themselves with our campus, yet on the day they were sent to us, at the command of 142nd Fighter Wing Vice Commander Colonel Rick Wedan, father of University student Autumn Wedan,

I was not kidding when I say I dream of that ring.

But then I remembered my cousin, Colonel Rick Odegard. He wears The Ring. He flew an F-15 for 29 years, spurning an opportunity to become an Air Force general in favor of remaining in the cockpit, where he trained for and taught air-to-air combat. He may have logged more hours in an F-15 than any other pilot in American history. He once had both hips replaced and returned to the air three months after surgery. In twenty-nine years he was never deployed into combat.

He spent his whole career honing combat skills, only to get rained out.

He regrets that he never got to fight for freedom. In spite of the very real danger that he would be killed, he wanted to fight for his country.

Such is the mindset of a man who wears The Ring.

When the local media announced that the Air Force was conducting a flyover at the University of Portland

prior to the series opener with the Academy, a few disgruntled neighbors said publicly that such an event was a waste of taxpayer dollars. Not me.

I can think of a lot of areas where I detest having my hard-earned tax dollars spent, but any kind of training flight for the pilots who protect our freedom is not one of them. It seems to me that people who complain about the people who risk death to preserve our freedom are not people who will ever wear The Ring. n Chris Sperry ’89, who earned his 300th win as Pilot baseball coach this past season and is now second all-time on The Bluff behind only Joe Etzel, wrote about the late campus legend Mauro Potestio in the Summer 2011 issue. His Pilot baseballers finish their season in May; see portlandpilots.com. And the Rise Campaign is set on upgrading Etzel Field for Chris and his charges; call Colin McGinty at 503.943.8005 to see plans and to help out.

PHOTO COURTESY OF JAMIE FRANCIS, THE OREGONIAN

these two young American pilots executed their flight plan absolutely perfectly, going over the field at 1,000 feet, at 300 miles per hour, at exactly 1400 hours. That’s incredible. And I don’t know who they are. So many brave incredible people in this country — people I don’t even know — are willing to risk their lives to protect my freedom, and preserve the right of my players and my children and everyone else in this country to do anything in life they set their minds to, practice any religion, marry anyone you love, speak your mind, go to school, create a life. At the risk of orphaning their own children, these brave and courageous people protect our freedom.

We won the first three games of the series, but the fourth game was rained out. We were playing well and were disappointed we were robbed of an opportunity to sweep. I was more disappointed than anyone, perhaps; I am the coach, these are my boys, and I want that Pilot championship ring.

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REUNION 2013 SAVE THE DATE: JUNE 27-30 Save the date to join us back on The Bluff next summer at Reunion 2013. We’ll celebrate the 50th anniversary of the School of Education, and cheer the Golden Anniversary of the Class of 1963 and the Silver Anniversary of the Class of 1988. You may even want to stretch your legs so that you can compete in the inaugural Reunion 5K race around campus with cross country team alumni. Watch your mailbox in the spring for a detailed schedule of events, and visit the Reunion 2013 website at alumni.up.edu/reunion.

ALUMNI AWARDS, STATE OF UP LUNCHEON Seating is limited at our annual State of the University and Alumni Awards luncheon so mark your calendars for Tuesday, March 19, and plan to join us at noon at the Multnomah Athletic Club in downtown Portland. University president Rev. E. William Beauchamp, C.S.C., will deliver his annual state of the University address and will also honor the three 2012 Alumni Award winners and recognize the student recipient of this year’s Gerhardt Award. Watch for your invitation in the mail this spring.

SEATTLE PRESIDENTIAL RECEPTION: MARCH 21 Mark your calendars for Thursday, March 21 and plan to join us at 6:30 p.m. at the

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Starbucks World Headquarters in Seattle. University president Rev. E. William Beauchamp, C.S.C., will be on hand to discuss the current state of the University and take full measure of one of the finest Catholic universities in the West. Seattle-area alumni should watch for invitations in the mail this spring.

NATIONAL SERVICE DAYS FOR SPRING 2013 Please consider giving a little of your time to the University’s National Alumni Day of Service—you may change a life. Join fellow Pilots and their families and friends across the country to donate time and energy to various charitable causes. Each alumni chapter organizes a different volunteer activity.

Watch your mailbox or check the alumni website at alumni.up.edu, or call 888.UP. ALUMS (888.872.5867) for more information.

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BREW IT UP: THE ART OF HOMEBREW Join University of Portland alumnus and brew master Chris Oslin ’81 as we give you the history of brewing and present a hands-on introduction to the fine art of zymurgy.

In this two-part class, you will brew your own beer, learn to refine the developing flavors, and take home your class “final” to enjoy! Part one of Brew it UP will take place on May 18, and part two will be on June 8. Cost is $30 per person and includes the cost of supplies and lunch. For more information contact us at alumni@up.edu or 888.UP. ALUMS (888.872.5867).

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Columbia Prep All Class Reunion in April 2013.

Reunion begins at 10:30 a.m. with a Mass in the Chapel of Christ the Teacher followed by brunch in the Bauccio Commons board room. The cost is $15. All Preppers are welcome to rekindle old friendships and raise a toast to the Men of Columbia. For more information or to RSVP, contact us at alumni@up.edu or 888.UP. ALUMS (888.872.5867).

HOLLOWAY TO DISCUSS CRAFT BEER INDUSTRY Join Professor Sam Holloway of the Pamplin School of Business Administration for a rousing interactive discussion about the state of the business of craft brewing on Saturday, April 13, 1 p.m. at Hale's Ales Brew Pub in Seattle. For more information or to RSVP, contact alumni relations at alumni@up.edu or 888.UP.ALUMS (888.872.5867).

TRIVIA NIGHT PUB QUIZ ON UP CAMPUS

CHEF’S TABLE SET FOR APRIL 20, APRIL 27 Do you love fine food and wine? Do you enjoy finding the most exceptional and exciting new gourmet location?

Then plan to attend our Chef’s Table dinners on April 20 and April 27. Bon Appétit general manager Kirk Mustain and his chefs will select a delightful menu and prepare eight to ten mini plate courses for you, accompanied with wine pairings, all prepared before your eyes as you enjoy the show from the inner workings of the kitchen in the Bauccio Commons. The Chef’s Table dinner is delicious and unique each time it is offered. Cost is $75 per person.

For more information contact us at alumni@up.edu or 888.UP.ALUMS (888.872.5867).

Get a team of up to 10 people together for a night of trivial fun at the Pilot House on Saturday, May 18. We’ll throw in some UP trivia, video questions, worksheets, and even some math and science.

Teams are welcome to bring snacks and non-alcoholic drinks. A dessert buffet is included with the entry fee and a wine and beer cash bar will be available. For more information contact us at alumni@up.edu or 888.UP.ALUMS (888.872.5867).

MEN OF COLUMBIA PREP RETURN TO CAMPUS Please plan to share memories and renew friendships when you return to campus for the

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CULINARY, CULTURAL TOUR OF CHICAGO Join Kirk Mustain, general manager of Bon Appétit at the University, for a series of lunches, happy hours, and dinners at some of the most exciting restaurants in the great dining city of Chicago, including Avec, Purple Pig, Blackbird, Sepia, Bistro 110, Bartoma, Lou Malnati’s, and others, October 16-18.

Optional alumni day trip offerings will include a visit to the Art Institute of Chicago, the Shedd Aquarium, and an architectural cruise up the Chicago River. Packages are available for both out-of-towners and local Chicago-area alumni and friends. For more information contact the alumni relations office at alumni@up.edu or 888.UP.ALUMS (888.872.5867).

C L A S S We never ever take the astonishing lives and feats of our alumni for granted, never, not for a day, but every once in a while you have to just gape at someone’s energy over the long haul. Bobby Glennen, for instance (pictured at left). Graduates in 1955, immediately earns master’s in education while coaching the Pilot baseball team (!). The youngest coach in the history of the NCAA at that time, Bob led his men to two NCAA tournaments, earned coach of the year honors, and then achieved the highest of honors, marrying Mary O’Brien ’57. Then a doctorate from Notre Dame and nearly fifty years in college administration (Montana State, Notre Dame, UNLV, Colorado State, Western New Mexico, Emporia State, the last two schools as president). Eight holy children. Created the National Teachers Hall of Fame, in Kansas. Named University’s Distinguished Alumnus in 1993, elected to University’s Athletic Hall of Fame in 1995. Whew. Robert, from the University’s far-flung community in toto, congrats, thanks, prayers.

FIFTY YEAR CLUB Lewis Buckley ’37 was featured in an article, “Birthday party planned as Ruch Park patron family’s patriarch approaches century mark,” by Edith Decker in the Daily Courier of Grants Pass, Ore., on November 23, 2012. Lewis is a third generation member of the family which settled in the Applegate Valley in 1854. A World War II veteran, Lewis served in Morocco, Italy, and France in an engineering battalion. Upon his return to civilian life he ran the family farm near Ruch, Oregon, until his retirement in the late 1970s. His wife passed away in 2000, and his family, including son Jim Buckley and daughter Mary Mikkelsen, six grandchildren, nine greatgrandchildren, and one greatgreat-grandchild, celebrated Lewis’ 100th birthday with a party on December 2 in Dexter, near Eugene, at St. Henry’s Catholic Church parish hall.

Happy birthday from everyone here on The Bluff.

Robert “Bob” Leipzig ’41 CP ’47 UP passed away on December 8, 2012. He started his college

education on The Bluff in 1942 but in 1943 he joined the Navy and served his country in the Pacific Theater in World War II. He married the love of his life, Jo Ann Allen, in 1946, he at 23 and she at 20. With a small army of eight children, the Leipzigs were founding members of St. John Fisher Parish in SW Portland, sending all eight to St. John Fisher grade school and then populating Portland-area Catholic high schools with generations of Leipzigs. Bob worked for Tektronix for 26 years, retiring as chief accountant. He served those in need by volunteering

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N O T E S with St. Vincent de Paul for over 35 years. Survivors include Jo, his wife of 66 years; children, Kurt, Mark, Karey Manley, Rick ’77, Tim, Jody Gordon, Frank ’83, and Rob ’88; 16 grandchildren; and nine great-grandchildren, at last count one on the way; and his sister Genevieve. In lieu of flowers, please contribute to St. Vincent de Paul. Our prayers and condolences to the family.

Joseph D. Fulop ’45 passed away on October 27, 2012, with his family at his side, at his home in Gearhart, Oregon, just shy of his 86th birthday.

Joe was born in Portland to

Joseph Fulop and Adrienne Shemanski Fulop, and was the grandson of philanthropist Joseph Shemanski. He attended the Gabel Country Day School, Columbia Prep, and Gonzaga University. In 1956 he married Marilyn Bernstein Hail in Las Vegas, Nevada. He owned and operated many businesses, including Equitable Finance, the City Center Motel in Seaside, and Travel Counselors in Portland and Vancouver. Survivors include his wife of 56 years, Marilyn; daughters, Gretchen Darnell of Seaside, and Sally Luciak (Waide) of Vancouver, BC; six grandchildren, Adrienne and Lauren Darnell, Lindsey Alldrin, Joseph, Stephen and Rachael Luciak; one greatgrandchild, Joseph Alldrin; and his beloved dog Russell.

He will be remembered for his kindness, and his infectious laugh. Our prayers and condolences to the family.

Lester P. Ludviksen ’48 passed away on January 5, 2013 at the Longview Hospice Care Center. He was born on Jan. 20, 1920 to John and Helen (Brein) Ludviksen in Silverton, Ore. He joined the Oregon National Guard Reserves while attending college and served in the South Pacific during World War II. While attending the University, he met Josephine Spadazzi. They married in June 1949. “My

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dad passed away two weeks shy of his 93rd birthday,” writes his daughter, Kathryn ’78. “He graduated from UP in 1948 on the day of the Vanport Flood and then worked for JC Penney Co. in various positions in many stores in the Pacific Northwest. He retired as manager of the Chehalis, Washington store in 1980.”

Survivors include his wife of 64 years, Josephine; daughter, Kathryn ’78; brothers, Allen (Portland) and Stanley (LaGrande); and two sisters, Bernice Hodge (Portland) and Joyce Hansen (Vancouver).

Our prayers and condolences to the family.

Anthony John Arjavac ’49, ’54 passed away on December 4, 2012, at the age of 95. He was a World War II veteran, fighting in four major battles in the South Pacific; he was awarded the Bronze Star by President Franklin Roosevelt in 1944 for rescuing a wounded soldier during the Battle of Kwajalein.

Through the efforts of Senator Ron Wyden, Tony was awarded all of his many earned medals in January 2007. He spent his civilian career following the war as a teacher for Portland Public Schools. Survivors include his wife of 67 years, Marietta; son, Charles “Chuck” Arjavac, daughter-inlaw Jennifer Schwartz; and grandson, Vaughn. Our prayers and condolences to the family.

Aleck A. Prihar ’49, USAF Ret., passed away on January 17, 2013, surrounded in love by family. He graduated from Moorhead High School and served in the U.S. Army in World War II. In 1943 he married Mary Edra, his classmate from Moorhead. After the war ended, he left the Army to attend the University of Portland, graduating with honors in 1949. He was called up to serve in the Korean War and decided to join the Air Force and become a career military man. He retired as a major after 23 years and the family moved back to Portland. He worked as a finance manager for the City of Portland for 10 years before retiring for a second time. He then went on to build houses for several years before getting the hang of “this retirement thing.” Aleck and Mary Edra were married for 65 years before her death in 2008. They raised two daughers, traveled the world together and built their dream house near Skyline Blvd. where they lived happily for 35 years.

Aleck was a proud member of the Royal Rosarians for 37 years and enjoyed the compa-

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C L A S S ny of his friends in the Rosarians, marching in the Rose Festival parades and traveling with them representing the city of Portland. Aleck was also proud of his association with the University of Portland and delighted in the members of his family who graduated from or are currently attending the University (daugher, son-in-law, grandson, great-niece, and greatnephews). Aleck is survived by his children, Doody (Daryl) Boliba and Bird (Steve) Marglowski; his sister, Rose Prihar; sister-in-law, Valeria Prior; grandchildren, Kyle and Kendall Boliba; and numerous nieces, nephews and greatnieces and nephews. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made in his name to the University of Portland. Our prayers and condolences to the family.

Prayers, please, for Rose Marie (Sturza) Buscho ’50 and her family on the death of her husband, Robert W. Buscho, on October 8, 2013, at the age of 87. Survivor also include sons, Robert and Michael ’83; daughter, Annette Pritchard; and seven grandchildren. Our prayers and condolences to the family.

Ray Speier Hausler ’52 passed away on October 15, 2012, of complications due to diabetes and cancer. A native Oregonian, Ray attended Columbia Prep, Stanford University,

University of Santa Clara, and the Haas School of Business, UC Berkeley. He was a senior audit manager for the General Accounting Office in Portland, Seattle, and Washington D.C., and worked extensively on the Pacific NW Power Act, the Regional Power Planning Council, and the Bonneville Power Administration. Survivors include his wife of 44 years, Virginia; his three children, Victoria, Stephanie, and Graham; and seven grandchildren. Our prayers and condolences to the family.

Peter J. Sugura ’52 passed away on October 31, 2012 at the age of 84. He retired as an advertising salesman for Pacific NW Bell and moved to

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During Reunion 2012, members of Upsilon Omega Pi, founded in 1951 as the University’s spirit fraternity, celebrated a milestone by successfully raising $25,000 to secure and fully fund an endowed student scholarship in the fraternity’s name (they gathered to present the check in the Pilot House, above). Funds from the Upsilon Scholarship will support students in the University’s Entrepreneur Scholars (E-Scholars) Program. Even though Upsilon disbanded in the late 1990s, members covering many generations continue to meet for annual reunions. Those members heard the rallying cry from Jim Berchtold ’63, who started the fund more than ten years ago. Many Upsilon members contributed to the scholarship over the years, hoping to provide a lasting legacy for the fraternity which served as caretaker of the original Wally Pilot mascot for decades. Upsilon’s creed has always been “Unity, Loyalty & Brotherhood.” Our thanks go out to Upsilon Omega Pi for acting on their creed in such generous fashion.

Tigard. Survivors include his children, Joanne, Sam, and Joe Sugura; as well as his sisters, Elizabeth Sugura and Dorothy Sinovic. He loved his grandchildren, Sam, Peter, Katherine and Margaret Sugura deeply. Our prayers and condolences to the family.

Dorothy Mae (Scheel) Dragoo ’53 passed away on January 9, 2013, in Beaverton, Ore., after an extended illness. Dorothy was born in Portland at St. Vincent Hospital. She graduated from St. Mary's Academy and received a B.S. in nursing from the University of Portland in 1953. She earned her M.S. in nursing from OHSU in 1966. She spent her entire career working as a nurse in the operating room at St. Vincent Hospital, retiring in 1996.

After retiring, she volunteered with the FISH program, the SMART reading program, and she volunteered at the Elsie Stuhr Center in Beaverton and the SHIBA program for seniors. She loved live theater, Portland Trailblazer games, and the original Timbers soc-

cer team.Survivors include her sons, John Marcus of Beaverton and James Brian of Gresham. In lieu of flowers, contributions can be made to St. Mary's Academy, University of Portland School of Nursing or Providence St. Vincent Hospice. Our prayers and condolences to the family.

Ole J. Lilleoren ’55 (pictured below on the left with a friend by the cannons on The Bluff) passed away on November 6, 2012. after a short struggle

with brain cancer. He is survived by his wife, Karen;

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daughters, Sherri Woods and Vicki Zahler; five grandchildren; two great-grandchildren; nephew, Kim Sullivan; greatnieces and nephews; and four stepchildren and grandchildren. Ole and his wife, Joanne, owned 11 Kentucky Fried Chicken (KFC) franchises and The Old Homestead Market. According to his obituary, “He was a loving, wonderful man never to be replaced.” Our prayers and condolences to the family.

Marilyn (Winslow) Sarsfield ’56 passed away on October 11, 2012. While in college, Marilyn met Anthony Sarsfield ’55 and they married on August 11, 1956 just two weeks before she started her first teaching job in Wishram. She taught in Goldendale and then in Centerville from 1967 until 1972, and continued to substitute teach until Centerville School instituted a kindergarten in 1982, when she returned to teaching full time until her retirement in 1998. She passed away with her dog, Cookie, as the result of a single car ac-

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N O T E S 1968 and had grown from an office of four to over thirty people when Joe retired in 2007. Survivors include his wife of 43 years, Barbara Carey; his daughter, Tricia

We heard recently from Mike Olson 72, who writes: “I’m sure the mystery photo from fall 2012 has long been solved. My brother Jerry ’74 who lives in Portland received his copy of the magazine and called to alert me about the Jim Grelle article since we were both on the track team in the early 1970s. I just received my copy today and confirmed Jerry’s suspicion that it was Kent Nedderman. In fact the image was from a slide I scanned for a classmate, Diana Foran ’72. Attached is a photo of the 1969 track team. Kent is in the last row on the left next to Coach Grelle.”

Thanks Mike, seeing is believing, that’s for sure. cident in Centerville at the age of 78. She will be missed by her husband, Tony of Centerville; daughter and son-inlaw, Christine and Kevin Seed and grandson Patrick of Portland; son and daughter-in-law, George and Laurie Sarsfield; and grandchildren, Tanner and Ashlan of Kaiser; and

brother and sister-in-law, George and Carolyn Winslow of Portland. She was preceded in death by grandchildren, Shaina Sarsfield and Paul Seed. Our prayers and condolences to the family.

Joseph Carey ’58 of Lake Oswego, Ore., passed away on April 3, 2012. Joe was born inNew York City, the third of four children of Joe and Mary Carey. He served in the U.S. Army, earning an honorable

discharge in 1953. In 1960, he joined Timothy Maginnis, CPA, who was one of his teachers at the University of Portland. The firm of Maginnis & Carey was established in

Carey; his sister, Patricia McCreary; numerous nieces and nephews; and many friends and admirers. Remembrances in Joe’s honor may be made to Rotary International, the University of Portland, or Oregon Episcopal School. Our prayers and condolences to the family.

Doreen Voeller Irwin ’61 writes: “I haven’t written in for a long time. I graduated in 1961 with a bachelor’s degree in music education, and in 1962 received a master’s degree in the same field. I thought you might enjoy the enclosed article about my endeavors since that time.”

Thanks so much for writing, Doreen, and we did enjoy reading about you in the May 2012 edition of The Valley Equestrian, in the cover story no less. To bring our readers up to date: the article, “From North Dakota to Carnegie Hall: A CA Woman’s Passion for Horses, Art, and Music” de-

tails Doreen’s lifetime love of horses, drawing, painting, and music, all three of which she has done professionally and, we might add, quite successfully. Among her current pursuits: Doreen owns a 40-acre boarding ranch in Everta, California, and also directs a college choir for Sacramento City College. “Doreen Irwin has taken her college choir to 17 different countries, including several in Europe and South America, as well as Australia,” the article concludes. “She will be directing her choir at Carnegie Hall on May 27, 2012.” Congratulations Doreen, and thanks again for sharing.

’63 SAD NEWS Marlene Rose Norquist Brady passed away on November 9, 2012. She earned a master’s degree in library science from the University of Portland.

She married Lemonyne Brady in 1954; he passed away in 1999. Also in 1954, she began teaching at Molalla High School and retired from there in 1990. Survivors include her daughter, Melanie Shadoan; a son, Randall; two grandchildren, Adam Shadoan and Nicole Duffy; three greatgrandchildren, Charyish, Harmony and Korin Duffy; and Susan and Gerald Rowlett, whom she considered her foster children. Please visit Marlene’s online memorial at www.hillsidechapelfh.com to leave a memory for the family and view her complete life story. Our prayers and condolences to the family.

The Buchholz Family Funds Committee — the folks who stepped up to help Herm ’64 and Joena ’67 Buchholz when Joena was socked by illness in Germany. Left to right: Jim Currier ’65, Skip Roberts ’67, John Lee ’64 (behind), Bob Hennessy, Ron Desrosiers ’64, Bill Scheeland, Herm and Joena Buchholz, Doug Edwards ’67, Mary Jo Foley ’64, Gwen Edwards ’67, Mike Kane ’64, and Jane Kane ’67. Missing members are Bud Abraham ’62, Pat McCormick, and Jim Berchtold ’63. For Joena’s story, see page 42.

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C L A S S ’68 THE GREAT COMMUNICATOR

J. Dan Rothwell was honored during the annual National Communication Association conference in New Orleans in November 2012. He was named Community College Outstanding Educator, and donated his $300 cash prize to the Cabrillo College Foundation. The good Dr. Rothwell serves as department chair for the communication studies department at Cabrillo College in Aptos, California, and apparently he is doing a fine job—his department won the 2012 Model Communication Program Award from the Western States Communication Association, to be awarded at their conference in February 2013. Dan amassed an impressive number of accolades during his days on The Bluff, including the 1968 UP Communication Award for Communicator of the Year.

’75 PRAYERS, PLEASE Toni Christine Painter passed away on October 22, 2012, with her family by her side.

Toni left her family and

friends with a spirit for living that will not be forgotten. Toni grew up in Woodburn where, as a lifeguard at the local swimming pool, she began a life of teaching and guiding youth. She taught in Redmond, California, Colorado, and the greater Portland area.

Toni began working for the Beaverton School District in 1985, where she served as a principal at Hazeldale Elementary and Whitford Middle Schools before retiring in 1998. Recently Toni spent three months in Green Valley, Ariz., where she discovered a new passion in the work of the Samaritans, a humanitarian group that works to educate others about migrant issues. Toni hoped to continue volunteering with the Samaritans this winter, but was diagnosed last spring with an aggressive brain tumor. Toni displayed courage and grace throughout this period as she taught her family and friends not only how to live, but how

to die. Survivors include her partner, June Newton; sister, Mary Painter; brother-in-law, Chuck Smith; and stepsister and stepbrother, Judie Reed Wilgress and Dwain “Joe” Reed.

Our prayers and condolences to the family.

Prayers, please, for David Ryan on the death of his beloved wife, Melanie J. Ryan, at their home in Lakewood, Wash., after a short but courageous bout with cancer, on October 29, 2012. Those who loved her can take comfort in the fact that she was able to celebrate her 40th anniversary. Survivors also include their son, Matthew Ryan and his wife, Rebecca of Seattle; daughter, Ashley Rose Ryan of Seattle; and brother, Timothy John Speirs of Portland.

Melanie was a life-long lover of animals and was comforted in her final days by her dogs, Vinnie, Molly and Cooper.

Our prayers and condolences to the family.

We heard recently from Peter McGoey, who let us know he was humbled and proud as all get-out to receive the California Association of Marriage and Family Therapists (CAMFT) 2011 Award for Service to the Community. According to the CAMFT, “Peter has spent over thirty years providing counseling and support to Santa Barbara’s drug and alcohol recovery community. He has worked at Santa Barbara’s Cottage Hospital and is currently the primary counselor for the Alcohol and Chemical Dependency Outpatient Program (COPE). In addition to his work in the hospital setting, Peter has trained, supervised, and mentored many of Santa Barbara’s drug and alcohol recovery counselors and licensed clinicians.” Congratulations, Peter, good work, and thanks for sharing.

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We heard recently from Justus Peacock-Broyles ’06, who writes: “Here’s a picture from my visit to Boston in September or so. We managed to get quite a few UP alumni in the shot, which should help our chances of having it featured in our award-winning Portland magazine. From L-R are Ashley Martin ’05, Justus PeacockBroyles ’06, Pat Wood ’06, Bryan Potts ’05 and Kyle Gallagher ’06. Not pictured from the game but present in spirit is Christine Montecillo ’06. The Boston Red Sox beat the Kansas City Royals in fine fashion.”

Thanks Justus, you certainly know how to tweak the odds in your favor. their three boys: Pat Jr. (Rita) of Portland, Jeffrey of Portland, and Tim of Lake Tahoe; grandson, John III (Tracy) of

’83 PRAYERS, PLEASE Prayers, please, for Mike Buscho and his family on the death of his father, Robert W. Buscho, on October 8, 2012, at the age of 87. Survivors also include his wife, Rose Marie (Sturza) Buscho ’50, son Robert; daughter, Annette Pritchard; and seven grandchildren. Our prayers and condolences to the family.

Our hearts go out to the irrepressible Tim Callicrate on the death of his mom, Mary Jean Callicrate, who passed away at home in the loving company of her family at the age of 85 on May 29, 2012. She was predeceased by her husband John Patrick Callicrate ’52 in 1997 and survivors include

Battle Ground, and greatgrandchildren Zachary, Brooke, Samantha, and Paris Jade. The Callicrate name has been associated with the Uni-

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versity from its beginnings.

“My grandfather, Dominic Callicrate, fresh off being captain of the Notre Dame undefeated football team of 1907-1908, coached football, track and field, basketball, and soccer on The Bluff,” says Tim. “His dad, Victor, was French and worked with the nuns on the farm that once was located on the campus. I just found a scythe he used and I want to donate it to the University museum. Also my cousins Pat Endicott ’64, Mary Kay (McCarthy) Callicrate ’69, and Ann Callicrate went to UP.” As this photo will attest, Mary started one of Portland’s most successful baton academies, Mary’s Cadettes, in 1956, and performed throughout the Oregon region from Rose Festival to Oregon Centennial activities. With Tim’s arrival in 1960 she started with Gordon’s Fireplace Shoppe in the new and revolutionary Lloyd Center as Gordon Malafouris’s private secretary and bookkeeper; a career she enjoyed until 1990. Our prayers and condolences to the family.

’90 ON THE STRANGE SIDE Ted Schopf was quoted in a story, “Andy and Bax on the Stranger Side of Surplus,” by

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N O T E S in the following photo. Don’t worry, no harm done.

’94 A DOCTOR IN THE HOUSE

We heard recently from Christopher Bonebrake, who writes: “I am a UP alumnus (criminal justice, 2009) and am currently serving in Afghanistan as a public affairs asset for the Oregon National Guard. Recently while on a mission in the Paktiya Province, I ran into two other UP alumni and we took a picture thinking it would be cool to have it featured in Portland magazine. From left to right are 1st Lt. Jack Fine ’09, Air Force air liaison officer; 1st Lt. Sarah Ziaja ’09, Air Force civil engineer; and myself, Sgt. Christopher Bonebrake ’09. The picture was taken on September 4, 2012, at Forward Operating Base Gardez.” Thanks for sharing Christopher, and thanks for serving. Prayers.

Eric Mortenson in the September 30, 2012 edition of the Sunday Oregonian. Ted serves as general manager of the longtime SE Portland landmark outdoor store, where he started 20 years ago. According to the story, “The store, on Southeast Grand Avenue, attracts a clientele that includes survivalists, backpackers, paintball fighters, whitewater rafters, urban anarchists, campers, and military collectors.” Suffice it to say that most days at Andy and Bax unfold like an episode of Portlandia.

on KPTV FOX 12 and KOIN 6.

You can check out a story at http://tinyurl.com/cvhwwv2.

We are helping spread the message of the dangers of distracted driving.”

’93 WELCOME, SALLY! Marc Covert and his wife Julia (Beckner) Covert ’99 welcomed Sally Olive Covert to their family on October 3, 2012. Sally joins her rambunctious big brother Oliver, who turned two on December 12, 2012. Little Sally is, of course, named after her grandmother Sally Covert ’86. All are doing fine and Sally is learning to

’91 GO AND TEXT NO MORE We head recently from Tom McCabe, who writes: “I wanted to share about my company, TextNoMore, a free mobile app that shuts down notifications on your phone when it’s activated. We are unique in that we featured missing children on our app and we reward our users with discounts and deals at local and national businesses. We have been featured on several national shows and in media outlets such at AOL, CNN, and locally

Cheryl Zawaduk writes: “I completed the Simon Fraser University Educational Leadership Doctoral program in 2011. My dissertation is titled: “It Takes a Village: Rural Nursing Preceptorship as Cultural Mediation.” Congratulations on earning your degree, Cheryl!

’97 SAD NEWS Prayers, please, for Michael Yesenofski and his family on the death of his father, Joseph Stanley Yesenofski, on October 23, 2012. Joe met his wife, Helga, while working in Germany, and they married in 1963. They moved back to the United States and eventually settled in Portland in 1978 with their two sons. His career in Oregon included working with Tektronix in Beaverton and Wilsonville, as well as private consulting. Survivors include sons, Joseph Jr. and Michael; grandchildren, Sommer and Dylan; and siblings, Mary-Ann, Nancy, Liz, Bud and Judy. Our prayers and condolences to the family.

Jamey Lynn (Bergara) Mariani passed away at her home on November 9, 2012. She worked as a nurse practitioner at Portland Providence in the emergency room, and before that served at Albany Urgent Care and in Brownville.

She was a loving mother, daughter, sister, and friend, and will be missed by all. Survivors include her daughter, Tayah Mariani; son, Luke Mariani; mother, Dianne Copeland Young; father, Raymond Bergara; sister, Karen Lukesic; and brother, Sean Bergara. Our prayers and condolences to the family.

’99 A UP DREAM TEAM

counter the well-intentioned but excruciating embraces of her big brother, as illustrated

We got a note recently from Carol McClory in the U.P. development office, who writes: “I found a notice in the 1999 University of Portland Report

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which reads like these students were UP’s first ‘dream team’ and indeed they all went on to be very successful in a short time. It read, in part: ’The School of Business’s Business Policy team took first place in their division at the International Collegiate Business Policy competition in San Jose in early April, the first time a team from the University has accomplished such a feat. Team members Chris Mallory, Dan Watson, Anna Mimnaugh, Randi Mimnaugh, Ron Sherman ’00, and Eric Johnson competed with teams from the United States, Mexico, and Canada to create a product, carry out typical business operations, and compete in business decisions.’

Chris is now a successful hedge fund advisor; Dan is the CFO at Common Sense Investment Management; Eric Johnson married Randi Mimnaugh and is now vice president for financial planning and analysis for Jive Software and recently helped orchestrate their IPO. Randi owns and manages a successful executive search company called Copia Group. Anna, and Ron is the assistant controller for emerging markets at Nike.”

Thanks Carol, sounds like we have a dream team on our hands, for sure.

’00 WHAT’S UP WITH THE LEEDYS? We heard recently from Tracy Leedy, who writes: “My husband and I are UP alumni and I am writing to see if I can have his job change published in the Portland Magazine. His name is Ben Leedy, class of 2001. Ben played soccer at the University of Portland and attended Lewis and Clark’s

Northwestern School of Law, class of 2005. He switched law firms and is currently a real estate attorney at Stoll Berne here in Portland, Oregon.

Here we are on our boys’ first day of school this year; Max is 6 and Sam is 4. Thanks so much...we are loyal readers of your wonderful magazine!”

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C L A S S Thanks so much for writing, Tracy, we’re happy to share your news with UP alumni.

’01 THE TRAVELING PT Kelsi Compton-Griffith writes: “After three years working as a pediatric physical therapist in the Phoenix area, I left Arizona to resume my PT travels.

So far, I’ve lived in Connecticut, Rhode Island, and currently I am in the Washington, DC area. My assignments vary, but I tend to stick to hospital based care (all ages) or pediatrics in any setting. I’m loving the DC area, hurricane and all. Hoping to connect with some UP alumni while I’m here.”

’02 NEWS FROM THE WEBBS Fr. John Donato, C.S.C., heard from Jason A. Webb recently, who writes: “Father John: I hope this letter finds you well.

I was compelled to write to you after reading your heartfelt and personal essay ’My Dad’ in Portland Magazine.

Your essay made me realize that you are a very integral part of our lives and I wanted to share with you how we have grown since you married Maria Papiez and I at UP in 2005. Maria graduated from the University of Nevada, Reno with a master’s in environmental science in 2007, and decided to pursue a new career path in architecture.

She completed her master’s degree in architecture in 2010 from North Carolina State University—she was the Dean’s Award recipient and was asked to serve on their faculty after graduation. She was recruited and hired by an architecture firm, BBH Design in Raleigh, North Carolina, where she has worked for the past year, and so has been splitting her time there and as an adjunct instructor at NC State. She has a passion for green building practices and has been integrating them into several new hospitals in North Carolina.

“I finished medical school at the University of Nevada in 2007, and subsequently matched in a combined residency program for internal medicine and psychiatry at Duke University Medical Center. I have been blessed to be able to heal both as an internist and as a psychiatrist.

Last year I was able to realize a life-long dream of traveling to Sub-Saharan Africa, where I discovered a passion for medical work in the developing world. I graduated from residency this past June, and have been honored to join the

faculty at Duke University as a medical instructor. I am currently serving a year as chief resident for the Duke Internal Medicine Residency Program at the Durham Veterans Affairs Medical Center. Next year I start a fellowship training at Duke in Hospice and Palliative Medicine, and will travel to Africa to serve the beautiful people of Kenya, providing end-of-life care for patients suffering from AIDs and cancer.

“Thanks again sharing your thoughts and experiences with me through your essay. I hope you are doing well back at UP, and please know that Maria and I are so thankful for you serving as our officiant in 2005, and wanted to include you in the recent successes in our lives.” Thank you Jason and Maria, we hope to hear more from you soon and would love to welcome you both back to campus. Reunion is coming up, you know.

Matthew Domingo writes: “In addition to moving the home base of my business, Farm to Fork Event Company, back to Portland, I will be assisting in the launch of a new Portland restaurant, the Raven & Rose.

You can see more at www.oregonlive.com/dining/index.ssf /2012/08/meet_raven_rose_t he_new_restau.html.” Hey, we just ran a feature on Matt (“The Food Roadie”) in the Winter 2012 Portland Magazine, which we’ve been calling “the food issue.”

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Esther Lattin ’08 just returned from three sweet wild Peace Corps service years in Malawi, during which time she built a kitchen for the local school, among many other feats. Our thanks for her sharp camera eye and large heart. you could please update your records with my new information that would be lovely.” You bet Sheena, congratulations on your marriage too.

Ashley McBride has wonderful news to share: “Seamus O’Connor ’03 and I said ’I do’

’03 BR. LEO’S UPDATE Br. Leo James Pereira, C.S.C. writes: “I earned a master of arts degree from the University of Portland in 2003. My concentration was general education. I went back to Bangladesh and served as principal of St. Joseph Higher Secondary School for seven years. I came to San Antonio, Texas, and was accepted at the University of the Incarnate Word as a doctoral student. I began my classes at Dreeben School of Education with concentration in Higher Education in 2011.

I am a Holy Cross brother and I am grateful to the University of Portland and C.S.C. for my education. I hope to come visit my alma mater UP very soon.” Thanks for writing, Br. Leo, we’d love to have you back on campus.

’04 WEDDING BELLS Sheena Barclay writes: “I got married in March of 2010 and my name has changed, it is now Sheena O’Rourke. I like to read the magazine, it still goes to my mother’s house but if

Leuw and we are currently living in Santa Cruz, California.”

Jillian McSweeney writes: “My husband and I (married just over a year ago now) have started MAET classes through Michigan State University. We will be learning about educational technology for the next two summers overseas (one down, two to go) in Ireland and wherever else Michigan State takes us! We are still teaching in Istanbul, Turkey, but look forward to the day that we return to teach in Portland (and register for classes at UofP!).” Thanks for writing Jillian, sounds like and your husband have your work cut out for you. We’d love to see you back on The Bluff.

’06 POOH’S PROGRESS in Portland on September 8th among many UP alumni. The ceremony was officiated by Craig Swinyard ’98. The wedding party included Bryan Dennis ’05, Brian Mara ’03, Matt Wicks, Quinn Finnigan, Mary Kate Whitford, and Meaghan Fleming. The photo says it all—these two are very happy!” The photo does indeed say it all. Thanks so much for sharing and good luck to you as you embark on your married life.

’05 EMILY’S UPDATE Emily De Leuw (Machtolf) writes: “I received my associate degree in nursing in Spokane, Washington in 2007.

I am now working in California as an RN on a surgical floor. I got married on September 17, 2011 to Matthew De

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Playing pro ball with the Shandong Flaming Bulls, in China, after averaging 12 points a game in Spain: Eugene (Pooh) Jeter, pictured in action below.

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N O T E S sponsored me as Mrs. Portland. I was so honored to have UP on my team. It gave me more confidence knowing I had the backing of my alma

We heard recently from Kristina King, we mean, Dammrose, um...well, let’s have her explain it: “My name is Kristina King, well now it is Kristina Dammrose, and I am a UP graduate from 2009. I recently got married and we took a photo with University of Portland alumni at my wedding. I’ve seen these photos in the magazine before and thought that I would pass it along. We had the most amazing time, as you can tell!

There are 23 of us in the photo: Kristina Dammrose ’09, Brit Schneider ’09, Kacia Hart ’09, Lauren McCabe ’09, Erik Thorsnes ’09, Sarah Warsaw ’09, Jack Cullen ’09, Jeff Buckingham ’09, Chase Moore ’09, Kenny King ’12, Daniel Lyons ’12, Michelle Reynolds ’12, Nick Calais ’09, Kyle Hill ’09, Molly Weisbeck ’09, Jessi Sullivan ’11, Emily Nolan ’08 (now Bridge), Holly VanDomelen ’08 (now Cornwell), Phil Bridge ’07, Nicole Nadal ’09, Danielle Jolicoeur ’09, Dane Conroy ’09, Jessica Stacy ’09, and Andrea Wujek ’09.” ’07 GRANDMA’S UPDATE We received a note from Martha Parisi Dirksen, grandmother of Kevin Dirksen, recently. “Kevin just forwarded a copy of an article he co-authored, which concerns the work he does in the relatively new field of clinical ethics.

Kevin graduated UP in 2007 and has master’s degrees from Boston University and Catholic University of Leuwen. He is a clinical ethics fellow with UCLA Health Systems.” The article, “Uncovering the Real Work Behind Policy Development” with Katherine BrownSaltzman, appeared in The American Journal of Bioethics, October 16, 2012 (www.tandfonline.com/ loi/uajb20).

Who’s featured in the current issue of Forbes Magazine

as an “Up and Comer?” Jamie Quint, CEO of Lookcraft, that’s who, according to the University’s very own Facebook page. See for yourself at www.forbes.com/sites/erincarlyle/2012/11/26/forbes-upand-comers-jamie-quint-andrew-geant-matthew-princephilip-fierlinger/.

’08 LET’S HEAR IT FOR MRS. OREGON! Tara (Henkelman) Arnold won the Mrs. Oregon pageant in November 2012, which qualifies her to compete for the Mrs. America title in 2013. She contacted Fr. Art Wheeler, C.S.C., to share the big news: “My platform is preventing pediatric obesity, and promoting family health,” she writes.

“The University of Portland

mater. I am looking for community partners to help me promote good pediatric health, and would like to attend events in Oregon during my reign that bring attention to family health education.” Congratulations, Tara!

Amanda Kathleen Hall and William Peterson Dana ’09 were married on September 15, 2012, at the University of Portland’s Chapel of Christ the Teacher. Fr. Art Wheeler, C.S.C., officiated. Amanda is an optometrist at Galo Eyecare Center in Del Rio, Texas, and William is a pilot for the U.S. Air Force, based in Del Rio. Maid of honor was the bride’s sister, Lacey Hall of Medford. Bridesmaids were friends, Sevrina Ryan of Spokane and Sharon Thannickal of Portland, and the groom’s sister, Sarah Dana of Tacoma.

Best man was the groom’s brother, Andrew Dana of Tacoma. Groomsmen were friends, Evan McNichols of Fall Creek, Michael Ristom of Satellite, Fla., and Josiah Hart of Spokane. Ushers were friends, Marcus Mobley of Walla Walla, Wash., and Joshua Eggleston of Chester, Va. Following a honeymoon in Vail, Colo., the newlyweds are living in Del Rio, Texas.

’09 A NEWBIE ACTOR David J. Harrell writes: “I just wanted to drop a note to say that I recently started an MFA (master of fine arts) program at the University of Iowa in Iowa City. Hauling all of my goods half way across the country was a major risk, but I am happy to be pursuing what has been a dormant dream of mine for over three

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years now. Thanks to everyone at the University for the support, moving me from a bustling freshman in 2005 to a newbie actor in 2012.”

Sara Rossi writes: “My husband and I bought our first house... so exciting!” Yes it is, congratulations Sara, and thanks for writing. So when’s the housewarming party?

Kendra Chritz was named as National Geographic’s “Explorer of the Week” on January 3, 2013. “I’m working on evaluating the effect of changing monsoon strength on ecosystems in East Africa using stable isotopes,” she explains of her work. “Nearly stepping on carpet vipers, getting caught in riots, and dashing past fresh crocodile nests...Kendra Chritz has encountered all of these situations in the field,” say National Geographic. “A fascination for the world inspires Chritz to work towards understanding what the planet looked like before modern society.” See the full article and interview with Kendra at http://newswatch.nationalgeographic.com/2013/01/03/ explorer-of-the-week-kendrachritz/.

’10 LIFELONG FRIENDS We heard recently from Maryanne Berger, who writes: “My college roommates Sarah Lytle and Katie (Carrieres) Circello were my rock throughout nursing school at UP. My best memories include cooking Sunday dinner together every week and acting all kinds of silly after a long day of clinicals. God blessed me when he put these girls in my life! We talk via Skype regularly and go on annual getaways we dubbed ‘Lady Vacation.’ This

past September Sarah and I had the honor to be on the altar while Katie married her UP sweetheart, Ryan Circello.

Katie was a beautiful blushing bride! Ryan’s best man was his former RA and roommate, Kevin Farr ’08. The attached photo includes, from left to right: Sarah Lytle, Maryanne Berger, Katie Circello, Ryan Circello, and Kevin Farr ’08.”

Thanks Maryanne, sounds like you made some lifelong friends here on The Bluff.

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C L A S S ’11 SAY “CHEESE” Jorden Scott was featured in a photo gallery for an article, “Made-in-Portland green pallet technology headed to India,” in the September 17, 2012 edition of Sustainable Business Oregon. Jordan served an internship at Altman Browning & Company, a Portland company which won a contract to develop and sell machinery used to automate the process of making “green pallets,” which are made of cardboard but as strong as wooden pallets. See the article and photo at http://tinyurl.com/cp5arqk.

Kevin Thomas Welch was featured in an article by Clarice Keating titled “Two Men Ordained as Permanent Deacons” in the November 6, 2012 edition of Portland’s Catholic Sentinel. He and Thomas Hayward were ordained as permanent deacons by Portland archbishop John G. Vlazny on November 3 at St. Mary Cathedral. Permanent deacons are ordained with a special mission of serving the sick and the needy, and helping at the altar during Mass. Welch earned a master’s degree in pastoral ministry degree from the University of Portland in 2011. He and his wife Susan have two children, Matthew and Hannah, and are parishioners at Our Lady of the Lake Parish in Lake Oswego.

Brandon Pono Hanson writes: “I recently graduated with my MSE in environmental engineering at Johns Hopkins

University.”

Aundrea Mitchell writes: “In July 2012 Patrick Mitchell and I were married at my home parish, Sacred Heart Catholic Church, in Medford, Ore. We then moved to North Carolina where Patrick is stationed in the United States Army and I am now working as a middle school STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering, Mathematics) teacher.”

In Spain playing with La Palma in the Canary Islands: Luke Sikma, as usual hauling down rebounds; averaging 13 points and 11 rebounds a game. His 987 in the paint as a Pilot is the University’s all-time record, and could very well stay that way for some time.

Along with news of Pooh Jeter ’06 and Luke Sikma playing basketball overseas (see left), some other notes from our international basketball affairs correspondent David Driver: T.J. Campbell is playing for Dijon in the French A league, Jasonn Hannibal ’12 is playing for Polzela in the Slovenian

N O T E S

We heard recently from the University's unstoppable, unflappable cross country coach Rob Conner ’86, who sent us this photo and comment: “Here’s a shot of Pete Julian ’93, now serving as assistant coach with Alberto Salazar at Nike Oregon Project, and Uli Steidl ’96, who is now cross country coach at Seattle University.” Thanks Rob, we know you know how to recognize talent when you see it. league, Taishi Ito is in his third season with Toyota Alvark in Japan, Nemanja Mitrovic ’12 is with Kavala in Greece, Robin Smeulders is in his third season with EWE Baskets in Germany, Porter Troupe ’05 is now in Cyprus playing for Apoel, Eric Waterford ’12 is playing for Soles in Mexico, and all-WCC Natalie Day ’12 is averaging 16 points per game for HyPo in Finland – scoring topped only by Pooh Jeter’s 26 points per game in China.

’12 A STAND UP JOB

Wonderful news from Amanda Hall ’08: “Eight years after meeting on The Bluff as freshmen, William Dana ’09 and I were married in the Chapel of Christ the Teacher on September 15, 2012. Thanks, UP, for bringing us together and for blessing us with such wonderful friends who traveled from all around the country to celebrate with us. As this Pilot group photo shows, we spent our day surrounded by love!”

We heard recently from Bree Bowman, who writes: “I am living in Calabasas, California, and started my new job at Entertainment Industry Foundation in May, specifically working with the Stand Up To Cancer event.” The EIF is a $100 million charitable organization which champions a wide variety of worthy causes; annually, EIF funds more than 300 charitable organizations within the greater Los Angeles area and throughout the nation.

Six recent graduates of the University of Portland have answered the call to serve

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with the Jesuit Volunteer Corps. During their time as Jesuit Volunteers, they will be dedicated to living simply and working for social justice in a spiritually supportive community. The volunteers are (listed with their placement agency and community location): Elizabeth Pomeroy, St. Matthew Catholic School, Phoenix, AZ; Kaitlynn Caldwell, Fairshare Northgate II Associates, Camden, NJ; Kevin Hannon, Christ the King Prep, Newark, NJ; Laura Eager, San Miguel School, Washington, DC; Maria Fraser, Nativity Prep Academy, San Diego, CA; and Theresa Cutter, Fe y Alegria, San Ignacio Loyola, Andahuaylillas, Peru. They join 323 Jesuit Volunteers living in 38 cities in the United States and six other countries across the globe.

Earning bachelor’s degrees from the University of Portland and honored at the December 14, 2012 ROTC commissioning and graduation ceremony: Kourtney KuglerMajor, chemistry; Trent Amerson, history; and Andrew Lynch, mechanical engineer-

C L A S S

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N O T E S ing. Dr. Thompson Faller presented their diplomas before a standing room only crowd of well-wishers in Mago Hunt Center Theater. Congratulations, and our thanks for your service to God and country.

FACULTY, STAFF, FRIENDS Jeanne McNassar passed away on October 9, 2012. Jeanne, a devout Roman Catholic, was a member of The Madeleine

We set National Public Radio correspondent Emily Harris this task, while she was recently in Moscow (she is usually in Jerusalem): find and interview a young alumna named Ksenia Algunova, whom we believed to be back in her native Moscow, and with whom the University had lost touch.

Emily’s report: “I arrived as protests against Putin’s 2012 re-election as president were drawing the eyes of the world, and it was cold and slush and cold. All I knew of Ksenia was her major (math) and her original home address when she applied to college. This address is not far from Moscow University’s botanical garden, and a ten-minute walk from Kazanski Vokzal — the train station that links Moscow to the city of Kazan. It’s also near the city’s Garden Ring road, which has nothing to do with gardens and everything to do with traffic. While I speak some Russian, I didn’t expect help from neighbors; strangers are strangers in Moscow and unknown people knocking on doors has never been a good thing. Off I went. I found her address, but it was a white marble monstrosity housing a business that at times had symbolized all the greedy accumulation that rushed in after the fall of the Soviet Union, a place no one likely ever lived, and I wasn’t even sure I could get into: a bank. Ksenia did not live there; perhaps her mother or father worked there years ago, though there was no record of their name now. After a series of latenight web searches in English and Russian, I did find Ksenia, living in New York City, and we corresponded a bit, and made plans to chat; but then suddenly my messages went unreturned, and she faded away again.

Moscow has drawn me in with many mysteries over the years; Ksenia is now another.”

Church, attended Madeleine School, Holy Child Academy, Grant High School, and began her studies at the University of Portland. She married James McNassar in 1963. Survivors include James and daughters Shannon, Colleen, and Molly; sons James, Michael and John; grandchildren, Katie and Jamie Korst; Colleen and Drew McNassar; Patrick and Ryan Myers; Paul and Liam McNassar; Sean Caster and Michael Drenner; and Jennifer, Brenden, and Kirsten McNassar. Extended family who mourn Jeanne include Mufti McNassar, Brendan McNassar ’98, and Anne McNassar ’04, to name a very few. Our prayers and condolences to the family.

Virginia Swasey Wales died serenely and with dignity at her home in North Portland

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after a brief illness at the age of 92 on November 14, 2012.

Virginia was a noted musician, teacher, and college professor, not to mention a loving parent and an indulgent grandmother and great-grandmother. Virginia came to Portland in 1937 where she attended and graduated from Albany College, now known as Lewis and Clark. After many years of teaching in public schools, she became a professor at Oregon College of Education and went on to a distinguished career at the University of Portland, retiring as professor emeritus. Survivors include sons, Dennis of Portland and Herbert of Monmouth; and granddaughters, Kelly of Portland, and Nicole and Autumn of Albuquerque, New Mexico.

Our prayers and condolences to Virginia’s family and many friends.

Michelle Murphy writes: “These days I’m working as a golf pro at Turning Stone Resort in Verona, New York. My husband Dan is from this part of New York state.” Michelle, you may recall, served for many years as women’s golf coach here on The Bluff.

DEATHS Robert “Bob” Leipzig ’41 CP, ’47 UP, December 8, 2012.

Joseph D. Fulop ’45, October 27, 2012, Gearhart, Ore. Lester P. Ludviksen ’48, January 5, 2013.

Anthony John Arjavac ’49, ’54, December 4, 2012.

Aleck A. Prihar ’49, January 17, 2013.

Robert W. Buscho, husband of Rose Marie (Sturza) Buscho ’50, October 8, 2012.

Ray Speier Hausler ’52, October 15, 2012.

Peter J. Sugura ’52, October 31, 2012.

Dorothy Mae (Scheel) Dragoo ’53, January 9, 2013.

Ole J. Lilleoren ’55, November 6, 2012.

Marilyn (Winslow) Sarsfield ’56, October 11, 2012 Joseph Carey ’58, April 3, 2012.

Marlene Rose Norquist Brady ’63, November 9, 2012.

Toni Christine Painter ’75, October 22, 2012.

Melanie J. Ryan, wife of David Ryan ’75, October 29, 2012.

Mary Jean Callicrate, mother of Tim Callicrate ’83, May 29, 2012.

Joseph Stanley Yesenofski, father of Michael Yesenofski ’97, October 23, 2012.

Jamey Lynn (Bergara) Mariani ’97, November 9, 2012.

Jeanne McNassar, October 9, 2012.

Virginia Swasey Wales, November 14, 2012.

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R O A D S

Malheur National Wildlife Refuge is an incredible oasis in the middle of Oregon’s high desert; its central feature is Malheur Lake, which is surrounded by the largest freshwater wetland in the West. The refuge is a hotspot for wildlife, particularly birds, and University biology professor Katie O’Reilly, while leading an ornithology field trip there last summer, ran into her former student Nathan Banet ’11, himself on a six-month project studying Caspian terns. Nathan is off to grad school this coming fall to study...birds. Our thanks for his lovely photographs.

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MY HERO? That’s easy. My dad. And not for the reasons you might think, like he signed up to fight a cruel and rapacious empire even though he thinks violence is a sin; or that he devoted himself to raising his kids rather than be the famous novelist he might have been; or that somehow he never grew bitter and haunted even though four of his eight kids have now, as he says quietly, gone on ahead; or that in sixty years my brothers and sister and I have known the man we can count the number of times he lost his temper on two fingers, which is an average of one meltdown every thirty years, which is terrific average, temper-wise.

Nor is he my hero because his childhood fell apart when he was eight years old and his father lost his job and his sister died and his penniless family lost their house and they took to the road for years all through the heartland until my dad washed up in New York City and diligently built a calm patient intelligent affable gentle self that earned him a free ride through college and the love of my mom. Nor is he my hero because when he got back from the war in which he and my mom were absolutely sure he was going to die, he joined millions of other veterans who could not find work, and often sat in the park, in his excellent suit and overcoat, trying not to despair, until he found one job and then another, the second of which he did brilliantly for thirty years, serving the stories and grace and brilliance of the Catholic Church he loves to this day despite its greed and cruelty and lies, which are also sins, as he says, but which our collective prayerful work may someday overcome, by the grace of the Mercy.

This is how my dad talks, gently and brilliantly, without any flash and bluster, which is part of the reason he is my hero. His ego is grinning and healthy but small enough to fit in his pocket. His patience and generosity are oceanic. His quiet simple honest grace does not flag nor does it wither. His easy open witty warm humor meets you at the door and pulls a chair out for you and gets you a cup of tea. He knows pain and loss and tragedy and horror and yet he sits there smiling gently and listens carefully and does not issue advice unless you ask politely for it, in which case he issues unbelievably wise advice, which you would be wise to act upon, trust me. He thinks of you before he thinks of himself. This is a rare and lovely flower in the forest of the world. He makes you want to be better. He makes you want to be the best self you could ever be because you want to live up to what he knows you can be. He makes you want to make him proud. You would do anything to make him proud. Trust me. You get down on your knees as often as you can and say to the Mercy o thank you thank you for giving me that man as my dad, o thank you, what a blessing he has been to my mom and my sister and my brothers who are alive and my brothers who have gone on ahead; and to me.

My hero? That’s easy. I can answer that question right quick, with alacrity, instantly, without hesitation, without having to think about it, because I have known the answer to that question ever since the moment when I was a teenager when I woke up finally and realized that all I ever wanted to be was half as good a man as my dad. Someday I hope that will happen. n Brian Doyle is the editor of this magazine, and the author most recently of the novel Cat’s Foot.

Here’s a campaign story. In 1962 an extraordinary piano is built in Hamburg, in Germany. This is a Steinway Hamburg B piano, one of the finest on earth. In 1964 the piano is purchased by a student at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music. It took six weeks to travel across the ocean and the continent. When it arrived, the student and his teacher played it and the sound was better than you could ever imagine, remembers the student, with reverence. One time the famous violist Paul Hersh sat down at this piano and played all 32 of Bach’s Goldberg Variations, from memory, straight through. Years later the student became the chairman of the board of the Conservatory, and he loaned his piano to the school for seven years, and many more superb musicians were trained on it. When the student returned home finally to his native Portland, he had the piano shipped home also for 33 more years; but last year, with their usual quiet generosity, John Beckman ’42 and his graceful bride Patricia gave it back to the Conservatory for good, and it will delight and amaze students there for many years to come. The Beckmans are accustomed to thrilling students: among the scholarships they have funded on The Bluff are ones honoring science professor Brother Godfrey Vassallo, urbane events mastermind director Bill Reed, and the peculiar editor of this magazine. To jazz and thrill and lift and astonish the University’s students yourself, call Campaign shepherd Diane Dickey at 503.943.8130, dickey@up.edu. Invent any scholarship you please. Be creative. Heck – call right now, why not?

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A SHARP EYE

COURTESY OF HENRY HALL

THE HEROES ISSUE

Regent emeritus Larry Rockwood was born in Queen of Angels hospital in 1920 and has been chasing the angelic ever since with his cameras; his first was a Kodak box camera to which he added a homemade bellows to work the shutter. After graduating from Cal Tech he worked as an engineer for many years, and joined the University’s Board of Regents in 1969, when the University absorbed Multnomah College, famed for its engineering program. Among the 20,000 images in his library, photographed all over the world, are these; for which we thank him, and wish him well on his voyages.

HEROES

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SPRING 2013