Maggie Gyllenhaal, Peter Sarsgaard, and me

From August 2022 to August 2023 I worked part-time as a grocery stocker at the Middlebury Natural Foods Co-op in Vermont. It was a physically demanding job, especially for someone my age (I turned 68 in May of '23), but for the most part I enjoyed the work and the people I worked with. I even liked most of the customers, who, as Vermonters, were evidently required by law to be unnervingly pleasant.

Two such customers were the film actors Maggie Gyllenhaal and Peter Sarsgaard, a couple who, besides having double "a's" in their surnames, owned a vacation home just up the hill from Middlebury. So, at certain times of the year, they were frequent shoppers at the co-op.

I first met them one day when I was grabbing some cereal backstock from the shelves above the beer aisle, which was situated directly across from the deli bar. "Would you happen to know where I could find the raspberry vinaigrette dressing you used to have here?" said a voice from behind me.

Unsure of whom the voice was directed toward, I turned around...and there, standing directly in front of me now, was a woman whose eyes would be unmistakable in any situation, in any location in the known universe: Maggie Gyllenhaal. 

Maggie Gyllenhaal

I was so startled, all I could think of to say was, "I know you!" Which of course I didn't, but...I knew those eyes...that face...that voice...from all the movies I'd seen her in. "I've seen several of your movies and liked 'em all," I blurted. "And coincidentally, just last night my wife and I watched your brother Jake in The Day After Tomorrow."

Her brother? What did he have to do with this conversation? Was I a total idiot? (Don't answer that.) And oh, by the way, what movies had I seen Ms. Gyllenhaal in? Umm...hold on a minute...

Oh, yeah: A Dangerous Woman, Donnie Darko, Secretary, Adaptation, Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, Mona Lisa Smile, World Trade Center, White House Down, The Honorable Woman, The Kindergarten Teacher...and maybe a few others I can't recall. In fact, I couldn't recall most of these until just now, when I looked up Ms. Gyllenhaal's bio on IMDB. But in that moment when her eyes met mine, I recognized her instantly.

(Yeah, yeah, I know: she was also in Dark Knight and a bunch of other awesome films that I haven't yet seen. Just give me some time, OK?)

"Um, so, uh..." I stammered, "you're looking for the raspberry vinaigrette?"

She nodded. 

"Um, there might be some bottles of it back in the cooler in the produce section," I offered.

"No," she replied, smiling her gazillion-watt smile, "I need to put some on my salad for lunch." And then she abruptly turned away from me and said, "Never mind; I'll ask someone here in the deli."

I wasn't sure what to make of this. We were getting along so well, and she gives me the cold shoulder! Had I said the wrong thing? Did my leering make her uncomfortable? Was there garlic in my scrambled eggs this morning? Or was she just being polite and trying not to bother me with questions I couldn't answer?

Then I noticed another famous person standing off to the side, watching the saga of the movie star and the blithering idiot unfold. It was Peter Sarsgaard. Standing next to him were two teenage girls—his and Ms. Gyllenhaal's daughters, perhaps? 

Peter Sarsgaard

Having totally blown my chance to have a meaningful conversation with Ms. Gyllenhaal, I bravely decided to risk a similar debacle with Mr. Sarsgaard. So I strode up to him and said, as nonchalantly as I could, "I've seen most of your movies [an unwitting lie, as it turns out], but my favorite is Dopesick. I thought you were really good in that." I wish I'd had the presence of mind to add, "I also liked that your name in Dopesick was Rick," but it's probably best that I just shut the hell up at this point.

To my surprise, Mr. Sarsgaard smiled broadly and replied, "Oh, thanks a lot for saying so! Yeah, it was nice to do something substantial and meaningful for a change, and not just entertainment. In fact, before Dopesick I worked on a documentary about the opioid problem, so it was kind of a natural tie-in." 

"Oh, really?" I said, "I'll have to check that out. Well, I'd better let you get back to your shopping." 

"Yeah, nice chatting with you, man," he said, making me feel just a bit taller than I'd felt a moment ago.

At this point, Ms. Gyllenhaal had apparently gotten what she needed from the folks in the deli, and she was now checking out the meat cooler. Knowing that she had been a participant (and award recipient) in the previous summer's Middlebury New Filmmakers Festival, I asked if she was going to be a part of it again this year.

"Oh, maybe," she replied with a smile. "I hear Alexander Payne is going to be there, and he would be fun to see. Are you going?"

Whoa. Maggie Gyllenhaal asked me a question. Did the Earth's poles just switch places or something?

"Oh, cool," I replied, despite the fact that I had no idea who Alexander Payne was. "I plan to attend most of the festival, so maybe I'll see you there?" In reality, I had no solid plans to attend the festival—just the desire. Also, Jules and I were talking about moving back to Oregon, so it wasn't certain that we would even be in Middlebury in late August when the festival was scheduled to happen.

At this point, Ms. Gyllenhaal turned to her eldest daughter, who looked to be about 14, and asked her to go find something for her. Her daughter then turned to me and asked, "Do you know where the rosewater is?"

"I think I can help you find that," I said, which was literally true, since I was only kind of sure where it was. As I was leading her toward the "international aisle," I said to her, "It must drive you crazy having people thronging your parents everywhere you go."

"No, it's not so bad," she replied with a smile. 

Maybe not in Vermont, I thought, knowing how Vermonters tend to value their privacy and respect others' privacy equally. Or maybe not anywhere else, for that matter, since Ms. Gyllenhaal and Mr. Sarsgaard aren't mega-stars, and aren't readily recognizable to many.

We located the rosewater, she said thanks, and that was the last I saw of the family—until a couple of weeks later, when I spotted Ms. Gyllenhaal standing in front of the bread display, looking forlorn.

"Let me know if there's anything I can help you with," I offered.

"Oh, hi," she replied, smiling, apparently having actually recognized me from our previous encounter (yet another ego boost). I was determined not to be quite so awkward this time, if at all possible. "Can you tell me when this bread is going to be restocked?" she asked, pointing to an empty space on the shelf.

"Sure, let me go check with the bread person and get back to you." I walked briskly, but not too obviously briskly, over to the deli, where the bread person was working, got the needed information, and walked briskly, but not too briskly, back to where Ms. Gyllenhaal was still standing. "It'll be here on Tuesday around 10 a.m.," I informed her, with an absurdly exaggerated sense of pride and gratification.

"Oh, great—thanks," she said, smiling.

My day was made.

A couple of weeks later, I spotted Ms. Gyllenhaal in the produce section, said hello, and kept walking as nonchalantly as I could so as to reduce the chances that she would take out a restraining order on me. A few minutes later, while I was working in the breakfast aisle, she came up to me and asked, "Do you know where I might find the marshmallows?"

Marshmallows? I thought. She eats marshmallows and looks like that? Just kidding. I started to think that, but then stopped myself when I remembered that she and Mr. Sarsgaard had two kids. But yeah, maybe they all ate marshmallows and still looked like that, who knows?

"Right over here," I pointed. "Top shelf, totally hidden so no one can find 'em."

"Oh, thanks," she said, graciously smiling at my attempt at humor.

Trying to come up with some more small talk to keep the conversation going, I asked her, "Have you been affected by the flooding where you are?" (Pretty much the entire state of Vermont had been deluged that summer—30 inches of rain over a span of three months.) 

"No," she replied, grabbing a bag of marshmallows. "We're up pretty high in Ripton, so it hasn't been too bad. But a neighbor's house, which was downhill from a clearcut, was washed down the hill."

"Yikes," I said. "Well, glad to hear you were safe. Have you had any trouble getting into town and back?" I was shamelessly milking this conversation for all it was worth, while trying to appear not to be milking the conversation.

Nevertheless, Ms. Gyllenhaal managed to conceal her undoubtedly rabid indignation by replying kindly, "Yeah, Highway 125 was flooded out for a couple of days, but it's open now. How about you? Any flooding where you live?"

Whoa again. This famous person, this well-known and beloved actress who owed nobody anything except perhaps her parents and children, was actually giving me, an unknown and, on a good day, maybe beliked grocery stocker at the local food co-op, the proverbial time of day. 

I was in shock. But I had to haul myself out of my shock and say something, so I replied, "Uh, do you know where the Marble Works condos are, down by the falls?"

"Oh, yeah...I think so."

"My wife and I are renting a condo there, and so far the flooding hasn't affected us, either. Knock on...marble?" (OK, I made that last silly bit up, but you know how in retrospect you always come up with things you wish you'd said? Yeah, that's me. Every. Single. Time.) And then I added, for some unknown reason, "But we just learned that our daughter in Oregon is sick, so we're planning to move back there at the end of August."

"Oh, sorry to hear about your daughter," she replied, with a look of genuine concern. "But Oregon is beautiful."

"You've been there?"

"Yes, many times. I love it." What was she doing in Oregon, of all places? Making a movie, perhaps? I later Googled "Maggie Gyllenhaal movies made in Oregon," but the results were inconclusive.

"I lived there most of my life before we moved here two years ago," I replied. "We were hoping to find a place to buy here, but didn't have any luck." Sensing that I had now not only overshared but also overstayed my welcome, I said, "Well, it was very nice meeting you and talking to you. Have a good day, and maybe our paths will cross again before I leave."

"Yes, nice meeting you too," she said. "Take care."

Near the end of August, two days before I was set to move, our paths did cross once more—in the same spot where we had originally met: the deli. This time, however, we were both shopping. So, a level playing field, of sorts (ha ha).

"Well, hello there," I ventured. "I'm off to Oregon in two days."

"Oh, really? Well, the best of luck to you."

No worries on that score: I felt like I'd already had the best of luck.

Crossing the deadly Columbia Bar in a small cabin cruiser

When I was 18 I had a girlfriend whose parents liked me well enough, I think, but they didn't exactly approve of me. Probably because I was three years older than their daughter.  

Yeah, my girlfriend was 15. Jailbait. But hey, she was mature for her age! And I wasn't!

Anyway, despite his misgivings about me, my girlfriend's dad, Jean, got me a job as a lot boy at the car dealership where he was the sales manager. Lot boys are the guys or gals who move service customers' cars from the service department to the service bays...where they get serviced. After the cars were serviced, we'd move them out of the service bays to an outside lot, where we'd sometimes wash and vacuum them, depending on how pissed the customer already was about the repairs that were needed and/or how pissed he/she was going to be when he/she received the repair bill. In addition, I was also the designated morning courtesy driver, meaning I would drive the pissed-off customers from the dealership to wherever they needed or wanted to go.

One day, Jean ambled up to me in the service department and asked whether I'd be interested in joining him and some friends on an ocean salmon fishing trip on his cabin cruiser. As an avid fisherman and lover of both salmon and adventure—I had never been on a boat in the ocean—I of course said, "Sure!"

...and then immediately started having doubts. What had I gotten myself into? What were Jean's intentions? Was he a good skipper? Or would he be like the skipper in The Perfect Storm, who had been apprised of the weather forecast but decided to go fishing anyway (spoiler alert: everyone dies). Would I make a complete ass of myself by saying or doing something stupid? Get seasick and spend the entire day heaving ho? Catch zero fish while everyone else caught their limit? And so on.

Little did I know at the time that there was a much bigger concern than any of these: Boating down the Columbia River to the Pacific Ocean, we would be crossing the infamous Columbia Bar, whose nickname, I learned later, is Graveyard of the Pacific. It earned that moniker by swallowing thousands of ships—most of them much larger than the dinghy we would be fishing from—and drowning more than 700 people. There are professional "bar pilots" who are paid $180,000 a year to help guide boats across the bar, sometimes by landing helicopters on boats in distress and commandeering them.

If all that isn't enough to scare any sane person away from trying to cross the bar, consider this tidbit from Wikipedia: 

The nearby United States Coast Guard Station...is renowned for operating in some of the roughest sea conditions in the world, and is home to the National Motor Lifeboat School. It is the only school for rough weather and surf rescue operation in the US, and is respected internationally as a center of excellence for heavy boat operations.

This wasn't us, but it could've been.

So the question, then, is: What in HELL was I thinking saying "Sure!" to this particular invitation? And further: What in HELL was Jean thinking when he invited me? "This'll be a great way to get rid of Rick and make it look like an accident!" The perfect murder!

The answer, of course, was that, since I was blissfully ignorant of the Columbia Bar's reputation, I decided to just play along with Jean's nefarious scheme and....see what happened. Perfect Storm be damned!

And what happened was...pretty much nothing, in terms of sinking or drowning.* I did, however, catch a salmon (a 21-inch silver)—and a baby shark (mini-Jaws!). Did I get seasick? Nah. Did I make a fool of myself? Probably, but nobody called me out on it. Did Jean make a hard turn and dump me overboard? Nope. In fact, Jean and I kinda...bonded. Or at least we moved an inch or two in a more-or-less positive direction: He quit fretting so much about my age, and I quit fretting that he would turn me in for statutory...thoughts.

Considering everything else that could've happened, I was OK with that.

*Apologies for the anticlimactic climax.

That time I got to ride in a hot-air balloon

My parents used to live on two acres next to a small municipal airport in rural Hubbard, Oregon. My mom used the acreage to garden and raise chickens and horses, while my dad used the airport to fly a Piper four-seater he co-owned with a neighbor. My mom also volunteered as an English tutor at the elementary school across the street, and my dad was working toward his instrument rating (flying solely by reference to instruments) so he could become a flight instructor. I would often spend the night at "the farm," where I enjoyed being around the animals and occasionally getting a ride in an airplane. 

One spring morning after spending the night, I looked out the bedroom window and saw what appeared to be a hot-air balloon touching down at the elementary school. I got dressed and hurried outside to see what was up. Sure enough, it was a hot-air balloon, and it was indeed touching down at the edge of the schoolyard.

So of course I had to get a closer look. As I neared the balloon, I saw that it was emblazoned on two sides (balloons have sides?) with the Oregon Lottery logo. I didn't have a camera on me and I can't find a photo of the balloon online,* but the logo looked kind of like this:

Ironically, a couple of years earlier I had designed and produced political-style buttons that mocked the Oregon Lottery. The buttons featured a hand-drawn facsimile of the logo accompanied by the words, LET'S PLAY OREGON LOTTERY. GIVE ME A DOLLAR. WASN'T THAT FUN?

Irony aside, I decided to sidle on up to the balloon and ask its pilot what the deal was. First impressions: contrary to the hot-air balloon's image as something quiet and peaceful, the damn thing was incredibly noisy. You don't want to be standing anywhere near it with your ears uncovered when the propane burner fires. Think Wizard of Oz balloon times 100.

Between blasts of hot air, I managed to get my question in: "What are you doing here? Are you giving rides?"

To my utter astonishment, the pilot replied that he was just practicing landing and taking off, and that yes, he would be happy to give me a short ride. "You OK with just going up a little ways and then coming back down?" he asked.

Dude, whatever. I've never even been close to a hot-air balloon, let alone been offered a ride in one, however short. "Yeah, that sounds fine," I answered, trying to conceal my excitement.

"OK," he said, opening the hinged door to the basket, "climb aboard and we'll lift off."

So I climbed into the basket, gave the pilot a thumbs up, and...grabbed the edge of the basket with both hands...as if that would save me in the event of a crash landing.

Remember I mentioned how noisy the propane burner was? Now, standing right below it, I wished I had something to cover my ears other than my hands. I shifted from trying to conceal my excitement to trying to conceal my concern about going deaf. But was I going to complain about it? Nah. I WAS RIDING IN A GODDAM HOT-AIR BALLOON! My friends would be so envious! Readers of my blog would be so envious! If only blogs existed!

WHOA...we're going up! My heart started whooshing. Wait...that was the propane burner again. My heart started pounding. And then that stupid song "Up, Up, and Away" found its way into my head. 

Just kidding! All I could think about was how cool it was to be standing in a wicker basket attached to a big, colorful balloon—a balloon—that was rather rapidly rising off the ground into...

The air. We were a hundred feet up in the air already. Holy shit. What if the burner runs out of propane? Or the balloon pops? That 14-foot fall I once took from a scaffolding will pale in comparison. 

I had just begun imagining how many bones I would break in a 100-foot fall when the balloon slowly started descending. The pilot must've read my mind. Or my face.

Safely on the ground again, I thanked the pilot for the experience and made a hasty exit out the hinged door. Then I stood for a few minutes and watched as the balloon took off once again, rose into the sky, and gradually disappeared...maybe to land at the edge of another schoolyard and give some other naive thrill-seeker a lift? 

I'm not big on gambling, so I've never really played the Oregon Lottery. But in a way I won a piece of it that day—by getting to ride in their hot-air balloon. And it didn't cost me a dollar!

*I contacted the Oregon Lottery, via a public records request form, to inquire as to whether they could share a photo of the balloon with me. The Lottery's Public Records Specialist very kindly wrote back to inform me that no one there had any recollection of such a balloon and could find no record of it. "Our best guess is that we may have hired a vendor to add our logo to a balloon for a time as we had similarly done with large boats and classic cars in the past for advertising," she concluded.

Bill Scream, Rusty Bolt, Dr. Demento, and me

Following is an email I sent to radio personality Dr. Demento on July 19, 2021. Unfortunately, I have yet to hear anything back, except...radio silence. 

Greetings, Doctor,

On April 17, 2021, I posted a silly thing on Facebook about a rusty bolt I had found in my yard. The post went something like this:

Yesterday I found this old, rusty bolt lying on the ground on our property, in a spot that Jules [my wife] and I have passed by several times a day for the 10+ years we've lived here. Where did it come from? It looks like it's been underground for decades, but if so, how did it work its way to the surface just yesterday?

Apparently Neil Young was right: Rust never sleeps.

One of the comments on my post came from an old friend and colleague (we worked on Claymation films together back in the ‘70s and ‘80s) named Bill Scream. It went something like this:

I think it’s a sign. I found one recently, myself. It must be for very special people. The Ponderers of the Rusty Bolts.

…to which my wife replied:

Hey, great name for a band. Or just "The Rusty Bolt Band"

A week later, I received an email from Bill Scream. Attached was an MP3 file of a song he had composed, performed, and produced in honor of my rusty bolt, called…wait for it...“Rusty Bolt.” 

It was brilliant. And hilarious. And very catchy. So catchy that Bill told me his 6-year-old grandkid had memorized it within a few hours and was singing it ad nauseam all over the house.

A few days ago, I remembered the guy who had launched Weird Al’s career—you—and thought, “Hmmm…”

I asked Bill, via email, for permission to send the song to you, and he replied, "Oh sure...50 years...more than 50 years...I have cranked out songs, jingles, soundtracks and it comes down to some stupid bolt a guy trips over one day. I had nothing to do and no one to complain to, so I knock out a song and that’s what people will know me by for the rest of my days!” In a subsequent email, following much cajoling on my part, he wrote, "I can see I’ll never hear the end of this if I don’t agree to your wild scheme. So...I’m in!"

So. Here’s the song, along with the lyrics and a jpeg of the rusty bolt itself. And of course, I’m cc-ing Bill Scream himself, just to keep this wild scheme on the up and up.

Enjoy! And thanks for listening.

Rick Cooper

RUSTY BOLT

By Bill Scream (© 2021 Scream Music)

Well I ran across this rusty bolt while walkin’ in the rain

Now where it’s from or what it’s for, I really can’t explain.

It coulda been a linchpin on a mule train headed west

Or somethin’ off a logger’s tool that made its final rest.

Then buried and forgotten under time and years of dust

Then dug up by some gopher, kickin’ out that bolt of rust.

Rusty bolt

Rusty bolt

Ponderin’ that rusty bolt

There’s no tellin’ how the story goes, there’s no one left to tell it

So I’ll stick it on some driftwood, call the E Bay, try to sell it.

I’ll say it washed up years ago from the shipwreck Iredale

Then found its way, I don’t know how, clear up this lonely trail.

Ya gotta think whose hands have touched this rusty piece of gear.

I’m still just ponderin’ that rusty bolt, I wonder why it’s here?

Rusty bolt

Rusty bolt

Ponderin' that rusty bolt

The eponymous rusty bolt (photo by yours truly)

Addenda

Before sending the email to Dr. Demento, I had asked for Bill's permission and, in case Demento went for it, whether Bill had copyrighted his song. Here is his reply in its entirety:

Oh sure...as my old friend Paul would start his lament. 50 years...more than 50 years...I have cranked out songs, jingles, soundtracks and it comes down to some stupid bolt a guy trips over one day. I had nothing to do and no one to complain to, so I knock out a song and that’s what people will know me by for the rest of my days!

Is it copyrighted...are you kidding me?!? That would take effort! I was once told if you mailed it to someone and show the postage date, that established time of conception.

And Dr. Demento, how old IS that guy now? I listened to him in college, so maybe it’s “son of”.

Anyhoo, I’m absolutely honored. Do we need a video?

I’m in and out all day today but would love to pursue your rusty idea!  :)

After I sent the actual email to Dr. Demento and cc'd Bill, Bill replied: "Head in hand, laughing and crying at the same time." 

A few weeks later, having heard nothing back from Dr. Demento, I re-sent my original email to him, prefaced thusly:

Hello! I’m resending this in hopes that you’ll at least consider the OREGON angle here…Bill Scream grew up in McMinnville and lives in Portland; and I grew up in Portland (my alma mater is Reed’s “rival," Lewis & Clark College) and live in Kings Valley, Oregon (where I found the rusty bolt). Surely, the home state connection has to be worth something, no? : )

Rick Cooper

As of December 11, 2023, still no response. : (

The fabulous Ms. Quittner and her Magnetica

A few months after Jules and I moved from Oregon to Burlington, Vermont, we were talking about how unfamiliar everything was and how out of place we often felt. So I decided to place a personals ad on a local internet bulletin board called Front Porch, inviting other recent transplants from the West Coast to meet with us and discuss our respective experiences. 

A woman named Katherine Quittner was one of three people who responded to the ad. She wrote that she had moved from Venice, California, to Burlington two years earlier and was interested in meeting. We set up a time and a place to meet, and exchanged photos of ourselves (and our dogs) so we would recognize each other when we got together. We would meet for lunch at Stone Soup on College St., and we'd have about an hour to get acquainted before Ms. Quittner would have to "go to work" nearby.

Ms. Quittner was about five-foot-four, had curly white hair, and appeared to be in her mid-60s. And she was a dynamo of creative energy. During our brief visit we learned that, like us, she was a climate refugee, having moved to Vermont to escape the West Coast's ever-increasing heat and wildfires. We also learned that she was a musician of some renown, and that she had recently retired from a 20-year career as a film music editor (the person who selects all the musical pieces for a movie). Among her many Hollywood music editing credits: City of Angels, Father of the Bride, Hocus Pocus, A River Runs Through It, and Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone.

Lunch over, we were getting up to bus our dishes and say our goodbyes when Ms. Quittner asked whether we'd be interested in seeing a musical instrument she had invented. She said it was called the Magnetica, and it was situated in her studio, just upstairs from where we'd had lunch.

Umm...yes? Was there some other possible answer?

So, upstairs we went for a private viewing of Ms. Quittner's invention.

First impressions: Wow. It's...beautiful. And mystical. And fabulous. My jaw was on the floor.

Ms. Quittner demonstrating The Magnetica (photo lifted from her website).

"You invented this? And built it? What does it do? What are the 12 chairs surrounding it for?"

"Yes, I invented it," Ms. Quittner replied, perhaps more patiently than I deserved, "and built it. It makes music. And the 12 chairs are for the audience."

Duh. No more stupid questions, I vowed to myself.

"When can we hear a demonstration?" (That wasn't so stupid, right?)

"I'm thinking about having a concert in a few weeks or so, but I'm not very good at marketing so I'm not sure how to get the word out."

Now all I wanted to do was figure out a way to help her get the word out. But it had been a few years since I had done any professional-level marketing, so instead of offering to help I said, "Would you be willing to let us know when you have a date set? Maybe by emailing us?"

"Sure," she replied. 

Cool. We were going to be among the first to see and hear Ms. Quittner's beautiful, mystical, fabulous invention in action. 

I. Couldn't. Wait.

So, just to make sure the deal was sealed, I followed up the next day with an email to Ms. Quittner:

Hi Katherine,

It was such a pleasure meeting you yesterday, breaking bread, getting acquainted, and being invited up to your studio to see your intriguing invention. We look forward to getting together with you again sometime, and maybe being a part of the lucky audience of 12 who get to see you in concert. We're in the middle of preparing our condo to list this July and, as we talked about, find a property in Middlebury. If we don’t connect before all of that happens, we will get ahold of you once we’ve landed in our new place. 

Until then,

Rick & Jules

Ms. Quittner replied almost immediately:

Hey Jules and Rick,

It was fun to meet you too. Good luck finding your hearts' desires in Middlebury. I'm sure with an open mind and a fat wallet you can succeed.

I, for one, am grateful that my lucky real estate investments of decades ago, put me into such a good position to continue this luck. Also, I think that practically, the people that can think clearly about the future will be the ones that have an easier time surviving. Watta Drama. 

I hope my healing musical invention works. It would bum me out a lot if it didn’t, but then I can do it with the tuning forks so why not with the special sounds I make? ok I am rambling.

Good luck and see you round.

Katherine

Great. We were in.

Or so I thought. Unfortunately, despite my best efforts to stay in touch with Ms. Quittner after we moved to Middlebury (35 miles south of Burlington), she vanished into thin air. She had mentioned when we met that she was planning a trip back to Venice in a few weeks, so maybe she went and...never came back? Or maybe her mother in Florida passed away and she got distracted with memorial arrangements. Or maybe she gave a concert, forgot to invite us, and her Magnetica failed to deliver...which bummed her out so much she built a teletransporter and beamed herself back to her home planet?

OK, I veered off into absurdity with that last conjecture, although there was something otherworldly about Ms. Quittner. But whatever. We probably never will get to see the Magnetica in action, but I try to console myself with the fact that we were among the very few people (on this planet, anyway) who got see it in person.

Katherine Quittner, wherever you are, may your fabulous spirit live on through your music.

Addenda

Ms. Quittner's website describes the Magnetica as follows:

The Magnetica is a music-generating machine with a capacity for sound healing. It incorporates ancient instrumental forms enhanced with modern electronic capabilities. It is an electro-acoustic instrument that uses a mix of triggers and controllers to generate unusual electronic and acoustic sounds. It is the past, the present and the future in one place.

It is an instrument designed for improvisation, and for interacting with its audience. The Magnetica offers new ways to make music. Performers move on its platform in order to produce sounds.

The 12 strings are held by 10 foot long, bow shaped arcs, and its natural wood base forms a large resonant chamber. The acoustics are enhanced with antique Tibetan prayer bowls.

You can see photos of Ms. Quittner and the Magnetica in concert here, and hear a sample recording here.

Viewing Officer Clemmons' home in Middlebury, Vermont

In 2022-23, Jules and I were living in a rented condo in Middlebury, VT, while looking for a home to buy somewhere in the area. As of mid-July 2023, nothing had quite met our needs or our budget. Some had met one or the other, but many more met neither. One such home was Francois Clemmons' place.

Who the heck is Francois Clemmons? He's the one on the left.

Officer Clemmons (left) and Mr. Rogers
get their feet wet—in the same pool (GASP!).

OK, so...back to the story. When our realtor started to show us Mr. Clemmons' home, which is in a very nice, um...neighborhood...she asked us, "Did you ever watch Mr. Rogers?" 

"Sure," Jules replied. 

"Uh...no, but of course I know who he was," I said. "Why?"

"This home is owned by Francois Clemmons, who played Officer Clemmons on Mr. Rogers."

I had no idea who Officer Clemmons was, but Jules said she knew. 

And then we were entering his home. Which was full of...photos and posters and memorabilia depicting scenes from Mr. Rogers, showcasing Mr. Rogers, celebrating Mr. Rogers, commemorating Mr. Rogers...

If an object was ever made anywhere, at any time, of any material, with Mr. Rogers' image on it, Mr. Clemmons had it hanging on a wall, sitting on a shelf, or situated on a piece of furniture in his home.

In some cases, of course, the photos and posters and memorabilia depicted Mr. Rogers with Mr. Clemmons—especially the image of the two of them with their bare feet in the wading pool.

Which is fine—albeit just a bit over the top, for my tastes.

"Over the top" also happens to be an apt description of the house in general, which was over the top full of...what appeared to my undiscerning eye as junk. We're talking a borderline hoarder here. What had happened to this relatively famous TV personality, who had been a regular guest on one of the most revered and successful children's programs of all time, to make him fill his home with memorabilia and junk?

Or maybe the question is, what happens to anyone to make them fill their home with memorabilia and junk?

Social scientists might have an answer to that question, but I don't. However, I do know this about Mr. Clemmons: He was the guy who not only symbolically broke racial barriers by sharing a wading pool with Mr. Rogers, but also challenged Mr. Rogers' bigotry. 

"Wait," you say. "Mr. Rogers? Bigotry?"

Yep. Mr. Rogers was a bigot. Specifically, he had issues with Francois Clemmons' sexual preference. To Mr. Rogers' credit, however, he did ultimately come around to a more...enlightened point of view. Here are the sordid details, according to Wikipedia:

While attending Oberlin College, Clemmons realized that he was gay, but remained closeted, fearing disapproval from his religious family and the community. In 1968, Fred Rogers told Clemmons that, while his sexuality did not matter to him personally, Clemmons could not be "out" and continue appearing on Mister Rogers' Neighborhood, because of the scandal that would arise. In the late 1960s, Rogers and others suggested that Clemmons get married as a way to deal with his sexual orientation, which he did. His marriage to his wife Carol did not work out, and Clemmons divorced in 1974 so that he could live openly as a gay man. Rogers remained personally supportive of Clemmons, but required him to avoid any indication of his homosexuality on the program, such as the earring he began to wear as a signifier. Rogers later revised his counsel to Clemmons as countless gays came out more publicly following the Stonewall riots in 1969. Rogers even urged Clemmons to enter into a long-term, stable gay relationship, and he always warmly welcomed Clemmons' gay friends whenever they visited the television set in Pittsburgh.

Ain't redemption grand? 

From 1997 until his retirement in 2013, Clemmons was the Alexander Twilight Artist in Residence and director of the Martin Luther King Spiritual Choir at Middlebury College in Middlebury, Vermont. He "played the role of professor, choirmaster, resident vocal soloist, advisor, confidant, and community cheerleader." He is also well known in the Middlebury community for his acclaimed rendition of "The Star Spangled Banner," which he sings at the Middlebury College men's basketball games.

Our viewing of Mr. Clemmons' home over and our interest abated, we stepped out on his front porch and said thank you and goodbye to our realtor. As we were heading toward our car, which we had parked at the curb, we noticed a red Toyota Prius sitting in the driveway with an elderly man in the driver's seat. It was Clemmons. His custom license plate read MIDD DIVA, and posted on one of the backseat windows was a decal depicting Clemmons and Mr. Rogers…with their feet in the wading pool.

We later learned that Mr. Clemmons had sold his home for $12,000 less than his asking price. I hope he found a nice place to move to with all his memories.

Jennifer Lawrence's father-in-law and me

A couple of months after I started working part-time as a grocery stocker at the Middlebury Natural Foods Cooperative, a co-worker mentioned that she had recently seen actor Jennifer Lawrence in the store. Intrigued (and perhaps seeking verification), I asked my boss if she had seen Ms. Lawrence in the store, and she said she hadn't—and furthermore doubted our co-worker's story. "However," she added, "Jennifer's father-in-law, James Maroney, lives just down the highway and he comes in here all the time. I'll introduce you next time I see him."

An hour later, I was stocking some shelves when my boss, accompanied by some tall old dude, approached me. "Rick, I'd like you to meet James Maroney," she said. Then, to Mr. Maroney, she said, "Rick recently moved here from Oregon, where he and his wife had a small organic farm."

As Mr. Maroney stuck his big hand out to shake mine, he said, "Why did you move to Vermont? Did you make a wrong turn? Did you get lost?"

Laughing, I replied, "No, we moved here mostly because of climate change. We got tired of all the smoke and ash and heat every summer."

"Well, welcome to Vermont," he replied. And from there, the conversation turned to organic farming (Maroney used to run the state's largest organic dairy); Vermont's future as a self-sufficient organic food producer ("It'll never happen," Maroney told me, "because the growing season is too short, the soil isn't right, and there isn't enough political will or economic support"); the strain of running a farm and never getting a break; and Maroney's bed and breakfast ("It's not making money," he revealed). 

During the course of our 10-minute conversation there in the Co-op's "dinner aisle," I had the good sense not to ask him the main thing I was curious about: how was it to have Jennifer Lawrence as a daughter-in-law? Nor did I mention that Ms. Lawrence's son and mine share the same name (Cy), nor that she and my wife share a birthday. Nor did I tell him that my wife is an author whose first novel, Marcea of the Dust, would make an excellent movie, and would he mind if I mailed him a copy to pass on to Jennifer?

Of course, the fact that I thought about doing all those things may reveal something about how good my sense actually is.

Despite my Herculean restraint, Mr. Maroney has yet to engage with me in further conversation, although he did smile at me broadly the last time I saw him. So I guess we're still best buds.

But I have yet to see Ms. Lawrence in the store. Which is probably a good thing, since I'd probably say something stupid like, "My son and yours share the same name and my wife's birthday is the same as yours and may I send you my wife's novel so you can turn it into a movie?"

Jennifer Lawrence
(James Maroney's daughter-in-law)

Episcopal Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori, Jesus, and me

Before she became the first female Presiding Bishop of the U.S. Episcopal Church, Katharine Jefferts Schori was an adjunct professor of religion at Oregon State University (OSU). I'm certain she was a lot of other things before becoming an adjunct professor, but that is the juncture at which our lives intersected.

Katharine Jefferts Schori on the
cover of Time Magazine,
Sept. 18, 2017

The year was 1990. I was one of about 20 students in a religious studies course (whose title I don't recall) taught by Dr. Jefferts (her maiden name). I liked Dr. Jefferts a lot; she was smart, kind, insightful, and almost uncannily good-natured. And I found her course, whatever it was called, quite enjoyable. 

I rarely spoke up in class, but on one occasion when we were discussing inconsistencies and dubious assertions in the Bible, I decided to insert myself into the conversation. To this day, I question my judgment in doing so.

What did I say that was so questionable? "What if the 'water' that Jesus allegedly walked on was actually just ice? I've read that certain parts of the Sea of Galilee have been known to freeze over on occasion."

Ms. Jefferts' face morphed from smiling to expressionless. It was as if I'd just committed blasphemy. She was flummoxed, literally speechless. So were all my classmates. Because, I guess, everyone knows it would be impossible for ice to form in the Sea of Galilee, situated as it was in northern Israel.

My face and neck were hot. I'm pretty sure I was as red as Judas after he betrayed Jesus with a kiss. It was one of the most uncomfortable moments I'd ever experienced in a college classroom. There was no taking my comment back, no getting past it, no further discussion on the topic whatsoever. 

Fortunately, one of my classmates finally broke the silence with an unrelated comment, ending the interminable silence—which in actuality was probably only a few seconds long. And of course I have no recollection what he or she said, I was still so enshrouded in shame. 

But the moment passed, and life moved on. 

Sixteen years later, in April of 2006, my blasphemy was unexpectedly and scientifically vindicated—by a professor of oceanography at Florida State University (FSU) named Doron Nof, who concluded that Jesus more likely walked on a floating patch of ice than on water. His explanation for the ice? It was caused by "a rare combination of optimal water and atmospheric conditions for development of a unique, localized freezing phenomenon." Nof and the co-authors of the study dubbed the phenomenon "springs ice" [sic]. 

Nof also was quoted as saying that in today's climate, "the chance of springs ice forming in northern Israel is effectively zero, or about once in more than 10,000 years." Which would explain my professor's and classmates' skepticism about my comment—assuming I had been talking about the Sea of Galilee in today's climate. 

Coincidentally, two months after Dr. Nof's study was published, my former professor, who was now Dr. Jefferts Schori (she had married OSU mathematician Dr. Richard Schori), was named the first female leader of the U.S. Episcopal Church. At the time, I was employed as a publications editor and designer at Oregon Sea Grant, which funds, conducts, and publishes the results of marine research. 

I decided to swallow my pride and email Dr. Jefferts Schori a brief note of congratulations. 

"Dear Dr. Jefferts Schori," my email began, "You probably don't remember me, but in 1990 I was the student in one of your OSU religious studies courses who suggested that maybe Jesus walked on ice, not water. Anyway, I'm just writing to congratulate you on being named the Presiding Bishop of the U.S. Episcopal Church. Also, I thoroughly enjoyed your course. Sincerely, Rick Cooper."

To my utter astonishment, Her Eminence replied to my email. Within an hour.

"Dear Rick," she wrote, "Thank you for your nice note. As a former oceanographer myself, I've always had a particular fondness for Oregon Sea Grant and the work it does. You are in good company. In faith, Katharine."

I don't know what was more surprising to me—that she wrote back, that she still refused to address my Jesus comment, or that she was a former oceanographer…just like the FSU professor whose study vindicated me. I wasn't sure what to make of it. 

Not that any of it mattered, ultimately. But I sure would've liked to know how Bishop Jefferts Schori reconciled her scientific training with her religious indoctrination—especially with regard to Biblical claims that Jesus regularly defied the laws of physics.

I forgive Bishop Jefferts Schori. But I still harbor a fantasy of receiving a note from her someday—maybe in the mail, maybe via Facebook Messenger or something—saying, "Rick, I want to apologize for failing to respond to your comment about Jesus walking on ice. Now I realize you may have been right. Regardless, I could have, and should have, said something. I blew it, and I am sincerely sorry. —Katharine."

But I guess even Bishop Jefferts Schori doesn't walk on water, so I should probably stop waiting for...hell to freeze over.

A teenage girl's heart attack, Whitney Houston's assistant, and me

In 1985, when I was a second-year teacher of English and U.S. history at Highland View Middle School in Corvallis, Oregon, I had a student named Stacey who also happened to be my next-door neighbor. Stacey was a special kid; she was sweet, gentle, kind, funny, and just extraordinarily good-natured. (I was tempted to add "for an eighth-grader," but in reality Stacey was extraordinary for any human being.)

My wife (at the time) and I liked Stacey so much, we decided to hire her as a babysitter for our two-year-old daughter Lyris. And Stacey turned out to be a wonderful sitter, as well. Lyris loved her.

One day, while she was doing some household chores at her home and apparently overexerted herself, Stacey had a heart attack. 

I was stunned. Teenage girl? Heart attack? How in hell could this happen? And how could it happen to such an exemplary human being? What is wrong with the universe?

Fortunately, Stacey's mom was home at the time and was able to call 911. An ambulance came and initially transported Stacey to Good Samaritan Hospital in Corvallis, where doctors decided that her particular condition required more intensive care. So she was flown via helicopter up to Oregon Health Sciences University (OHSU) in Portland, 90 miles north.

Stacey had heart surgery and spent several weeks fighting for her life at OHSU, with one or both parents almost constantly by her side. Friends also visited when possible, including myself and Stacey's best friend Kajsa, who carpooled with me. On one visit I brought Stacey a pair of headphones and a cassette tape full of music I thought she might enjoy. It was during this visit that Stacey mentioned her favorite singer was Whitney Houston, and her favorite song was Houston's "Greatest Love of All."

This gave me an idea. Figuring that the hospital bill for Stacey's surgery and recovery was going to be astronomical, burdening her parents with impossible debt on top of trying to keep their daughter alive—along with caring for their three other daughters—I decided to ask Whitney Houston to perform a benefit concert…in Corvallis, Oregon. I knew it was a long shot, but not asking her at all would've made it an even longer shot.

Note that this was in 1985, before personal computers were ubiquitous and before email was even a glimmer in some computer geek's eye. There was also no Google, so I couldn't look up a phone number to call. So I had to mail a letter…care of Houston's agent, whose address I found on one of her albums. In my letter I explained the situation, begged Houston to put on a benefit concert in Corvallis, and gave her my address and home phone number.

After sending the letter, I promptly forgot about it, thinking that the chances of receiving a reply from Houston—or even her agent or anyone else in her sphere—were less than zero to zip. 

Two weeks later, at 7:45 a.m. on a Monday, I'm in my classroom at Highland View, preparing my lessons for the day. A voice comes over the intercom informing me that I have a phone call down in the office. A phone call for me…at school…at 7:45 on a Monday morning? Something must be wrong! Someone has been hurt, or died, or…

I race-walk down the long hall to the office. “Hello? This is Rick."

"Hi, Rick. This is Mary Jones, Whitney Houston's assistant. How are you?"

Mary Jones (left) and Whitney Houston

No fucking way. Whitney Houston's assistant? Calling me? At my workplace? At a phone number I didn't even provide in my letter? How did she get it?

"Um…uh…yes, uh, hello! I—I'm fine!" I stammer, trying to locate my composure, which seems to have left the planet. "Whitney Houston's assistant, did you say?"

"Yes. She actually calls me her aunt, but we're not related."

"Oh. Well, nice to meet you!"

"I'm calling in response to your letter. You were wondering if Whitney could put on a benefit concert there in Corvallis?"

"Um, yes. Yeah, I know it's a long shot, but—"

"Yes, Whitney asked me to tell you that, while she empathizes with Stacey's situation, she apologizes but she does have a policy of not doing benefit concerts. For anyone, for any reason. I'm so sorry."

"Oh. Yes, of course. I understand. No problem. I just thought it was worth a shot."

"Sure. And Whitney and I both wish you and Stacey the best. I hope things work out for her and her family."

"Um, yes, thank you. It was so nice of you to call. Have a great day."

"You too, Rick. And please give my best to Stacey. Goodbye."

"I will, thanks. Goodbye."

I was in a daze the rest of the day. Fortunately, my students didn't seem to notice. (Or did they, and I just didn't notice because I was in a daze?)

Several days later, Stacey was released from the hospital and I paid her a visit at her home. When I told her about the phone call, she was exultant. "Whitney Houston's assistant called you? About me? Wow, that's so cool!"

"Yeah, I just wish Whitney could've come here and performed 'Greatest Love of All' for you, live. That would've been cool."

"It would've been, but I think it was cool enough that you wrote to her, and her assistant called you."

Stacey was right: getting that phone call was cool enough. 

So, it took a 13-year-old girl recovering from a heart attack to school me on when to accept cool enough and stop asking for cooler.

Epilogue: Twenty-seven years later, when Whitney Houston died of drug intoxication, Mary Jones was the one who found the body.

Gary "The Glove" Payton and me

I first met basketball Hall-of-Famer Gary Payton in the spring of 1988 when I was an eighth-grade English and U.S. history teacher at Highland View Middle School in Corvallis, OR. At the time, Payton was a sophomore hoopster at Oregon State University (OSU). I had arranged with OSU Athletics' academic compliance officer, Michael Beachley, to have Payton and an OSU football player talk to my classes about "The Language of Sports," one of a series of such talks I had implemented to help pique my students' interest in language and its connections to a variety of vocations and avocations.

Gary Payton

True confession: At the time, I had no idea who Payton was, other than that he was rumored to be a pretty good basketball player. My students, on the other hand, knew exactly who he was—and rather quickly made that fact clear to me. Before Beachley had a chance to introduce us, my students, along with several students from neighboring classrooms, swarmed Payton, shaking his hand, slapping him on the back, and asking for his autograph. Payton graciously engaged with them and complied with their requests, using a borrowed permanent marker to sign his name on T-shirts, sneakers, and Pee-Chees. 

After the tardy bell rang and students scrambled back to their classrooms, Beachley finally had a chance to introduce Payton and me. Weirdly, as Payton stuck out his hand, he turned his face the other way, avoiding eye contact. His handshake was equally unimpressive—flaccid, like a dead fish. I couldn't discern whether his body language was a product of shyness, indifference, contempt, or simply a lack of socialization. Not that it really mattered, in the grand scheme, but in the petite moment I was just a bit put off.

Back in the classroom, my students were still abuzz from the excitement and it took me a minute to get them to settle down. They were, however, in their seats, all eyes forward, more attentive and receptive than I had seen them all year. Hmmm...maybe inviting semi-famous guest speakers was a good thing? 

After everyone finally stopped buzzing, I introduced Mr. Payton and told the class that he was there to talk about the language of sports. But of course it wouldn't have mattered if Payton was there to talk about the threat of the tussock moth; my students were enthralled, ready to hang ten on any and every word that emerged from Payton's lips. Naturally, I had provided my students with something to do besides sit and listen; they were to answer, in writing, three questions about the language of sports on a worksheet I had provided them.

Unfortunately, what emerged from Payton's lips was about what one would expect from a teenager who had grown up in the rough part of Oakland, CA, and knew a lot more about sports than he did about language: a lot of "ums" and "uhs," "y'knows," "I dunnos," and just general mumbling and fumbling. 

In other words, his speech was pretty much an example of…how not to speak.

So much for the "language" part.

But all was far from lost. My students were absolutely charmed by this totally real person, just a few years older than they were, who was a bonafide basketball phenomenon but an English language rookie. And my students seemed to understand that, despite his language challenges, Gary Payton was in college, trying to get an education, because he understood on some level that basketball might not be enough for him—or that it ultimately might not work out for him, due to injuries perhaps. In fact, the only lucid comment I remember Payton uttering during his "speech" was "Stay in school. Get an education." And my students were actually listening when he said it—because of who was saying it.

So, definitely a win.

Speaking of wins, Payton went on to achieve the following (a partial list):

• Consensus All-American, a three-time All-Pac-10 selection, and both the Pac-10 Defensive Player of the Year and conference Freshman of the Year in 1987.
• Featured in the cover story of Sports Illustrated on March 5, 1989, as the nation's best college basketball player 
• MVP of the Far West Classic tournament three times, the Pac-10 Player of the Week nine times, and named to the Pac-10's All-Decade Team
• At the time of his graduation, Payton held the school record for points, field goals, three-point field goals, assists, and steals—all of which he still holds today except for career points and three-point field goals
• During his career at OSU, the Beavers made three NCAA tournament appearances and one NIT appearance
• Second overall pick in the 1990 NBA draft by the Seattle SuperSonics
• Made the All-NBA First-Team in 1998 and 2000; All-NBA Second Team in 1995, 1996, 1997, 1999, and 2002; and All-NBA Third Team in 1994 and 2001
• Selected to the NBA All-Defensive First Team a record nine consecutive seasons (1994–2002), and won the NBA Defensive Player of the Year Award in 1996, the first point guard to win the aw
• Selected to the NBA All-Star Team nine times
• Member of the gold medal-winning 1996 and 2000 U.S. Men's Olympic Basketball Teams
• In 1996, Payton and the SuperSonics reached the NBA Finals after winning a franchise record 64 games—and lost in six games to Michael Jordan's Chicago Bulls
• Elected into OSU's Sports Hall of Fame in 1996
• Nicknamed "The Glove" in reference to his defensive skills
• Set up The Gary Payton Foundation in 1996 to provide safe places for recreational activity, and to help underprivileged youth in his hometown of Oakland…stay in school

I had the privilege of getting to see just how good Payton was one night in February 1990, when my housemate and I attended an OSU vs. USC basketball game. Payton scored 58 points in that game, mostly by juke-jiving through heavy traffic directly to the hoop. OSU won the game in overtime, 98-94.

Payton was, needless to say, incredible. And I was, needless to say, honored and proud that I not only "knew him when" but had invited him to give one of the most memorable speeches ever, to a classroom full of the most riveted eighth-grade students ever. 

Most of whom, I'm happy to say, stayed in school.

After I posted this story on my Facebook page, Larry Bafia, a former employee of Will Vinton Studios (with whom I also used to work) commented that he had directed this video featuring a clay-animated Gary Payton: