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WHY
BE HERE NOW? Another new year is knocking on our doors, pressing us with so many questions: "Where have you been? What have you done? Where are you going?" The answers are either a bland "Nowhere; nothing; nowhere," or a specific "Florida; voted for democracy; hell." So we thought we'd ask our readers for their stories, to share a slice of their lives with us (and you). We asked, "How did you come to live in the Eugene area?" and, after all the city muck EW rakes each week, "Why in-the-heck are you still here?" – Chuck Adams
A TASTE FOR LIFE Everyone moves to the Willamette Valley with a long-winded back-story; it may even be an unspoken requirement for residency. We are no exception. In short, we were living the suburban life in California; you know, that state where the sun shines frequently. My husband took a job in Nashville and was eventually laid off. We thought of returning to Sacramento, but Eugene had a few important draws besides the Saturday Market, purple houses and everything organic. Our daughter and her two young sons lived here.
We have had to adjust to lower-paying jobs and rising housing prices. And after 22 years of military service, my husband had to adjust to the laid-back, dreadlocked, book-carrying (in the rain!) citizens. I, on the other hand, was immediately comfortable with Eugene's subversive atmosphere. I am a writer. Where else could I observe humanity in dozens of coffeehouses while taking notes and eavesdropping and be just one of many writers doing the same thing? After several weeks, I realized we were all writing about each other. At first this was disappointing, but the disappointment lifted when I understood our importance as a counter (as in, belly-up-to-the) counterculture. Eugene offers every genre of music (thanks to the I-5 corridor), excellent visual artists and a thriving literary community. The proximity to breathtaking hikes, exquisite bike rides, thriving wineries and the wild Oregon coast is almost shameful. In fact, let's keep all of this to ourselves. The downside of living in Eugene (besides the rain) is that it is hard to be unique. As cutting-edge or odd as you consider yourself to be before moving here, you quickly realize someone's always got you beat. Always. Ultimately, why have we stayed? There are the grandsons, of course, and the other positive attributes I mentioned. But honestly, we stay because of Sweet Life. (Have you tried their sticky buns or their Triple Chocolate Obsession cake?) As long as Sweet Life stays in business, we'll forgive the rain its constancy and continue to call Eugene home. – Colette Jonopulos
3,000 MILES TO THE LEFT I worked in a call center, where you have to make your own fun. So we decided to have a contest. Each team would pick a movie, and we'd decorate our cubes. The judging day came. People were walking around dressed like Dorothy and the Cowardly Lion. (This from the team that came in second, mind you.) We were called off the phones for the winning announcement. Linda's team won! We clapped and cheered. "Hey!" said Mitch, our senior manager, "My boss is in town today! Step up and say a few words, Karen!" "Hi!" she said breathlessly, "I'm so happy to be here today. You are all such great people. I don't want to be the bearer of bad tidings," she continued cheerfully, "but your center is closing in April." All around me I heard murmurs, "Well, you want to go to Scrimmages or MacKenzie's after work?" Karen went on, talking about how the corporation would give us full support in our transitions. "And you can even transfer to the new center in Oregon, if you like!" Oh my god, I thought. I can move to Oregon and have a job waiting for me. My co-workers went to the bar, and I went back to my desk and Googled real estate. Fast forward a bit: I came out to house-hunt. Found a place. Signed on the line. Went home to pack. In June, the movers came, and my husband, two sons, and myself got into my car and his truck and set off for a moving/camping vacation, assured by the real estate agents that everything was in process for the signing. Until we got to Rapid City, South Dakota. The owner had died. The executrix had been missing for a week and no one knew where she was. We decided to stay in Rapid City for a few days. The campground there had wireless, which meant that the boys would be happy. We did take them out once, though, to visit the Badlands. "Oh look," said Jake. "Rocks." "Oh, wow," said Zeke. "More rocks." "Ooooh," said Jake. "A hole." We left them home the next day and went to see Mount Rushmore and the Crazy Horse monument. Just as well. That meant we could hit a winery on the way back. When we got to Oregon, we visited Silver Falls State Park. "Oh, look," said Jake. "Trees." We left them in the lodge while we hiked. They didn't have wireless access, so they played Risk. The house deal had fallen through. I started work, commuting from the KOA in Corvallis. We spent the next weekend with a fistful of listings and a road map, found a place and moved in two weeks later. That was it. Our lives had been thrown up in the air and come back down pretty much in the same place, only about 3,000 miles to the left. – Teri Gray
SOME LIKE IT WET
Kathy and I moved here 17 years ago after enduring five years of drought in Wyoming. We were living in a cabin at the foot of the Bighorn Mountains, and after two wells and the creek went dry, we closed up the cabin and drove for wetter climes. We had friends in Seattle, Eugene, Cottage Grove and San Francisco, so we drifted down the coast from friend to friend, "riding the grub line," as Wyoming people call it. Our Eugene friends kept telling us how beautiful it was here. We drove in from Florence, so our first view of the place was West 11th, which didn't impress us much. Hendricks Park did, though, and the view from Skinner Butte. We got rained on there, and we probably scared people when we stood out in the middle of the parking lot with our faces aimed skyward, our mouths open and our arms outstretched like people in religious ecstasy. (There was still a cross on the Butte back then, so we probably did look like religious fanatics. Maybe that's what prompted the anti-cross movement that eventually brought it down … ) We were liberals in Wyoming, but we quickly discovered we were right of center here. A couple visits to the Saturday Market for tie-dye cured our sartorial conservatism, and a few good arguments with our friends over taxes and health care nudged our attitudes leftward, too. It was such a joy to talk with people who actually thought about their effect on society and on the world. I remember saying to Kathy on our third or fourth night here, "We've found our people." Kathy got a job in the medical lab, and I settled in to write science fiction. We figured we would stay here a couple of years just for fun and then go back to Wyoming, but every time the subject came up, we would say, "Not yet." Here we are 17 years later, and we've pretty much stopped talking about moving back home. There's no "back" to it anymore. We're at home right here. – Jerry Oltion
SLICE OF RURAL PARADISE
It was December 7, 1941. My parents had decided that Los Angeles was not a good place to raise my brother and me, so we were in the car on our way to Oregon to find a new life. Daddy pulled the car into a gas station. Dale and I were asleep in the back seat. It was dark outside as it was late. I woke up to hear the gas station attendant asking our father why he didn't have blue cellophane over the headlights! Daddy didn't have any idea what he was talking about. This is how we learned that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor and our country was at war. The government had decreed that anyone driving their car at night must cover the headlights with blue cellophane so that you would be harder to see. We continued on our way without the ordered blue cellophane. With excitement we searched for just the right place to buy. We found the perfect place: a 27-acre farm with huge Victorian house, large barn and several chicken houses one mile east of the Danish settlement of Junction City in the southern Willamette Valley. Relatives of my mother's already lived near, and, both children of Danish immigrants, my parents thought we would fit right in. Our parents could not have found a more exciting place to move to. The house had the reputation in the community of being "haunted" because Anton Sorensen, who had begun building the house in 1898, never finished it after his fiancée ran off and married someone else. He lived alone except for his best friend — wine. After we moved in, total strangers knocked at the door and sheepishly asked if we would let them see the inside of the house because they were so curious. It was an interesting way to meet the neighbors. We attended the Danish Lutheran Church. Dale and I graduated from Junction City High School. We both went on to get degrees from OSU, and Dale eventually earned his Ph.D. from the UO. Our parents, Ejner and Arta Christiansen, finished the inside of the house and farmed the land for awhile, and then Daddy started a sheet metal shop in the barn which he operated until he retired. Mama was active in the church and sang in the community choir. Together, in Danish costume, they made aebleskiver at the Scandinavian Festival in its early years. They both took up painting as a hobby and were members of the Junction City Art League. Daddy died in 1987 at age 88. Mama lived to be 100, passing away in 2005. What a wonderful childhood my brother and I had because our parents had the foresight to move us from the rat race of big city life to that wonderful farm in rural Oregon. – Lois Eagleton
COAST TO COAST The letter from the UO graduate program arrived in my sublet-apartment's mailbox in April. Now the decision was mine: Would I leave Boston, where I lived a cramped life full of friends and cultural opportunities that I couldn't afford, or would I stay near people I knew and loved and learn to make my way? It didn't take much thinking to know I needed to take the plunge. Both my parents had been born and raised in Western states, and my grandparents and great-grandparents were all Westerners. Though I grew up on the coast of Virginia and knew very little about Oregon, I had driven through it, south to north, with a boyfriend a few years before. I remembered liking what I saw: big trees, houses that looked funky but cared-for, women working jobs that at that time (1973) were held only by men back East. I sensed that a freedom would be possible in Oregon that the East didn't offer, so I mailed a trunk of books to myself care of the university post office, packed my remaining things into two suitcases and boarded a flight to Eugene. When I arrived, I knew no one. I found a couch to crash on by looking at index cards posted on bulletin boards. I borrowed a bike from a friend of the woman whose couch I was sleeping on and figured out Eugene's grid well enough to make my way to several interviews with folks who were looking for a roommate. Typically, there were five vegetarian friends who'd known each other since middle school and were looking for one more person to sleep in a closet and pay an equal share of rent and utilities. It was rough forging a new life, but I loved the green smell in the air, the Coburg hills in the distance, the pony-tailed LTD drivers. I made friends with the woman across the street, and she and her sister took me on a bike ride along the river. We pedaled through Skinner Butte Park with the Willamette rushing along on one side and cottonwood leaves blowing across the path. I was in heaven. Though I bridled at the way strangers would smile at me ("What's their problem?" I would ask myself) and thought it was disingenuous for my professors to ask to be called by their first names, there was nothing foreign to me about being in a land populated by pioneers rather than pilgrims. These were my people, and this was my landscape. I've lived in Eugene for more than 30 years now, and there have been times when I longed to move back East — longed with all my heart. But I've come to accept that I couldn't flourish there the way I have here. On good days I smile at strangers and am glad I made that leap from East to West. – Cecelia Hagen
ELEVEN HONKS IN SEVEN MONTHS Tired of hurrying crowds and noisy traffic in Manhattan, in August 2001 I took early retirement from my 23-year career as a human resources executive. Eugene kept popping up on every list of the most ideal retirement cities, and this worked for me since my brother lived in south Eugene, where I took summer vacations. After watching the horrific events on TV the following month, I hurried to donate blood and was shocked by the sight of hundreds of stunned New Yorkers trudging uptown covered with the dust from the fallen towers. The pictures of missing victims that enveloped every lamppost for weeks thereafter were very distressing. I never went to visit the site. I didn't need to. In November 2001, I absconded to Eugene for a six-month trial to see if I could survive a rainy winter. Imagine sometimes the sun is shining while it's raining, and there are lots of rainbows, but people complain about 40-degree weather in January. How wimpy! Always over dressed, I couldn't believe that when it was 40 degrees, the wind chill was 40, too. That doesn't happen in New York. After renting an apartment on a month-to-month basis, I starting exercising at the DAC, enjoyed Chicago at the Hult Center, bought fresh vegetables at the Saturday Market and always got a seat on the LTD bus. Making new friends cheered me, and easy-on-the-pocket shopping at Valley River Center jogged my memory of expensive Bloomingdale's. After lunch at Marie Callender's, I often reduced the effects of the corn bread and honey butter by taking a long walk along the alluring Willamette. And Eugene has the Ducks and the Ems, and tickets are easier to get than the ones for the Jets and the Mets. During my seven months in Eugene, I heard a horn being honked 11 times. Yes I counted them because it was so strange to me. The first day I returned to New York City, I left my apartment to walk down the street to go grocery shopping. Before I got to the corner, I heard more than 11 horns honking! It was a sign. In September 2002, I moved to Eugene permanently, and now I wear a hoodie and grow vegetables and feel cold in 40-degree weather and consider myself a genuine Oregonian. I love the people, the summer sunshine and the many options for a healthy lifestyle. But remaining faithful to my New York roots, I still use an umbrella in the rain. – Eileen White
PROCRASTINATION DESTINATION I'm not as far south as I'd like to be, but like a migratory bird, I'm making my way down. I just crossed the state line from Washington and came into Oregon, on a train with a drunken conductor talking over the loudspeaker about the good old days when he was a "hog head pre-1980," which he underscored just so we all knew he wasn't some newbie poseur "hog head," but the real deal, and he welcomed all the transients riding on the train bound for Portland in a slurry tone that made me afraid for my life until he stumbled into the aisle, and I was consoled that it was someone else's job to drive the train (I hoped). I've taken many train rides in my life, crossing the varying climates of this diverse country with the undiagnosed schizophrenics and sweet grandmas knitting baby clothes and transient hippies seeking out long-lost friends across the country. Now I'm seated next to a friendly gray-haired good-old-boy-seen-it-all former Amtrak employee with a card in his wallet allowing him free passage and informed with a smile and look of remembrance that where I'm headed is, in his opinion, "the number-one procrastination destination" — Eugene, Oregon. Really my goal is to move south on a journey that will take me to a more desirable climate for the winter. I have a theory that there's no good reason to be cold when I can be warm, and I'm headed for the sunshine and warmth of southern Arizona. I will be delayed on this journey; maybe I won't even make it to the desert before the last chill of winter. Or, as my seat-mate informs me, "You think you're just passing through Eugene? Ha ha! I bet you'll stay longer than you think." And as I look out the window of this train moving swiftly along the water going down along the Pacific Northwest coast, I know. – Alia DuMonde
REIKI, SHAMANISM AND OTHER SPIRITUAL JOURNEYS I had just finished massage school, it was April, and I was lying on the couch in my living room in Chicago. I had a fine arts degree. I had an MSEd. I was highly educated, professionally disappointed and personally agitated. Massage therapy was a risky move. I had no idea how to pull it off, but I was finally calm, so I knew the answer was coming. My sister, living outside of Eugene, called to congratulate me. At a pause in the conversation, she said, "Oh, by the way, we're expecting." Training in massage taught me to listen to my instincts. Before I could even react, I knew I was moving. Prior to that call, I had lived in Chicago for 11 years. Suddenly I was moving to Eugene. It happened very quickly. Months later, I landed in Eugene. A few months after that, I received my state massage license. Training in Reiki brought more calm. Another shift was coming. A flashback and some surfacing memories introduced me to an unremembered, abusive childhood. I went into crisis. Instinct led to shamanic counseling. Shamanism taught me to breathe in and experience the natural world. Walking and biking cleared my head. The spirit world spoke through seasons; wind, birds, raccoons and wild turkeys. While it was easy to access this world in Chicago, moving to Eugene helped me silence my own noise enough to notice it. I have settled into Eugene. I am home. I am now an auntie twice over. There is great joy in my work. It is expansive and inclusive of all who are ready to heal. With access to the airport, I am becoming aware that my life's journey can take me anywhere, returning, always, to my home in the Willamette Valley. – Katie Custer
WILD CHILD I came to Eugene in 1969 as a deer-in-the-headlights freshman to the UO. (Wow, those were the days before "the downtown mall" was first installed.) Hippies were running rampant, and anti-war marches were on the rise. Yep, got filmed in some of those marches. Fresh out of a conservative Christian home, and I was mad. Totally pissed off and breathing the heady aroma of rebellion, I knew Eugene was my kind of town. BS'd my way through one year of the UO, hooked up with a Free Soul, rode to the Renaissance Faire (now the Oregon Country Fair) on the back of a Harley. Decided I'd drop acid at least once a year for the rest of my life "just to keep my head screwed on" — rash teen that I was. (Gosh, true confessions time; if my daughters read this, I'm in deep trouble!) Ah, those were the days … very long story short, three husbands, four children and a whole bunch of churches later, I'm still just a wild child Jesus freak at heart ("spiritual — not religious"). Riding the bus to and from work, using the car only for errands, buying locally to support our economy, reveling in the vast array of incredibly gifted folks in this town, I'm glad I stayed. This is a great place to raise children who don't bat an eye at the outrageous or unusual. Saw a guy riding a bike the other day. His hair, I swear, looked like a piece of the forest floor: all bright green and deep brown and splotchy. It was beautiful. "You go, guy!" I thought to myself, "Express yourself while you can get away with it." Who knows, some day he may end up in a business suit. In Eugene, all things are possible …. – Susie Chavez
PERFECT TIME TO SPLIT This past summer was my tenth year living in a place I didn't want to be. I had been growing more spiritually aware over the past two years through many outlets of self discovery. My husband chose to stay the same. Because of this, we didn't like each other any more and decided to part ways. My children and I kept coming across things relating to Oregon, so in September we decided to take a road trip. I had researched the state and decided we would limit our search to the areas around I-5. During our week jaunt we found we really liked the Lane County areas. So our search began. We needed something we could get into on Thanksgiving weekend because that was when my ex-husband was able to help us move. After many searches on the web, subscribing to rental searches, etc., a week before Thanksgiving we found a place in northern Eugene that allowed us to keep all our family members at a fairly reasonable rate. For a family that rarely left the house before, we've gone out almost every day since we've been here. It is amazing to me everything that is available here and how close it all is. Everyone we have met has been very friendly and open even after they find out we are from California. My children and I have been needing this type of community for a long time, and I am so grateful this opportunity was manifested. I look forward to being here quite a while. – Sandra Whitedove
PHOTOGRAPHER'S PARADISE
Through craigslist, by accident, I met a woman in Eugene many months ago. As I was planning a summer photo trip to the States, I planned to meet her during the trip. When I arrived, I enjoyed the greatest two weeks with my new friend. That's when I decided I would relocate from Spain to the wet and gray Pacific Northwest. With my Spanish apartment on sale, my car sold and everything packed, I flew from Spain to the States, two days on planes filled with stops, finally ending in Eugene. Now well into my second week here, I am experiencing a mood of friendliness reminding me of the small Spanish town I left behind, some great sunsets (when the sun can be seen) and better yet: a growing Hispanic community so I can maintain and continue speaking my self-taught Spanish! I am planning on exhibiting my images soon, and there is a lot to do and see in the area. With all the nearby waterfalls to capture on film, this is as close to a photographer's paradise as I can get! – Tony Lee
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