After I got past the lights of town it was dead quiet along the river road except for the warm-air buzz of insects, and frogs on ditch duty. The east wind had died, as it does at night. I smelled smoke from the slash burner, but the mill wouldn’t whine to life until graveyard shift. There was no rustle in the high branches of the firs, some of them older than Calamus. Older than America, even, their thick trunks rooted three centuries in place. If you ever want a cure for feeling significant, try walking the river road at night under the cover of fir trees.
Ricochet River, a novel. Alfred A. Knopf, 1992
The story is the Columbia River, not the canoe and me. . . . This is not an adventure story, although some adventure was avoidable, and I didn’t set out to “find myself,” if I could help it. . . . Mine was a voyage of discovery. It was the uncovering of surprise on a river I thought I knew.
Prologue to Voyage of a Summer Sun. Knopf, 1995
Umping was harder than I thought it would be. Fans and coaches are so close they just talk to you. You’re missing a good game, Blue. I had rabbit ears. It’s called rabbit ears, but how can you not hear them? That pitch was low! They might be right. A liberal education is a handicap behind the plate. There can be no discussion. No doubt. And I don’t have a barrel chest. Nor do I have a command voice, or even a command personality. Don’t tell anybody, but I practiced my strike call in front of the mirror at home. It involved getting my chin right. Lower the voice. Boost the volume. Then I had to muster the confidence – no, the arrogance – to take the field like I owned it. And still . . . Is that Norman Bates? Hey, Blue! I saw you in “Psycho!”
Another Way the River Has: Taut True Tales from the Northwest. OSU Press, 2010
Robin Cody
| With a nod to Prof. Gordon and classmates in “Daily Themes,” senior year, for their support. www.robincody.net. |