Tag Archives: Life

Boomer Dave

Posted on by
Reply

Yesterday I went to a Celebration of Life for my former bandmate and good friend, Dave Poarch. Dave eventually lost a battle with cancer, but not before a helluva fight. He was one tough hombre.

Around 2010, the trio I was in needed a guitar player and singer, so I put an ad on Craigslist, and Dave responded. From the outset, I could tell he’d bring exactly what we needed, and he crushed my expectations with his excellent vocals and musicianship.

We soon became “Beth Britton and The Boomers” and hit the local farmer’s market scene, hoping to move up. Dave’s voice blended really well with Beth’s. That, coupled with an eclectic set list no other band had, gave us a niche in the private party scene. Before we knew it, we were gigging 3-4 times a month. Nothing was off the table. We covered everyone from Amy Grant to AD/DC. Dave brought in songs from artists I had never heard of that became staples of our set list. His creativity and openness to whatever sounded good were a real asset to the trio. My two favorite songs featuring Dave were Beautiful Wreck (Shawn Mullins) and Into the Mystic (Van Morrison).

The Boomers worked their way to playing at an actual bar, Marks on the Channel up in Scapoose. I had seen notable local artists play there and never thought I’d play there myself, so I went in with a little bit of imposter syndrome, but Dave and Beth carried the day. Before long, the place was rockin’. There’s no better feeling for a band than when people get up to dance and seem to be having a good time. We probably split $200 between us; I don’t remember the exact numbers, but the money was never the point. Dave just loved music. It was just part of his DNA.

Through the band, Dave and his lovely wife, Vicki, became good friends of ours. Dave was always an interesting hang. The conversation was good, but what I remember most about him and Vicki as hosts is that they always focused on you. They genuinely wanted to know what was going on in your life and dug deep into what we were up to. Dave never made it about him. Even when he was really sick, he didn’t want the focus on him for very long.

Not surprisingly, Dave’s Celebration of Life in Newberg was packed, and music was on the menu. He clearly touched many lives. I didn’t expect anything less. Knowing him meant having a really good friend. Vaya con Dios, amigo. We’ll see you on the other side.

2025 Year in Review

Posted on by
1

In 1985, when I lived in Marysville, Washington, my good friend Dave Aldrich sent out his annual Christmas letter. A Berkeley grad, activist, and FDR Democrat, Dave was convinced that Republicans have been working to unravel the New Deal since it was enacted. Needless to say, he was not a fan of the Reagan Administration at the time.

In his annual holiday letter, Dave went on a two-page, nonstop, political rant about everything that was wrong with the country, railing against Republicans using George Will-level vocabulary, and then signed it “Merry Christmas.” It was the funniest Christmas letter I have ever received.

I’ve often been tempted to steal his idea, but there’s no way I could ever match his wit or vocab, so I’ll just admit up front that, after the cruelty I witnessed in 2025, I seriously considered it.

I’m thankful that I don’t need to, because for those who reached this site via a link from me, I’d be preaching to the choir. It was encouraging to see you out at the protests. Keep up the good work. We all know the assignment.

Other than living in Orwellian times, there were a lot of positives to share about this past year.

To say that retirement is agreeing with Donna and me might be the understatement of the year. We are both thriving. After spending the first couple of years in retirement getting health issues out of the way, we feel we’re engaged in fulfilling activities independently and with friends, family, and each other. We appreciate the freedom that comes with being retired and don’t take it for granted for one second.

Donna joined the Dahlia Society and is learning how to fill the yard with … more dahlias. There’s a lot more to it than meets the eye. Some people are really into it. They have shows and competitions with people judging dahlias that cost hundreds of dollars… for a flower. Donna isn’t like that. She just wants to learn how to make our little plot of land beautiful with dahlias and meet like-minded people. She’s been able to spend more time in the shop doing her art projects. Bold ideas are starting to surface. We’ll keep you posted.

Donna’s mom, Janet, turned 95 this past year and is requiring more care than in the past. We’re thankful that she’s agreeable in her environment, and that the staff at her care center enjoys her. Donna has reached full stride as a sports fan this past year. The very thought of March Madness brings her immense joy. She’s now an avid viewer of sports on television, especially when it’s playoff time. When I look at our shared calendar, all the Duck games and times are already listed. Her golf game gets better every year, and the sports attire section of her closet is growing. I picked the right wife.

I spend my days making difficult decisions among my seemingly endless list of hobbies. I’m still involved in sports officiating (added volleyball to the mix this year), get out for some golf, walk with my buddy Dan, and am still writing the same book I wrote about last year (It’s Complicated, Isn’t It?”). It’s a work in progress. The more I write, the more I discover. I spent considerable time in the music studio this year, recording songs and putting them out on YouTube (William Toner).

Our travel schedule included exotic destinations like Seattle, Neskowin, Port Townsend, and Altoona, Washington. We have adopted a ‘short getaway’ strategy that fits well with our lifestyle and retirement budget. We try to pick places where we can bring Pickles because Pickles is spoiled, and snorts if we leave her at home.

I helped my son Robby build a shed this past year from a set of plans he bought online (see pics). Those who know me know it wasn’t work, it was all fun. I love building stuff, though I’m far from being a pro. What we didn’t know, we figured out. Emilia helped by adding artwork to the project with her felt pens. Rob and Ariana thought it might even be too helpful.

Two days ago, we welcomed Nicholas William Toner into the family. Proud parents Dan and Emily are now a family of five, complete with 3 car seats in the back. We really enjoy hearing what comes out of the mouths of babes. It’s hard work raising a family, but when the kids crack you up with what’s on their mind, it’s all worth it. When we see Gwennie and Ellie, they never disappoint.

We are looking forward to seeing Kelli and the boys at Christmas and learning about their football season. Kaden graduates this year, and Karter is a Freshman. We are very proud of the young gentlemen they have become. Sports fanatics and good students. What more could you want?

With that, in no particular order, I leave you with some memories from 2025.

Masking Tape Whiffle Ball

Posted on by
2

The following is an excerpt from my book “It’s Complicated, Isn’t It?”

As a pre-teen, I remember being able to be laser-focused on an activity — so tuned in that I couldn’t fathom anything outside being present in that moment.  My brain was completely locked. I would be so zeroed in on my mission that I wouldn’t have noticed Raquel Welch right next to me in a string bikini.  I might ignore a bowel movement for as long as was physically possible… and then some.  This level of concentration presented a problem for my parents and the mandatory Church requirement.  

Living in the burbs of Southeast Portland, we didn’t have any place to play hardball in the immediate neighborhood.  That would have meant a trip to the park or nearby field.  This prompted my friend Scott to devise an ingenious innovation — a masking tape whiffle ball.  Scott was younger than I by a year, but we shared a love of baseball and were both very competitive.  

One Sunday morning, with nothing better to do, I wandered down to the neighbor’s house to find Scott experimenting with wrapping some masking tape around a whiffle ball.  Depending on how the ball was wrapped, you could get the ball to curve about 3 feet from pitcher to batter.  It turned every pitcher into Bert Blyleven faster than you could say, “I whiffed yo ass.”  There were no special seems to grip, no wrist turning, nothing.  All you had to do was throw the whiffle ball at the batter, and it arced like Halley’s Comet.  It might even drop a foot or two.  It was magical.   And with the extra weight of the masking tape on the ball, (if you manage to make contact), every batter was now Jim Thome.  That thing would sail across the sky in a trajectory so beautiful, it sent visions of grandeur as an MLB cleanup hitter through my mind.  That is IF I could connect with the ball. 

The game was pretty simple.  A home run was awarded for hitting the neighbor’s driveway on the fly.  Extra points if you hooked one up on their roof. Each time you hit one short of the driveway, that’s a strike.   The batter racks up home runs until he strikes out.   Then it was the next guy’s turn.  

We had to keep a supply of whiffle balls handy because every half hour or so, we’d have to do a roof climb and retrieve our supply of whiffle balls.  The old man next door didn’t like us climbing up there, but that never stopped us… we just learned to use stealthier tactics.  But he didn’t like it one bit.  I think we got away with it 99% of the time because his recycling bin was piled high every week with wine bottles.  He and the old lady were obviously day drinkers because when he did come outside, it was usually in his bathrobe, and he clearly hadn’t shaved or showered for some time, and he sounded like Foster Brooks.  

We had our favorites when it came to whiffle balls.  The taping of the balls became a science lesson.  Two wraps this way.  One that way.  Some balls would break better than others, so we used those first.  There was one ball that broke so well that we got into a fight over who wrapped it.

Scott and I are deep into a whiffle ball competition, and I am into it big-time.  One of the draws of the game was being able to humiliate your friend by throwing a curve ball so nasty that they looked foolish swinging and missing by a mile.   Expecially if it was strike three.  We could get each other to slam the bat down in disgust after missing a pitch that was flailing across the yard like a butterfly with no particular destination in mind.

If memory serves, the score was close, and I was ahead.  I had worked hard at developing a set of pitches that bamboozled Scott and left him pissed off at the thought of being defeated at the game he invented.  Then my sister showed up two houses down and yelled, “Time for Church.”  

This simply could not be.  There was no way my luck could have run so afoul that I would have to exit doing what I loved so much for the prospect of changing into my “slacks” and dressing up for an hour of church.  I was dumbfounded.  What did I do to deserve this?  I hated the Church rule more than a toddler hates nap time.  I was furious.  Incensed.  Fuuuuuuuuck me!  But there was no way out. That was the rule.