Return to Oregon

OK, how much did I hate this place, and why did I live there for eleven years of my life?  A lot, and because it was the only apartment available in Oregon, Illinois during the summer of 1993.

Six years after I packed up my stuff and my cat and flipped off this godforsaken bungalow for the last time, I returned with my husband to the site of my first teaching job and the hellhole I once called home.  I lived on the top floor of this house, whose previous tenant was a prolific smoker.  Walking barefoot on the "carpeting" turned my feet black, and for years whenever I took a shower, the walls seemed to bleed as humidity mixed with disgusting tar buildup.  Other top-drawer amenities included pipes that threatened to freeze unless a steady drizzle of water flowed through them all winter long, a dozen drafty, single-pane windows, a furnace loud enough to disrupt normal TV watching, and, one time, a plaster kitchen ceiling that fell to the floor in chunks after a disastrous combination of thunderstorm and roof repair.  My slumlord employed an army of dumbass high school students and a wheezing, fishy-smelling plumber who entertained me with tales of his sleep apnea and problems with Phen-phen.  A kindly old woman lived downstairs, and we closed our blinds in disgust as the neighborhood became increasingly dicey.  Oh how I could go on about this awful place.  Eleven years in squalor!

 

Oh yeah: I had a stalker for a while, and he lived in that house on the left.  He was a student, one of those creepy kids whose imaginable future includes things like straightjackets and iron bars.  He spied on me through those top-story windows and dropped by one time to report that people were telling dirty stories about me in English class (which they were not).  He stole an Amazon box right off my doorstep--containing a rare 8-Ball comic book that I really wanted.  I later found the ruined box and comic in an outbuilding between our houses.  Plus, when he was little, he couldn't shovel my snow worth a damn.

 
This sorta-garage was too small for my car.  Nice to see that the paint job continues to be neglected.  More importantly, this is where the Bun Origin Story begins.  I first spied her as a kitten, sprinting from this building and across my yard as I pulled out of the driveway, ready to spend my summer vacation with my parents and sister.  I didn't know what she was: a rabbit? a cat?  I've never seen anything move that fast.  Once summer was over, li'l Bun watched me when I came home from school, running away when I acknowledged her.  Eventually she concluded that I was her mama, which was a wise decision on her part, because I'm pretty sure that blue building over there was a drug house.  I wouldn't be surprised if those baseheads cut her tail off.  What a lousy neighborhood.

 
And here is the high school in which I slaved.  I worked in the less-glamorous "annex" area to the west of The Parthenon here.  It featured no insulation, an ancient kiln, a concrete block aesthetic, and was way too small.  Once it got so cold in my classroom that I made cocoa for everybody so they could warm their hands from time to time.  Dickensian. 

Jeff and I parked by my former classroom's outside exit and I peered in for a split second: long enough to recognize the ugly plaster gargoyle somebody had painted ages ago and notice that my successor had somehow wrangled better chairs and desks.  Then I caught a glimpse of her sitting at her (moved) desk.  For some reason every bone in my body told me to get the hell out of there.  If you're reading this, Cheryl, I'm sorry for being rude, but merely glancing at this place was way too much for me, and I think I had a PTSD micro panic attack.

 
...Which isn't to say that working at Oregon was a bad thing.  Not at all!  Because I had not yet learned how to say no, my students and I got roped into random stuff like creating crop circle-like formations in area fields and painting all of the Smokey the Bears (Smokeys the Bear?) from the town's three state parks.  The kids, for the most part, were absolutely delightful except for the psychos.  They freaking loved me at that school.  For a while there I even had a theme song: during lunch hours, garage band kids used to hang out in the halls with their instruments and played "Seven Nation Army" when I passed by, which I took as a compliment.  The school had a block schedule that was ideal for art--Unity's traditional schedule is brutal--and a community and administration that, in my heyday, gave me total support and even promoted me as an artist in my own right--unthinkable!  It was teaching at its best until the bottom fell out financially for our school and the overcrowding began...long story, but please believe me when I say I had no choice but to leave the best job I had ever had.

 

Nearly every day after school, I drove to the outskirts of town to drive and/or hike around Lowden State Park, home to a huge sculpture of Chief Blackhawk.  This massive concrete statue by Loredo Taft overlooks the Rock River and is nothing short of magnificent.  Lowden calmed my sometimes jangled nerves with its quiet beauty and wildlife.  Once 36 wild turkeys strutted across the road in front of my car.  (I don't know why I always have to count things, but I do.)

 

This is the entrance to one of the trails, and during the height of spring it's like walking inside an emerald.  Oh how I miss this park. 

As I showed Jeff around Oregon, I thrilled to the strangest things: signs I saw on my daily drive to school and hadn't thought about since, the twists and turns of routes 64 and 2, a laundromat I used, the sandy-colored gravel in the alley behind the house...all of these things and more made me shiver. 

 

We met my parents at a local restaurant that was always packed when I lived in Oregon, but when we arrived only four people were eating.  This place has seen better days, I thought.  But the view of the river was still gorgeous. 

 

After lunch the four of us drove a few miles down the road to a lovely art gallery in Dixon called The Next Picture Show.  The Illinois Watercolor Society holds its annual juried show there.  This is a national competition, and I was fortunate to have had my self-portrait selected for it (see top left corner below) by artist Peggy Zalucha, who gave a watercolor demonstration during the show's opening.  Dad (not pictured) dug the general wine-and-cheesing atmosphere and exuded a movie star aura throughout the afternoon, so that was awesome.  Dad said he could get used to this, and I hope he and Mom (also looking tremendous and 100% supportive) can come to more shows in the future.

Unfortunately I didn't win any special awards, but frankly neither did any of my favorite paintings in the show, so I felt like I was at least in very good company.  Being a perfectionist and former straight-A student, it's always a little discombobulating for me when I'm not number one.  During my years as a teacher, though, I've learned that art competitions (student competitions in particular) are never predictable, judges' opinions can vary wildly, and one must develop a crusty exoskeleton to combat the inevitable disappointments.  And again, it was amazing for me to be in a national watercolor show in the first place.

I bumped into several of Oregon's art afficianados who were surprised and happy to see my painting and me.  Apparently Oregon misses me, so that was nice to hear.  It's amazing how easily replaced any teacher can be; there's always somebody waiting in the wings to take over your job, and suddenly you're just a fading memory.  But it sounds like I made a difference.

Comments

[Vivian]

"there's always somebody waiting in the wings to take over your job, and suddenly you're just a fading memory. But it sounds like I made a difference."
- Terrifically well said. I am about to leave a job I am in love with for a move and I related so well to that sentiment. I never imagined myself falling in love with a job, I hope I can find this feeling again soon.
It sounds like Oregon misses your talent.

[bj]

I know what it means to love a job; I have one such now and have had the good fortune of being in a couple of other such positions as I worked up to this one.

As for you and this post, I am reminded of the adage "You've some a long way, baby!" ;-)

Way to go Kellie!

[Caroline]

Ohhh, Oregon. Blergh. My old house was torn down to no end and is now an empty grassy area. It's not as though I ever wanted to live there again, but now there's not even a place to point to.

We did love you, and I'm sure Oregon misses you -- or, worse yet, they don't know what they're missing.

I was too young when I had Cheryl to make any useful comparison. But I was always impressed she taught art AND social studies and seemed competent at both!

[Adam T]

Great teachers are seldom easily replaced, and they are certainly never forgotten by those they taught. Reading this made me realized how incredibly lucky I was to have had you as a teacher.

[Shannon]

As I scrolled through the pics and stories, I found myself also looking for things I'd remembered from your time in Oregon. "Where is pond?", as Bun/Owl used to say. And what about the hardcore jogger of indeterminate gender. Probably not on the road at the right time. Also, I remember a lot of talk about a certain pheasant.

Thanks for this post. I agree, you've certainly come a long way.

Oh and also, I must agree that excellent teachers like yourself can be gone but never forgotten. As my daughter has made her way through 4th grade this year, I know I will never forget her teacher having L's back on the most difficult of days, and I fear I may never find the words to thank her for that.

[Kaitlyn C.]

You were by far my favorite teacher in high school.. and obviously the most talented.. We definitely missed you when you left.. but it is nice to see how well it worked out for you =]

[The Beautiful Kind]

Give my man a shovel and hat and he looks just like Smokey the Bear. Fire Danger around him is very high. :)

[Hil]

I was oddly comforted knowing the fire danger level at all times. There should be more signs like that. Chances of being attacked by a Velociraptors: Low. These are things we should know!

Whenever people visited me I'd take them around the parks, the statue, Conover, the cemeteries (my mom is a genealogist so I grew up finding the cemeteries in a town more hospitable than the people typically) and then drive them by the school even though it made my stomach hurt to go near it. Not sure why because nothing truly bad happened to me there. Just many tiny bad things that wore on me.

"and, one time, a plaster kitchen ceiling that fell to the floor in chunks after a disastrous combination of thunderstorm and roof repair"

I hate that day too because it was the day I had my one and only return visit to the high school and you had just left to deal with apartment apocalypse. Bad timing.

[Tiffany Larsen]

No matter how much you hate your place, there is always a reason why you keep on coming back. But it makes me wonder why you hate that place. It looks very serene, and this can be a great tourist destination. Well, I'm happy that you visited Oregon again! =)