|
By
Casey Mare Showing gratitude and appreciation to veterans is a meaningful way to honor their service and sacrifices. Here are some ways you can thank veterans:
Remember, acts of gratitude towards veterans can be shown throughout the year, not just on specific occasions. Small gestures of appreciation can go a long way in acknowledging their service and making a positive difference in their lives. By
Mak Sampson In a modern era of plasma screen televisions and wireless computing, a deeper reflection upon our nations' hard fought struggle for independence can be lost in a wake of fanfare, social obligations and the opportunity to enjoy a long overdue day of relaxation that inevitable alludes so many of us. Personal freedom is without a doubt the defining characteristic of this great nation. Freedom of speech, freedom to bear arms, freedom to worship when and how we please. In an time when so many national and international issues appear on the surface to divide the people of this country, there is at the end of the day the realization that it is the strength of our foundation, built upon the freedom of the individual, that will forever unites us. Two hundred and thirty one years ago, the founding fathers, sons and daughters of this nation adopted the Declaration of Independence, declaring sovereignty from Great Britain and set fourth a new model of liberty for the world to contemplate. Kindling the sparks of freedom, the men and women of this burgeoning democracy stoked the embers of independence into a roaring blaze, igniting the bonfire of revolution and securing our right to self-rule and self-determine for generations to come. Two hundred and thirty one years later, men, women and children from across this planet are still fighting and dying in great numbers to rid themselves of oppression and forge a free nation of their own. A nation where they can raise their children in safety. A nation where they can vote on their leadership. A nation where the voice of the individual can be heard. If you have freedom on this 4th of July, you must never forget what is required to maintain it or the sacrifices that were made by those who struggled before you to obtain it. And if you have not freedom, you must know what is required of you to gain it and that others before you have prevailed over insurmountable odds to achieve it. On this 4th of July, between the fireworks and the frivolity, I hope you have a moment to reflect upon these, The Principles of Freedom. Freedom requires nothing less than: The COURAGE to confront fear, danger, intimidation and even death without hesitation. To discard the very notion of failure and draw upon every ounce of your strength to do what must be done. Courage separates the worthy from the unwilling. Without courage, freedom is but a dream. The PASSION to pursue liberty from oppression, casting off the binding shackles of tyranny and branding upon your soul the insatiable desire live as free men and women. Without passion, freedom has not the wings to fly. The LEADERSHIP to ignite the bonfires of revolution and prevail over the challenges ahead, inspiring heroism through action, strength through command and unity through vision. Competent leadership is a prerequisite for self-rule. For the ship with no captain, it matters not what direction the wind blows. The DETERMINATION to keep charging forward despite setback, maintain order in the face of opposition, sustain enthusiasm when there is discouragement and to never surrender in defeat. The hero will prevail despite failure. The road to success was not paved by the weak. A COMMITMENT of truth to your purpose, devotion to your cause, allegiance to your leadership and loyalty to your brethren. To pursue independence with uncompromising conviction and fervent resolve. Freedom's foundation is sacrifice. God will not have his work done by cowards. The DISCIPLINE to stay true to the course, to hold firm on the line, retain rigor, rank and order and to prepare for victory! Discipline of the one is essential, that a greater purpose may be achieved by the many. You must know your position. A sense of DUTY to your god, to your country and to your compatriots. Honor, fortitude, character and integrity, these are the hallmarks of free men and women and the standards of distinction. So take up your shield and return home with honors behind it, or upon it. The FAITH to believe that you will finish what you have started, that your dreams are worth every ounce of your effort and that you will live free no matter what the cost. You must fight for the right of self-determination. Freedom is never free. By
Casey Mare The construction trade is an essential and dynamic industry that plays a significant role in shaping our built environment. It encompasses a wide range of activities, from residential and commercial construction to infrastructure development and remodeling projects. While the construction trade offers numerous opportunities, it's important to understand the truth about this industry to make informed decisions and succeed within it. First and foremost, the construction trade requires hard work and dedication. It is a physically demanding profession that often involves long hours, challenging weather conditions, and strenuous tasks. From carrying heavy materials to operating machinery and working at heights, construction workers need to be physically fit and possess the stamina to handle the demands of the job. Moreover, the construction trade demands a high level of skill and expertise. It is not simply about swinging hammers or pouring concrete. Construction workers need to possess specialized knowledge in various areas, such as carpentry, electrical work, plumbing, masonry, and more. They must continuously learn and adapt to new technologies, building codes, and safety regulations. Safety is paramount in the construction trade. Construction sites can be hazardous environments, with risks of falls, injuries from tools and machinery, exposure to hazardous substances, and other potential dangers. Therefore, a strong emphasis on safety protocols, training, and adherence to safety regulations is crucial to protect workers and ensure a safe working environment. The construction trade is a collaborative industry. It involves teamwork and coordination among various professionals, including architects, engineers, project managers, subcontractors, and laborers. Effective communication and collaboration are vital to ensure projects are completed on time, within budget, and to the desired specifications. The construction trade offers diverse career opportunities. From entry-level positions to skilled trades, management roles, and entrepreneurship, there are numerous paths for advancement and growth. With experience, additional training, and certifications, individuals can progress within the industry and take on more significant responsibilities. It's worth noting that the construction trade can be subject to economic fluctuations. It is sensitive to changes in the housing market, economic conditions, and government policies. During economic downturns, construction projects may decline, leading to potential job insecurity. However, during periods of growth and infrastructure development, opportunities can be abundant. The construction trade also presents the opportunity for creativity and craftsmanship. Whether it's designing and building structures, creating custom finishes, or incorporating unique architectural elements, construction professionals can showcase their skills and contribute to the aesthetics and functionality of the built environment. Lastly, the construction trade offers the satisfaction of tangible results. From the initial concept and design to the construction process and final completion, seeing a project come to life can be incredibly rewarding. Construction workers have the opportunity to leave a lasting impact on communities by constructing homes, buildings, bridges, and infrastructure that enhance people's lives. In conclusion, the construction trade is a demanding yet rewarding industry that requires hard work, expertise, and a commitment to safety. It offers diverse career opportunities, fosters collaboration, and allows individuals to contribute to the physical landscape around us. Understanding the truth about the construction trade enables individuals to make informed decisions, pursue the necessary training and skills, and embark on a fulfilling and meaningful career in this dynamic field. By
Casey Mare Here are the top 10 ethnic restaurants in Corvallis, Oregon, offering a diverse range of flavors from around the world:
These top 10 ethnic restaurants in Corvallis showcase the city's culinary diversity, providing a wide range of flavors and dining experiences from around the world. Whether you're craving Thai, Mexican, Indian, or something else, these restaurants offer a delightful journey for your taste buds.
The 4th of July is a time for celebration, and what better way to ignite your taste buds than with some spicy dishes that bring the heat to your patriotic feast? From grilled favorites to zesty sides, here are some mouthwatering spicy 4th of July meal ideas that will make your taste buds dance.
Spice up your 4th of July celebration with these fiery and flavorful dishes. From wings and skewers to sides and salads, these spicy creations will add a kick to your patriotic spread. Remember to adjust the level of spiciness to suit your guests' preferences, and don't forget to have refreshing beverages on hand to cool those fiery By
Casey Mare The influx of Californians moving into Oregon has sparked discussions and debates. While some may view this migration as a potential challenge, there are several significant benefits to be gained from this cross-state movement. This article explores the positive impacts Californians bring to Oregon, ranging from economic growth to cultural enrichment and environmental consciousness.
The migration of Californians into Oregon holds numerous benefits for both states. From economic growth and cultural exchange to environmental consciousness and intellectual advancements, this movement enriches Oregon's communities in multiple ways. By embracing the positive aspects of this migration, Oregonians can harness the collective potential and create a mutually beneficial environment for both longtime residents and newcomers. While the migration of Californians to Oregon can bring benefits, it's important to consider potential drawbacks as well. Here are a few concerns that can arise:
It is essential for policymakers, local communities, and newcomers to work together to address these concerns and ensure that the migration of Californians into Oregon is managed in a way that balances the benefits and drawbacks, fostering a harmonious and sustainable environment for all. By
Helen M. Davis Mike was kind. After introducing himself, he then asked me what had brought me in to see him. I then read from a paper I had written describing how I felt, and he sat there and listened. He actually listened! He made me feel as though what I had to say mattered and I liked him immediately. It was decided that we would meet for an hour at a time for three sessions and, after that third session, we would see how we felt about working together. I already knew. Mike was the therapist for me. I also saw a rehabilitation physician in September. He determined that not only would I need to see a physical therapist, I also more than likely would need to wear a brace on my left leg as I could barely clear the floor with my left foot. I was dismayed. Was a wheelchair in my future? The rehabilitation physician didn’t think so, but who knew for sure? I began physical therapy, and I was given a series of exercises to do at home. The physical therapist also fitted me with a sample brace and had me walk around in it. Sadly, I could feel quite a difference. I had to agree with him when he recommended that I wear braces on both legs and a pair was ordered. I also saw the rehabilitation physician for a follow-up and was relieved when I learned I would not have to see him again. I had so many appointments and I loathed them all save for seeing Mike. Then came Christmas, which I dearly loved. Once again, I was forced to go through the motions. I wanted so desperately to be able to feel joy, but it just wasn’t there. I tried to will myself better. Of course, this didn’t work. I tried to order myself to be better. This was an abysmal failure as well. In January, I had my now biweekly appointment with Mike and after we shared about our respective Christmas celebrations, he stared at me and said, “I’ve been thinking about your anxiety, and do you think it’s possible that you are crashing on your Diazepam?” Crashing? I’d never heard this term before, nor had I ever heard of Diazepam causing such as I had been experiencing for so long. Mike explained to me the cycle of withdrawal. Withdrawal, he said, is the opposite of what a pill is supposed to do. In my case, he suspected that I was going through withdrawal every morning after having Diazepam in my system all night. By the time I would be arising, the level of Diazepam would have dropped so that I was experiencing symptoms. One of the things Diazepam was used for was anxiety, therefore, withdrawal would include anxiety that didn’t respond to any sort of treatment. I was, as he put it, “classic.” I was also highly intrigued. For the first time in nearly a year, something finally made sense. At home, I armed myself with the phone book and I began calling different pharmacies in the area. In all, I spoke with about six different pharmacists and all of them agreed that Diazepam was the likely culprit in this unwanted and much despised drama. One pharmacist even went so far as to describe a dosage schedule for getting off this drug and mentioned the word taper, the first I’d heard it used in this context. Much to my horror, I also learned that Diazepam is to be taken for no more than two weeks. I had been taking it for more than two decades. I was placed on it at the age of 27. I was now 53. More determined than ever, I then called my primary care physician’s office, and an appointment was scheduled so we could talk about what I had learned. When the day came for me to see him, I made sure to bring my notes. If Diazepam was truly the culprit in all of this, then I wanted off it now! My physician agreed that Diazepam was very possibly responsible for my condition, and he was amenable to my going on a taper. This was a Thursday and he sent in a new Diazepam prescription for 2 mg. tablets so I could begin tapering. I was going to win this war. My Diazepam taper began on Monday, January 21st. I started at 10 mg. with a decrease of 1 mg. per week. I figured I could do this. I knew I had to do this. At a sister’s suggestion, I also began keeping a chart of the days and the dosages along with comments/reactions to monitor my progress. The first week, at 9 mg. instead of 10 I didn’t really feel a whole lot of difference but, by the second week I was feeling increased anxiety and nausea. By week three of the taper, withdrawal had pretty much consumed me, and the worst was yet to come. The anxiety was unbearable, I was nauseous, and I was so tired. I was also experiencing shakiness. Yet, I somehow managed to take my dog to the vet and swim some laps on the same day, though I’m not sure how save for a strong belief that I could and would get through this. Week four brought with it increased shaking, anxiety, depression, nausea, lethargy, and fatigue. I was scared and I felt horrible. I began to wonder if I had done something wrong and was being punished. I hated withdrawal and I hated knowing what a hold this drug had on me. It made me angry to think that I had been allowed to take this drug without oversight for so many years. How could this have happened? Yes, perhaps I should have read the papers from the pharmacy more carefully when I picked up my prescription but because I had taken it so long, I trusted that it was okay. I wanted to die. I truly wanted to die. Week four heralded the end of my association with the psychiatric office. With my primary care physician’s blessing, I cancelled my next appointment with them and closed out my case. I never wanted to walk through those doors again. I wanted to forget ever having had to go there. It was ironic, actually. Had we met under different circumstances, I had a feeling the psychiatric doctor and I could have been great friends. By the fifth week, I was not only shaky, etc., I was also tachycardic. Things got so bad in fact, that I ended up being rushed to McKenzie-Willamette’s emergency room where I was whisked back to a bay and electrodes were slapped onto my chest and sides to get a reading of my cardiac activity. My heart rate was a whopping 120 bpm, and my blood pressure was also elevated. Blood was taken for further testing. When it was determined that my heart was fine, I was given my evening 2 mg. dose of Diazepam. Within a half an hour, my heart rate had slowed as had the shaking. I was ready to call it quits. I was ready to go back to 10 mg. of Diazepam and forget about the taper, but I knew that this was not an option. When I saw my primary care physician for my next follow-up, he also suggested that perhaps the taper was too difficult as I had been on Diazepam for so long. Perhaps it would be better to end things and I could go back to the full dose. I said no. Where I had wavered the night of my visit to the emergency room, I was now resolute. I was halfway through the taper now, I told him. I hadn’t come this far to turn back. I was going to see this through to the end. I could do this. I would do this. So, I continued the taper and struggled with withdrawal. I felt worse than ever. Life became for me an existence in which I would repeatedly ask the sister with whom I live, “Why is this happening to me? Why did this have to happen?” Of course, she had no answer. I would moan about feeling “so alone” in this battle as I knew of nobody else who was going through this that I could turn to. I spent entire days on the sofa, tired, weak, shaky, tachycardic with no strength to do anything except wish to die. Other than losing my parents 13 months apart, this was the most difficult thing I had ever done. The end of week seven, however, brought forth my introduction to a window of wellness and a glimpse into what life could be post Diazepam. At this point, I had started taking Propranolol, a beta blocker that is used to treat high blood pressure, irregular heartbeats, shaking and other things such as anxiety and hyperthyroidism. I was using it to control the anxiety and the shaking that would grow worse as the taper neared an end and my body and my mind begged for more Diazepam. It was disturbing to know how dependent I was on a medication I had taken as prescribed, and I regretted ever having allowed this demon of a pill to have passed through my lips. Five days after starting Propranolol I felt better. The morning began more easily than usual, and I began to feel that perhaps there was hope. I began to wish this window of wellness was an overhead door. This continued into week eight and even though the anxiety was still there though not as bad, and I was still shaky, I thought that perhaps I could do this, perhaps I could survive this taper after all. Alas, by week nine, I was back in the waves of withdrawal and this time it included tingling in my limbs and buzzing in my torso as well as confusion and vivid dreams aka nightmares. I awakened not knowing where I was and could not remember prayers I had recited daily. I was unsteady on my feet, and I was scared. I would soon be jumping off. What would happen next? Could I endure not having even 1 mg. of Diazepam? On March 24th, 2019, I took my final 1 mg. of Diazepam. The taper was officially over. I had made it. My body, however, protested the loss of the drug that it had come to depend on and I was so very weak. I wondered when I would ever reclaim my life. Adding to my woes, I developed a runny nose, another withdrawal symptom. It was nasty. One would have thought I had developed an upper respiratory infection, but it was only my body reacting. I also got to experience the sensation of an internal tremor that made me feel as though I were strapped to a washing machine that was in a perpetual spin cycle. At other times, I felt intense buzzing as though I were hooked to an electrical socket. Often, this buzzing was so bad it was like having a colony of bees crawling about beneath my skin. This, I learned from Mike, was my central nervous system becoming fully awake after two plus decades of dormancy. Parts of my brain were awakening as well, which led to photosensitivity, even with darkened lenses. By the second week of April, I was feeling better. I still had a way to go, but the internal tremor and the buzzing had come to a stop for the most part. So had my runny nose. I had won the war and I was reclaiming my life, one without diazepam and one where I would finally get to fully live. The darkness that had enshrouded, enshrouded my family was beginning to lift. It has been four years and three months since I last took Diazepam, and my life is markedly different. I feel so much better in so many ways. I am stronger, my thinking is clearer. Those braces? They lay under my bed gathering dust because I no longer need them. I also no longer see my neurologist because I don’t need to. For all intents and purposes, I am healed. Today, before I take a prescription, I ask questions and I insist on knowing why I am being prescribed a medication and what I can expect of it. I am not that naïve and trusting girl in her twenties anymore. I know better. It makes me angry to think of the time that was taken from me not just by a benzodiazepine that, as it turns out, I didn’t even need as I have not had a bit of spasticity since stopping it, but by those who wouldn’t listen to me as I described what was going on and instead threw more prescriptions or worksheets at me as if they would be a magic fix. There are definite changes that need to be made. Prescriptions, in my opinion, should be written as a last step. The first should be listening to the patient and hearing what they say and, in some cases, such as mine, observing the pattern they may be divulging through their behavior. This means more time should be allotted for appointments so a patient can be heard. Patients should come first and foremost. Profits should be a distant second. Prescriptions should be gone over at least every six months if not sooner so that those that are suspect can be discussed and those that are no longer necessary can be eliminated. No more polypharmacy in which multiple doctors prescribe multiple drugs. Where pharmaceuticals are concerned, less is more. This is my story, but it is far from over. I went through a hell called benzodiazepine withdrawal and now I want this story to be heard. If I can help to keep others from suffering as I did, then my own suffering will not have been in vain. I want to educate, support, and reassure that yes, it does get better. I can do this. I must do this. I will do this. There’s no turning back now. By
Helen M. Davis When we go to the doctor and are prescribed medication there is an implicit trust. We trust that the physician who is prescribing knows what the medicine is, and how best to use it. We trust that the pharmaceutical industry is marketing a drug that is safe. We trust that this medication will help with whatever our problem is. We trust and we take it. Most of the time, this trust is well founded. We take our medicine, we get better, and life continues. Sometimes, however, this is not the case. Sometimes, what is thought to be helping is hurting, and we find ourselves hurled into a maelstrom we could never have imagined. Our lives are upended, as are the lives of our loved ones as we suffer an interminable horror we can’t understand. We become but shells of our former selves and life becomes a mere existence. I know this to be true. It happened to me. The year 2018 began like any other year. I was busy with my farm and my writing. I attended my writing group at Fern Ridge Library every other Wednesday evening, which I loved. I swam laps and I busied myself with my culinary endeavors. I was happy. Life was good. Then, what I think of as the “strange symptoms” began, starting with weakness and tingling in my legs. Also, I was having anxiety, something I had never suffered from before and was only troublesome in the morning. As the day progressed, the anxiety would lessen and by bedtime I would feel like myself again. I didn’t understand what was happening. I went to see my primary care physician who prescribed Xanax. I was to take it in the mornings when I felt anxious. But I felt anxious every morning, and Xanax didn’t help. When I told my physician, he said that I should not have been taking Xanax every day as it was habit forming and I should make another appointment to have something else prescribed. I did as I was instructed but I wasn’t able to see my own physician. Instead, I saw a “floater” who prescribed Busprione, an anxiolytic that is used for generalized anxiety disorder. Within three days, I was in a state of agitation, my pupils were dilated, and my blood pressure was up. I couldn’t relax and I didn’t like it. A call to my pharmacy and a conversation with a pharmacist confirmed my suspicions that Buspirone had interacted with my Duloxetine, the generic for Cymbalta, and I was in a serotonin storm. I stopped the Busprione immediately and made another appointment with my doctor. Once again, he was unavailable, so I saw his associate who increased my Duloxitine dosage and gave me a referral for the therapist who was affiliated with the behavioral health agency that worked out of this office. I hated the idea of speaking with someone when I didn’t understand what was going on, but I figured nothing ventured, nothing gained. Three weeks after the serotonin storm, I began sessions with the therapist and I would share my distress at the changes that had been taking place in my life, how my farm was suddenly of little interest to me, how the animals I adored were suddenly burdensome. I was a farm girl and proud of it. I had dirt beneath my fingernails and stories to tell. If I couldn’t be a farm girl anymore, there would go my identity. What was wrong? I just didn’t understand. The therapist didn’t offer any real insight, preferring, instead, to enter data into my electronic file while I talked. I felt as though these concerns didn’t matter to him. When I mentioned the morning anxiety, he gave me a breathing exercise to do, but was otherwise uninterested in this aspect of my distress. Instead, he chose to focus on having me complete worksheets that were guaranteed to help. One was an exercise in charting my feelings, the other a way of planning out various activities as keeping busy was integral to my recovery from whatever this was. I did try them, but I never could get the worksheet concerning my feelings filled out in a way that was acceptable. All I wanted was to be me again. I didn’t want to do worksheets. I didn’t want to have to listen to someone pontificate about things as he did. I wanted answers! I wanted someone to listen! I’d also seen my primary care physician for a recheck to see how the higher dosage of Duloxetine was working for me and had been put back on my regular dose with the addition of Abilify, the generic of Aripiprazole, an anti-psychotic that is used for the treatment of disorders such as schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. It is also used in conjunction with antidepressants. For a brief window of time, I thought this might work. I was beginning to feel a little better. This feeling didn’t last. The anxiety continued to plague me and one morning I awakened with a feeling of needing to talk to somebody, anybody. The Abilify wasn’t working, the Duloxetine wasn’t working, nothing was working, and I felt as though I was clinging to a precipice that was slowly but steadily crumbling. I had no idea why I felt this way, but I knew I needed something, someone to make it go away. Not knowing what else to do, I called my primary care physician and spoke with his assistant. I relayed what I was experiencing, and she said she would speak with my physician. I thought that my Abilify dosage needed increasing and I was certain that when she called back, she would say that my physician agreed. About an hour later, she did call, but not with an increase in my meds. Rather, I was being referred to a psychiatric office for more extensive treatment of the issues I was experiencing and the necessary medication oversight. I was horrified and I was mortified. Me? A patient at a psychiatric office? How had I reached such a point? What was happening to me? I wished I could turn back the clock and become the person I had been rather than the person I was now. Things were getting worse by the day. Spring became a memory and summer ensconced itself firmly in the Willamette Valley. I had my first appointment with the psychiatric physician. I told her of my woes, and she decided that what I needed was a new antidepressant. I would have agreed to anything at that point. A prescription was written for Venlafaxine, the generic of Effexor, a serotonin reuptake inhibitor. I was to take increasingly smaller doses of Duloxetine while taking increasingly larger doses of Venlafaxine until I was solely on it. I continued to see the therapist through the counseling agency but, those sessions did nothing to help, and despite the new medication, the anxiety continued as did depression. I could enjoy nothing in my life, and it all seemed hopeless. In addition to the loss of interest in my farm, I was now no longer writing or attending my writing group. The cycle of anxiety continued, and no matter what I did, it never changed. One sun- soaked morning I awakened with anxiety so intense that I found myself weighing the pros and cons of hanging myself versus taking an overdose of Diazepam, a benzodiazepine, a central nervous system depressant that I had been prescribed years before to combat muscle spasms after surgery on my cervical spine but is also used for anxiety, seizures and alcohol withdrawal. Which would be better? I pondered this as I lay in my bed and wished for peace. Oh, God! How I longed for the days when I would awaken with joy in my heart! Eventually, I got up and, after concluding that I could not put my family through such agony as my suicide, I called the therapist’s office, and an appointment was scheduled for that afternoon. I went, but, per the cycle, by then I was feeling better. Still, I talked, and I told him of my ideation. I hated admitting this, but I wanted to be honest. He entered data into my electronic file, and nothing was resolved. He really didn’t seem to care. Appointments with the psychiatric physician also continued and each time I had to take a different dose of the Venlafaxine to see if this would help. Eventually, I was also prescribed Citalopram, the generic of Celexa, another antidepressant, that affects the neurotransmitters. I was to take this at bedtime. This, the psychiatric physician hoped, would help with the anxiety. To further combat this darkness that had taken up residence in me, she also increased the dosage of the Gabapentin, an anticonvulsant I had been taking for neuropathy. I did as I was instructed, and I hoped and prayed that this would work. The anxiety was lasting longer into the day, and it was crippling me. By the time July gave way to August, I had become frightened of sleeping alone, of being alone, a new wrinkle in the shadows of anxiety. I began to sleep on the sofa bed so I could be closer to my sister’s room, and I grew clingy. I wanted her to come straight home from work so I wouldn’t have to be by myself any longer than necessary and I didn’t want her out of my sight while she was home. This wasn’t me. I was independent. I didn’t need my hand held by anyone for any reason. I liked my alone time. I welcomed it, even. At least, I did. Anymore, I didn’t know what to think of the person I had become. I only knew I wished this individual would go away and the real me would return. It was also at this time that I concluded that I needed another therapist. I had come to hate this one and his unwillingness to listen. All he had accomplished was making me believe as though what I was feeling was my fault, that it was somehow deserved. It was a frustrating experience and, if I was to continue with therapy, I wanted something different. To this end, I asked the therapist if I could be referred to someone else. He was amenable to this and made the referral though he cautioned that it would take a while before I would be matched with someone new. There was a waiting list, and I was at the end. I wasn’t content to just sit back and wait. Even as awful as I felt, there was still some fight left in me and I used this to contact the counseling agency after a wait of several days to nudge things on. In the meantime, I had an ultrasound on my legs, and it was an uncomfortable process. Having the wand pressed against me in various locations made my legs number and more tingly than ever. I felt like I was walking on a pair of rubber bands rather than legs. I left the appointment feeling so extremely depressed that I thought again about taking an overdose of diazepam and ending it all. When I had my next session with my therapist, I was greeted with the news that I had been matched with someone new. At my request, he gave me her name along with a warm recommendation. I was a little dubious. When I asked what else he knew about this woman, he glanced at my file and as he did, his eyes widened. Then, he announced that rather than be matched with her, I had in fact, been matched with somebody named Mike Bricker. I asked what he knew about Mike Bricker. He read Mike’s employee biography on the agency’s website. I listened. When it was revealed that Mike specialized in drug counseling, I found myself wondering how I had gotten paired with him. I wasn’t a drug user. I didn’t need drug counseling. This didn’t make any sense, but I needed to get away from the first therapist enough that I agreed to see Mike. I met Mike Bricker the first week of September. Autumn, my favorite season, was just around the corner, and I hoped that perhaps this man would be able to help me to be able to enjoy it. I still didn’t understand why I had been matched with somebody with his skills, but I figured I’d give him a chance. Stay tuned to Part 2 next week.  By
Helen M. Davis When one drives by the Beer Station on Holly Street in Junction City, one might not give the red building flanked by food trucks and an old caboose a lot of thought. But, to venture in is to have an experience. A multilevel establishment with both indoor and outdoor dining facilities, the Beer Station is part bar, part restaurant, and part entertainment venue. A line of food trucks provides the eats, among them Fat Ass BBQ, El Quetzal, and Tamale Man. The Beer Station proper meanwhile provides the beverages which range from soft drinks to 34 beers to a full bar. Outside, a stage hosts various bands and the quirky is always welcome as evidenced by ads for Extreme Dwarfinator Wrestling, which was soon to be hosted. Beer Station owner Nelson Rosales has quite a tale to tell himself. An immigrant from El Salvador, Rosales started selling oranges and whatever else he could to help his family by the time he was able to speak. Selling was all he knew. In 1979, at the age of 13, Rosales’ mother purchased him a one-way ticket to Guadalajara, Mexico so he could avoid being recruited by both the Guerillas and the soldiers who were then engaged in a civil war. It was common for them to come into classrooms to find young boys to serve their cause and neither Rosales nor his mother wanted this fate for him. While in Guadalajara, Rosales wasn’t able to get a job, so he answered an ad and began to sell Tupperware. He did quite well, but in July of 1984, at the age of 18, left Guadalajara for Tijuana where he ran out of money. Subsequently, he made the acquaintance of a man who had previously worked in Culver, in Eastern Oregon, who got him a job working in mint fields. This in turn, led to Rosales’ being enlisted by the University of Oregon to take part in their High School Equivalent Program known as HEP. To be a part of HEP, one was required to work in the fields. After fulfilling this obligation, Rosales then attended the University of Oregon on a full ride where he was helped to finish high school by way of an accelerated program. It was at this time he also learned English. Once he had his diploma, Rosales began to study to become an elementary teacher. Life, however, had other ideas. To help cover expenses, Rosales took a job as a bartender at El Torito, which used to operate across from Valley River Center in Eugene. This, in turn, led to a career not at the front of a classroom, but as a successful restaurateur. Rosales’ first restaurant was La Fiesta Mexicana, in Roseburg. Though he had had great hopes for the establishment, it did not do well. However, he was not one to be dissuaded and rather than give up, Rosales turned the restaurant into Rodeo Steakhouse and Grill, which did so well, he opened others, including in Junction City 20 years later. Eventually, the stress became too much, and Rosales closed the Junction City Rodeo Steakhouse and Grill in 2017 and began to work on The Beer Station at the same site. Now, he operates with a staff of 6, including Leslie Hubbard, who oversees booking bands for the venue. Most groups are local, but some come from Portland, and they play anything from classic rock to country to blues. The outdoor amphitheater, begun when bands wanted to play outdoors after Covid, has been named in her honor. Outdoor seating is year-round with heat lamps for warmth as well as a pair of fire pits that patrons just love and canopies for keeping dry. The Beer Station takes pride in being both family and animal friendly and as proof, dog bowls filled with water dot the ground here and there. A recent addition has been the Saturday Market and the Farmer’s Coop from April until October. The market features a variety of things such as handmade crafts and items one might typically sell at a garage sale. It is a case of first come, first served, where setting up for business is concerned. The Farmer’s Coop will begin to sell their goods once the harvest is in. Rosales is open to hosting any sort of event anyone wants to hold. It is just a matter of those who are interested in doing so contacting him. When he looks to the future, Rosales hopes to eventually work at the Beer Station from March though October and then, with his trusty knapsack on his back, travel to Mexico and South America. He still visits family in El Salvador and also hosts an inspirational radio show that is broadcast in his native home. The quotes he uses in his broadcasts are displayed in white lettering on red signs that hang all over the outside of the Beer Station. It’s been a good life, and Rosales is happy with how it has all turned out. Hard work and perseverance have led to his achieving the American Dream and he has come far from the days of toiling to sell oranges, then Tupperware and working in mint fields. Though he did not know it at the time, all of these were steppingstones to where he is now and what he has established. As he has done so, he has managed to create a unique space where many hands have come together to create an experience that will stay on the minds of patrons long after they have left. |
Contact Us Here.
News articles regarding Junction City, Monroe, Harrisburg, Veneta and the surrounding area. Archives
August 2023
Categories |
RSS Feed
|
Website created by RD Meyers & Co.
Please email us here for questions or internet marketing inquiries. Terms of Use © 2022 RD Meyers & Co. LLC |
|