I sighed quietly. Seated across the table, Leo, 7, looked up from his homework and asked with such gentle concern, “Papa, is it hard to be a parent?”
“No,” I told him. “Well sometimes things might be challenging, but it’s a pleasure to be a parent.”

Later, he and Jack, 5, sat in their room, jammies on, teeth brushed, ready for bed. But I couldn’t bring myself to make them go to bed. They were having so much fun being brothers right then. No wrestling, no punching, no name calling. It was a conversation, a brainstorm that touched on reason, compassion, rules and interests.

I typed as fast as I could as I listened from my office down the hall and thought about Leo’s question, and how it was truly a pleasure to listen to these two little people make their big plans.

Here’s what I heard.

While making a sign to try to recruit members to their “Flying Horned Dragons Club”, which is to be housed in the Raccoon Den, their clubhouse in the backyard

Jack: But what if we get homeless people?
Leo: We won’t, Jack. The sign says “Kids Club”

Jack: I know the classes I want to teach. You can teach Ninjago. I want to teach Art Club. I can be the person who shows people around…I am the harvest guy…like for harvesting pussy willows.
Leo: Jack you’re not going to lead the pussy willow harvest and other plants…I’m not trying to be mean…I’m going to put Elinor in charge. I just trust her more.

Jack: OK. I’ll lead the crafts. I have a bucket of things. I got it from Christmas. So I get to be, like, the crafts guy.
Leo: Yes.
Jack: That’s fine with me.

Leo: Aren’t you so excited, Jack?
Jack: Yes. We’re going to get money! Dude, you have to pay money for having camps.
Leo: No, not really Jack. We actually have to ask their parents.

Jack: Oh, I have the best idea. It will be summer and people will be walking by. We can just ask if kids want to come.
Leo: Yeah!

Leo: Jack you haven’t told me all the camps you want to teach.
Jack: I want Arts, Crafts and Fishing Gear.
Leo: We can’t do Fishing Gear.
Jack: Well I guess fishing gear is kind of dangerous.

Leo: I’ve got some things I want to ask you. Should we do “Making a Paper Hat”
Jack: Sure we can. Who knows how to do that? You can do that…
Leo: Yeah. Okay, (spells out loud) P-A-P-E-R … H-A-T.

Leo: Tomorrow after school, we’ll have the whole Raccoon Den decide if we want to make paper hats, make bow and arrows and quill pens. I’m not positive about bows and arrows.
Jack: Yeah, they could be dangerous.

Leo: I’m not sure about the quill pens.
Jack: Yeah, where are we gonna get the feathers?
Leo: Powell Park, I guess.

Leo: And we’re going to learn first aid.
Jack: Yeah. You really do…(starts whistling a song) I don’t think we really need first aid.
Leo: It’s just safety. We need to.

Leo: In my class there’s going to be a lot of talking. Is that okay if you’re in it? It’s this class where we talk and make all this fun stuff.
Jack: Yes. We should get everything packed for the summer.
Leo: No Jack, that’s what we can do during the weekend.

Leo: And there will be a class: Barefoot Walking. Only if they want to.
Jack: We have a lot flowers. I’m worried someone’s going to step on a bee.
Leo: I said, only if they want to. Barefoot hiking is okay only if they want to. It’s your choice, not mine…it’s just a thing we’re going to do. We’re going to make our feet really strong, really tough.

Jack: We should have a crystal hunt.
Leo: That would be a bad class because we’ll never find a crystal. No one’s going to want to sign up for that. We probably won’t make money at that.
Jack: Are you serious? Dude. I bet a bunch of kids would do it.
Leo: Seriously, it’s a bad idea. If I were doing that? In a yard? Do you think you’ll find a crystal in a yard?
Jack: Shut up.
Leo: If you’re going to be in the camp, you can’t say shut up. I’m going to make a rule, No Bad Words.

Jack: We should give report cards.
Leo: Report cards. You’re a genius! Okay, we’re going to end this meeting.

They dragged blankets to the couch and Leo read aloud to Jack from (The Pocket Version) Dangerous Book For Boys: Things To Do until Jack fell asleep.

All content © Tim LaBarge 2013

We bought a piano a couple of years ago from a little shop in Southeast Portland called Immortal Piano. It was not for me, nor for Sara, but for our boys. We simply want them to enjoy having a piano in the house, to learn to read music and be able to pull out a tune somewhere down the road when the occasion arises.

This morning, catching up on last Sunday’s paper, I read this great little story about that very shop. It turns out that owner Martha Taylor – who, based only on our word, kindly let us pay for our piano over three months – has a secret mission: To keep America going. By that, she means keep kids interested in music, keep the artisanship of these old pianos alive, keep folks singing a song. 

Then this evening, Leo and I were checking out videos of musicians playing the Hammond B3 when I felt a sudden urge to search for video of organist Ernie Hays playing “Saint Louis Blues”, a W.C. Handy song. Hays played the organ for every major sports team in St. Louis when I was growing up. He played primarily for the Blues and the Cardinals before retiring in 2010.

That 1914 song was one of my favorite tunes as a kid, though I didn’t know it had a name. I only knew it as chords and notes that would float through the smoke and the atmosphere of the Checkerdome during a break in play or between periods at hockey games. Tucked in a booth near the rafters, beneath the yellowing sheets that spanned the upper reaches of that old barn, Hays’ fingers skated across the keyboard, filling the arena with magic energy.

I’m pretty sure I learned to whistle trying to force that tune past my lips. In my mind, I was playing it on an organ or a piano or an accordion. Only in my mind.

I found what is said to be Hays playing “Saint Louis Blues”. It certainly sounds like him. I also found out that he died this past Fall. I know he’s been missed at baseball games the past few seasons, but I wasn’t expecting to find out that this icon of my childhood and beyond, this man who’d caused so many fans to stir, to cheer, to clap and to sing, was gone at the age of 77.

Leo pointed to a video of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” so I clicked on it. It’s Hays leading the crowd in song during the seventh-inning stretch at the Old Busch Stadium. That stadium is now gone. The Checkerdome was torn down decades ago. What seems to last, however, is song. Proof that we need song is right there in that video where this man, who started taking piano lessons at the age of seven, has nearly 50,000 people standing and singing together. 

all content © Tim LaBarge 2013

Leo and I were off exploring last week when it snowed in Tucson. We wandered through the university campus, dodging stunned and amazed phone-wielding students as they communicated to the world that white flakes the size of raffle tickets were falling from the sky. We passed the morning looking at Native American baskets, the W. Eugene Smith’s Jazz Loft Project and a highly recommended chocolate chip cookie.

We don’t go to Tucson in the winter to watch snow fall, so I wasn’t nearly as excited about this periodic meteorological hiccup as those twenty-year-olds in the quad. But when Sara, our buddy Brent and fellow Portlander Heidi Swift decided to ride up a good chunk of Mount Lemmon a few days later, we gave chase in the van. I made few shots with my little point-and-shoot, and winter’s unexpected invasion of our sunny vacation was forgiven.

all content © Tim LaBarge 2013

Silcox Hut, Mount Hood, Oregon

That’s not snow falling out of the January sky. Those are stars. Everywhere I looked, there were stars.

Last Sunday night tucked in a little lodge up on Mount Hood, we celebrated a friend’s birthday. At 7,000 feet, we enjoyed meals, drinks and a fire. And while Silcox Hut itself is charming in its rustic, communal ways, it was the quiet and isolation of stepping outside to make a few pictures I’ll remember most.

Earlier in the day I’d spent three hours grinding the skis over snow and ice, on a lonely uphill workout from the little town of Government Camp up to Timberline Lodge. It was only five or six miles and 2,000 feet, but it felt like a marathon. When I reached Timberline, I dove into the heated pool and then slipped into the hot tub and cracked open a can of Hopworks Abominable Winter Ale. Moments later, snapped from the brief cloud of comfort, I joined our group for a snow cat ride 1,000 more feet up the side of this volcano to the hut.

Like the flash of a meteor zipping through the sky, our time there raced by and it was suddenly mid-morning and time to depart. I’ve been staring at this picture trying to return to the calm and the quiet beneath the moon and stars.

all content © Tim LaBarge 2013

I checked the temperature on my phone when I finished my run: 90 degrees.
Strange. It was 33 degrees when I started. At one point during the run up Council Crest, the highest point in Portland at 1,071 feet , I did catch myself daydreaming about Summer. But it was certainly not 90 degrees on this January day.

Then I looked at what my phone believed to be my current location: Conarky, Guinea. I was fairly certain Guinea was the former French Guinea. (It is.) But the word Conarky, truthfully, I’d never heard before. (It’s the capital.) This was not the first time my phone had placed me in a transoceanic locale, when I could not have been farther away, on a trail somewhere in Oregon.

Though the trail up to Council Crest winds for miles through the woods, it is hard to escape the sounds of the city. There are houses and a hospital nearby. The trail crosses paved streets three or four times. The drone of the rubber on pavement from the interstate seems to hover in the air. But on this day, that drone served as a clean, white backdrop to the sounds of the birds that were out. The robins, the towhees, the woodpeckers, the chickadees and the little brown birds which I always confuse, sparrows and wrens and others. They too were excited about the sun and it’s warmth. It almost felt like Spring.

As I made the last little push to the top I found myself right back in Winter, surrounded by frozen fog that flocked the trees. I took a moment to stare at Mount Hood and Mount St. Helens, and then turned and plunged downhill for the return, passing back through Spring and slowing to a walk as I emerged from the woods. Steam rose from my body as I stretched by my car. A runner stopped and we chatted about the weather. As the heat of the run left me, I began to feel a chill creep through the fabric of my sweaty cap. I was suddenly cold and wondered what the temperature was. Which is why I was surprised to learn that it was a sizzling 90 degrees and I was in Africa.

all content © Tim LaBarge 2013

I usually photograph many cyclocross races throughout the fall and early winter. This year, however, I only went to two in search of images.
The good people at 1859 Magazine asked me to wander the course in search of racers and fans for a spread in the January/February issue. I couldn’t resist going to Bend for the annual Halloween party. Wackiness and good racing. The next weekend at Barlow provided a more classic scene on a course known for its tricky downhill plunge and grueling hill climb.

all content © Tim LaBarge 2012 – 2013

I still carry my little Canon camera each time I run, I’ve simply neglected to post images here.
This little camera has brought me more joy than I predicted. I am usually excited to head out for run on some trail or another, but coming home with an image or two lets me relive it again and again and gets me fired up to go back out there to explore.

Some of the past entries can be found here: http://timlabarge.com/category/running/

So to bring things back up to the present day, here is a collection of images from the past few months.

all content © Tim LaBarge 2013

I cursed, for sure. The stretch of time between closing my eyes and opening them again had been too brief.
It was still very dark and at least one child was awake and the dog was squirming. I had expected to remain asleep, comforted by the drone of crashing waves, at least until I saw daylight.

I left the boys in the house with a book and three sleeping adults and slipped out to the beach with an excited dog.
Lights from crabbing boats floated in the distance. The sun was still hours from making an appearance.

As I crept up to each shadow of mass, I was certain a sea creature, washed ashore overnight, would be revealed. I both wanted this to happen, and hoped it would not. I was eager to discover something delivered by the tide, yet I feared an encounter with a giant mammal, suffering.

The day emerged and the texture of the land and water all around us became more defined. We turned and made our way back to the house. We walked back along the same stretch of beach, but there were no creatures, no more giant beasts washed ashore. The beach was now littered only with root wads and driftwood.

all content © Tim LaBarge 2013

As Leo struggled to fall asleep tonight, I leaned on the doorframe, willing to talk just a little longer. I didn’t want to get sucked into his tricky ways though. He has a knack for chatting late into the night, asking questions, asking for stories, wanting more.

I told him it was time to rest. Rest your eyes, rest your voice. We can talk more tomorrow.
“I love you,” I said.

He told me quietly, “I love you too, papa.”
“Okay,” I responded,”now let’s sleep.”

Then, the Guess How Much I Love You game commenced. That is the attempt to out do each other with I love yous in the manner of the pair of nutbrown hares in the children’s book.

“I love you to the moon,” Leo said.
I went straight for the punchline, “I love you to the moon…and back.”
But unlike the sweet critter in the book, Leo was not asleep.

“Yeah, well I love you to edge of the universe,” he whispered.
I was a little stumped because I couldn’t think of anything more distant. So I kept it vague. “Well, I love you all way to the next universe, if there is one.”

There was pause, then he spoke. “I love you to the horizon.”

And there the game ended. Because really, though it’s only a few miles away, you can’t ever get to the horizon. This love must be infinite, I thought, even greater than the distance to the edge of the next universe, to which one could certainly attach a light year or a few million. I told him this and he smiled. I thought Jack was sleeping, but his tiny voice cracked from the bottom bunk, “What do you mean?”

Leo tried to answer, “Jack, if you’re on a boat in the ocean, you can just keep on going forever and never get to the horizon because you keep moving past new things and new scenery and the horizon changes.”

An endless voyage of love, always pointed toward a new goal, a new destination on the horizon. This, to me, is not a bad thought to have in mind as you drift off to sleep. Which they both finally did.

Jack at Canby Cross last weekend

Each Monday, we’ve gotten several inquiries: Where are the pictures?
It’s true, we have not updated the site with a gallery of images from the weekend’s cyclocross race as we have done the past four seasons.

PDXCROSS is on hold, you might say. A few of the contributors moved away last year, a few are simply too busy to commit to documenting the great efforts and kind people each weekend.

So we’re not sure what’s next. What’s certain is that it’s been a blast. We’ve met so many amazing people in the cyclocross community. That just doesn’t happen everyday.

I will still be out there periodically making pictures of my boys and wife as they race.
I’ll be over in Bend for part of the festivities this weekend and again at Barton shooting an essay for a magazine.

Pictures will still be made and I might even jump on a bike again myself because, quite simply, it’s hard to stay away from such a good time.