Traveling to Guatemala to lend a hand
   Going to Guatemala with the Newberg Rotary volunteers was something that I had been looking forward to doing for months. The ability to get to go to Guatemala, help the people there, and share the story is something that I will never forget.
   We arrived in Guatemala City at 8 p.m. (Central time), after traveling since 3 a.m. The quick ride through the city was slightly blurred. However, I was not tired enough take no notice of the Chucky Cheese, KFC and Hooters franchises on the main strip from Guatemala City to Antigua, our final resting place.
   Once in Antigua we went straight to the hotel and I went straight to bed. Work started at 7 a.m. the next morning, when we would gather the rest of the equipment and make our daily 30-minute drive up to the villages.
   When the sun rose the next morning I could see that we were no longer surrounded by the McDonalds and Domino’s Pizza-infested culture. Looking closer, however, I discover a Burger King and a Cesar’s Pizza. They were well disguised with almost no indication of what was inside. But once you entered, it was clear we weren’t completely free from our American culture.
   Still, Antigua is a small city with narrow, cobblestone streets and buildings reaching back hundreds of years. On nearly every street are the ruins of an old church or historical building crumbling from the frequent earthquakes that emanate from the surrounding volcanoes. The locals assured me it was safe.
   Climbing the dirty, winding roads to Vuelta Grande and El Hato, civilization quickly faded into the distance. Soon we were surrounded by plaster buildings and houses, and metal shacks. The paved roads turned to cobblestone, then dirt. There were children with tattered clothes dodging through the streets, some guiding thin cows, and one man herding eight small pigs. Most walked the dusty streets not seeming to care about the oncoming cars, although some screamed “Gringos!” as we passed by.
   Climbing the steep mountain roads with their treacherous switchbacks, our surroundings were rural, with terraced farm land and few residences in sight. We arrived at our final destination, a charming, brightly-colored school. It was three rooms and made out of concrete, placed on a steep hillside overlooking a green valley below and volcanic mountains.
   Dressed in brightly woven skirts and vibrantly embroidered tops, with infant children slung over their backs in colorful cloth slings, mothers of all ages lined up to check into the clinics. They struggled explaining to the volunteers about their aches, pains and illnesses. Mayan is the first language for most villagers, Spanish the second. Communication is a struggle that those working the clinics face, among many others.
   The people walk for miles to visit the clinics, many while carrying children and a vase water. Many girls are married at 14- or 15-years-old. You can imagine how many children they have by the time they are 35, the average women baring eight children.  Therefore it is no surprise that the clinics swarm with children, coming for entertainment and the toys the volunteers hand out.
   These people have no McDonald’s, no Domino’s Pizza. They have open-pit fireplaces in their homes for heat and cooking. They grow their own food, gather their own firewood, and make their own clothes. They don’t have running water. Driving the local roads you can see every few miles a well. This is where the community gathers its water.
   And make no mistake, the water is not potable until it has been boiled or filtered, no matter where you are in Guatemala. After drinking a glass of juice with non-filtered ice cubes with dinner in Antigua, I spent a whole ? sick in bed from those little ice cubes.
   I have great respect for the villagers of Vuelta Grande and El Hato. They live without the conveniences you and I are accustomed to, yet they are the happiest people. Many people refer to them as poor and impoverished, but they are rich in every way that counts. They are by farthest the hardest working people I have ever had the opportunity to be around. I am grateful for everything they have shown me, and overjoyed that we could help them as well.
   Trista Whitehurst is a receptionist and correspondent at The Newberg Graphic

A fond farewell to Newberg
   My parents have always been travelers and because they lack fear of the new and unknown, my siblings and I are fearless wanderers as well.
   From the time they were married until now, my parents have never worried about packing up their belongings, loading up the car and heading off into the sunset. My brother, sister and I were happy to be bundled up in the back seat, our pets at our feet and the wind in our hair as we moved from city to city.
   They called it “having itchy feet.” And when my dad’s feet got itchy we might fall asleep in California only to wake up in Arizona.
   My dad isn’t in the military, though he wanted to be, but his work often took him to out-of-the-way places that gave my siblings and I a wide open view of most of America and a fraction of its residents.
   My dad repaired rare and unusual motorcycles. That may not seem like a feat to many, but when you consider that most of those motorcycles were in pieces when people asked him if he could put them back together, it complicated matters.
   Along with my family I’ve stomped grapes in Indiana, climbed burial mounds in South Carolina, visited the Jack Daniels distillery in Tennessee and heard street jazz in New Orleans. I’ve driven past Mount Rushmore, watched wide-eyed as we drove through Hollywood, stared a buffalo square in the eye at Yellowstone National Park and attended ceremonies of the Apache Indians in Oklahoma.
   Between the time I was born and when I was 6-years-old, I lived in nearly every state in America — excluding Alaska, Hawaii and some of the New England states. Since then I attended no less than five high schools.
   My vast travels in the United States have given me a unique perspective on people and places. It’s made it possible for me to make friends in 15 minutes or less and I am never mistaken for a tourist.
   My mom likes to say that the reason I got into writing was because I love hearing the stories of all the people I meet. From the time I was small, she’d tell me, I got no bigger thrill than sitting in the background when people stopped by — my parents had voluminous amounts of friends — and talked about their lives.
   People often stopped me in stores — they still do — to talk about something they cared about. Be it mundane or controversial, everyone’s story had meaning for me. My mom always knew that if she couldn’t find me I’d probably be seated in the middle of a group of people, listening intently. I’d come home and replay the stories for my family, sometimes as we packed our bags on our way to destinations unknown, sometimes just as part of the dinner conversation.
   I loved to recount not just the story but the setting in or out of a room, weather conditions, facial expressions, feelings and the audience reactions to whatever was said. It became my passion. And when I decided to return to school, I had no trouble choosing journalism as my major.
   I’ve lived and worked in Newberg for more than three years and in all that time I’ve gotten to meet some great people — too many to list here — and I’ve had the privilege of telling their stories. Some stories were sad, some happy, some were bewildering and some made people angry.
   I’ve always been tickled when I hear someone has read what I wrote, even better if they liked it or learned something they already didn’t know.
   So it’s with great sadness that I am hanging up my pen and pad and moving to another job as a manager of a book store in Salem.
   Gary Allen, managing editor at The Newberg Graphic, says I can continue to write columns. I can’t stop telling stories entirely.
   For those of you who have granted me a glimpse of your lives and how you work, thank you. It’s been a wild ride. For those of you who’s stories I didn’t get to, I’ll be forever sorry for what I missed.
My last day is Tuesday in case you want to call or write.
   Schellene Clendenin is a reporter for The Newberg Graphic.

March 3, 2007
What are your thoughts on gay awareness group coming to George Fox?
   Usually when I am writing in this space I do my best to talk about light issues that can be funny or sad, worrying or frenzied. With few exceptions, my columns are not about stories I write.
   This will be different.
   Virginia-based Soulforce, a group that represents lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgendered communities and works to offer nonviolent forms of communication and education, plans to make a stop at George Fox University on April 5 as part of their Equality Ride.
   An event begun last year, the Equality Ride includes two vans that will travel to nearly 50 Christian colleges and universities in hopes of opening lines of communication between the students, staff and faculty at universities and Equality Ride representatives.
   In Wednesday’s Newberg Graphic was a story related to the visit from Equality Ride.
   The newspaper is seeking folks in the community who are willing to talk to me about the visit and how they feel about it. Are you in opposition, do you plan to welcome the group or are you confused about their reasons for the visit?
   For safety reasons, the names of some of those who speak may be kept confidential.
   Reaching me is easy. You can call me at 503-538-2181, e-mail me at sclendenin@eaglenewspapers.com, send a fax to 503-538-1632, or stop by the office at 500 E. Hancock St.
We welcome your point of view.
   Schellene Clendenin is a reporter for The Newberg Graphic

Jan. 24, 2007
Pep band member wonders how apathy can be quashed at high school basketball games
   The bouncing of an orange rubber ball as it travels down the court. The squeaking of rubber soles on a wooden floor. The deafening roar of the crowd as points are scored.
   These sounds are not all that represents Newberg High School basketball. Cheerleaders, coaches and players are just one part of NHS sporting events, but many of the other parts are often overlooked.
   I have attended almost every NHS home basketball game since freshman year, playing clarinet in the pep band. My memory of individual games is a blur, but I do remember what most of them had in common: the absence of fans.
   The pep band, made up of 20 or so musicians who would show up for lack of anything else to do on a Tuesday or Friday night, would play the same music at every game. Tootling woodwinds, blaring horns and piercing drums combine with the yells of the cheerleaders. Together, both groups would try in vain to arouse anything resembling spirit in a handful of bored, apathetic teenagers.
   Yes, I know the NHS basketball team has had less than a stellar record, and it’s hard to go to games and watch the home team lose to school after school.
   But how can our student-athletes be inspired to win if their only audience is made up of their parents and a microscopic fraction of the student body?
   I asked my coworkers recently for advice on how to improve school spirit at basketball games. Their answers were as varied as they were insightful.
   One mentioned that apathy is not a new concept. He said that when he went to high school in the 1970s apathy was high and participation was very low.
   Another argued that when she attended high school, “I recall that we did have spirit,” she remembered: “We enjoyed the pep band playing at games.”
   She added, “I think you guys (the pep band and the cheerleaders) have a job to keep the audience ‘up’ for the game, even when the players can’t accomplish this themselves. You can entertain the audience and give them their money’s worth whether the athletes are doing their job or not.”
   And how does the band accomplish this? One coworker suggested: “I have one word for you: funk. That’s right, play some bouncy, Mardi Gras-style dance tunes.”
   Another said, “You might try playing ‘Tequila,’ the student section seems to like that.”
   Ummmm ... we’ll see about that one.
   In the end, however, the overall mood of a basketball game, or any sporting event, depends not on the pep band, the cheerleaders or even the athletes. If no one attends the games, all of these other things become pointless.
    So if you wish to get a hold of me on a Tuesday or Friday night during the next few weeks, don’t call me at my house.
I’ll be at the game.
    Nicole Clark is a Newberg High School student and news intern at The Newberg Graphic

Jan. 20, 2007
You call this snow? It hasn’t even reached the second-story windows
   I was raised in rural Indiana where snow fell from September to May and the only thing that kept us out of school — usually for a week minimum — was a blizzard.
   In Indiana, canning and hunting was done as much to make sure we had food during the year as it was to ensure that we had socked away enough supplies in case the roads closed due to heavy layers of snow.
   And while fist-sized snowflakes falling like raindrops in a monsoon sounds like it would be enough to keep myself and my siblings at home playing in the snow like children in a Saturday Evening Post painting, trust me, it didn’t.
   The negative temperatures usually meant our time was spent defrosting the noses of our cows and bull so they wouldn’t suffocate on their own mucus-laden breath. We gathered the stray chickens and pigs and locked them into the warm barn. And we layered ourselves in as many clothes as we could find before we went out to help our neighbors round up their cows.
   Farm animals always seem to pick the coldest days to make their bid for freedom.
   It got so cold one year that my dad led our small herd (Is three officially a herd?), onto our insulated back porch one night to keep them warm.
   No kidding.
   My brother — he was so lucky — was given the dubious task of cleaning up after the overgrown pets.
   I remember waking up late one weekday morning and dancing like a crazy person when I looked outside to see the snow covering the ground outside. I stopped in mid-whoop when I noticed the ground was two feet closer to my second story bedroom window than it should have been.
   Whoa, was that a sobering sight.
   Then there was that time that my sister and I took the round metal sled out to the tree-lined snowy hilltop. My sister, a more far-seeing person than her ‘dang-I-bet-I-could-do-that’ 10-year-old sister, refused to come down the hill on the sled until I had tried it out first.
  I bet that sled reached speeds of 25 mph as it hurtled down the hillside, smacking like a pinball against trees on the way down. Heather, my sister, said she was never sure whether the strange sounds I was making — something between an ‘oof’ and a ‘yee-haw’ — stemmed from laughter or fear.
   I didn’t see the lip at the end of the hill, two feet above the gravel roadway, but when I hit it — backwards mind you — it flung me at least six feet into the air before I came crashing down about 10 feet from where I left the ground and slid, spinning wildly another 30 feet down the roadway. Good thing there was a berm at the corner or I still might be sliding down that road.
   I stood with my arms flung out to the sides, my feet braced on either side of the sled grinning like a crazy person and trying to retain the equilibrium I’d lost somewhere between smacking into the third tree and the flight over the roadway.
   My sister declined the slalom.
   Was it fun? Oh yeah. Would I do it again? No way. My dad had no idea how the dents appeared in the brand new sled. Shhhh, he still doesn’t.
   So I find it somewhat amusing to watch people in Oregon brought to a standstill by a bit of the white stuff. Don’t get me wrong, when I woke up Tuesday morning, I had no intention of driving to work. That would have been foolish.
   Not because I can’t drive in the snow, even though I’ll be the first to admit that I was intimidated by the inch-thick sheet of snow packed on the roadway. I was more worried about what my fellow drivers would be thinking on their way to work as they wrestled, white-knuckled and wild-eyed, with cars not prepared for the cold weather.
   I dressed in four layers of clothing and walked to work, thank you very much.
   The rule of thumb, my licensed to drive friends, is simple — go slow, leave lots of room between you and everyone else on the road, and if you don’t absolutely need to drive, don’t.
Things should be better by now, but who knows for sure.
    If the weather hasn’t improved, stay home, enjoy the cold weather from the safety of your living room, throw snowballs at your neighbors and children and drink copious amounts of hot chocolate. Also dig out that sled and find a great hilltop to slide down.
   Much better than getting hurt driving in unfamiliar conditions.
   Schellene Clendenin is a reporter for The Newberg Graphic.

Jan. 10, 2007
Suffering from the ill effects of the Christmas crud
  I hade being zick. Add for ady of you who have a code I sybithize.
   Dode you hade id when your eyes are red and weepy, dose runs and dasdebuds go into hiding deep idside your dongue? Oh woe is be. Nod to bention feeling as though your ears will always be udder wawder, as well as the dendency to dalk fuddy.
   I’ve got the Christmas crud, also known as a cold, and I am miserable.
   Every time I catch myself regaling others with my long list of things going wrong with me — stuffy nose, or a dripping one, sinus pressure that makes the front of my brain feel like its ready to burst from its shell, that tickle in the back of my throat that makes me cough, a tongue that feels like steel wool, rattling in my chest, a slight wheeze in my breath, a cough that makes my co-workers pause to offer me water, and aches and pains that make me feel as though my body needs serious maintenance — I try to stop, really I do. But I can rarely help myself. Oh and don’t get me started on the chills and fever.
   But since childhood ailments meant being babied and I love to be babied. I can remember when I was really little, 6 or so, when I had strep throat. Orange juice never tasted as good as when mom brought it to me fresh from the freezer.
   The slushy-type stuff washed down my throat, hydrating my parched mouth and cooling my overheated tonsils. She always gently kissed my forehead to check for a fever.
Mom’s are the best.
   I do believe that was the time I didn’t eat for nearly three days and only sucked on Popsicles for relief. My mom was there every minute of the day, watching over my sister and I and dispensing medication with the confidence of a seasoned nurse.
   Anyone with siblings or children will understand that you never get the crud alone, it must be shared with all your family members and perhaps a friend or two.
   Mom was great, alternating hot and cold washcloths as we needed them, covering us when we began to shiver and holding the bucket when the orange juice decided it didn’t like where it was anymore.
   Wouldn’t it be nice to have mom fussing over me right about now? Handing me the vapor rub or tissues and heating cans of chicken soup. She’d make sure my blankets weren’t too rough, my feet were covered and that acetaminophen was close at hand. Thanks Mom.
   As an adult I do everything possible to avoid getting the crud, short of a flu shot. I mean, when I have a cold nothing is right. Water is the texture of gel, food lacks all flavor whatsoever, and my sense of smell and hearing pack up and leave for the duration. I try to sleep through the night, take vitamin C and echinacea and drink tons of fluid, but the crud cares not for my need to go to work.
   In fact, I think it rather enjoys the chance of my spreading it to others by all the handshaking I usually do.
   Next week, when I return to the office, I’ll spray a bit of Lysol over my keyboard and phone handle, and rejoice in the fact that I am no longer sick.  People will stop telling me I sound terrible and sneezing and coughing will only be done if I walk through a cloud of dust.
   But for now, all I really want to do is climb in bed with my two down comforters and the heating pad on full blast. The tissues, cold tablets, juice and vapor rub will be near at hand. I’ll accept sympathy — and stuffed animals — from anyone who’d care to offer it.
   Schellene Clendenin is a reporter for The Newberg Graphic