Sojourn Theatre actors Rebecca Martinez and James Hart play the parts of the bride and groom at a preview performance of the play, “On the Table” during Act III in Oregon City.

This column appeared in the July 21, 2010 issue of the Molalla Pioneer.

I have a good job being the publisher of a small-town community newspaper. There is a lot of stress and hard work, but there are many rewards as well. Knowing that I can make a difference for people is worth more than any monetary compensation.

One of the most significant rewards of working at a small newspaper is that I get to do a lot of different things every day. Of course, as a publisher I have to concern myself with the traditional duties of a publisher. That means I have to make sure the readers are getting the best journalism possible and are getting their papers delivered in a reasonable way for a reasonable cost.

At the same time I have to be attentive to the needs of our advertisers and help them get their message to potential customers, again, for a good price.

And I have to run the newspaper as a business, making sure the bills and the employees get paid and that we are making enough money to cover those costs and make a profit for the owners. I essentially have to manage a business from the top to the bottom. There’s a lot of math involved too. Math doesn’t like me.

Of course one person can’t do all of those things alone, so delegation is part of the process. But once you delegate, you have to manage a staff and not only make sure they are striving towards the newspaper’s goals but also are getting the most out of their jobs. A good boss has to support people as they grow in their jobs.

All that said, because of our paper’s small size, I get to do a lot of other things that publishers at bigger papers don’t get to do. One day I could be selling an ad or taking a news photo, the next day I could be delivering a paper to someone, the next I could be writing a feature story about an exciting event or penning a column about an interesting person or subject. I am privileged to meet many remarkable people in my daily job duties. Sometimes it’s good to be small.

Most days are not alike and since I’m a quick study, I tend to get bored easily. This is the perfect job for me. I’m sure that’s part of why I got into journalism in the first place. I live for busyness.

This past week was even more fun than usual. I was the photographer for Editor Bethany Monroe’s story about the traveling play, “On the Table.” You can read the story and see the photos on Page One of this week’s paper. And though it was a technically challenging assignment because it was outside at night and pretty dark, it was quite a bit of fun.

I only got to see the third act. I enjoyed that part so much that I’m now going to buy some tickets and take my girlfriend to the entire show next week.

The unusual play was written and performed by a Portland acting company called Sojourn Theatre. For almost 10 years this group of actors, directors and stage professionals has been doing unconventional theater work in Oregon.

This time was no different. The play was based in large part on interviews with community members from Portland and Molalla.

The story is about two Oregon families: one from urban Oregon and one from rural Oregon. A marriage brings these two families together and through audience participation, an examination is made of what separates rural and urban and what brings the two together.

Act I is performed in two places with two separate groups of actors and audience members in each location. When you order your tickets, you get to choose which Act I you want to see.

The “urban” place is a Northeast Portland Church and the “rural” place is a barn near Molalla. Act II is a bus ride from each location to a central, common location in Oregon City.

In the third and final act, the only one I’ve seen so far, the two groups of actors and audience members are united for a wedding reception.

That’s where the spectators have a chance to discuss the topic at hand, bridging the rural/urban divide in Oregon. It’s a clever idea that is skillfully executed.

Director Michael Rohd was quite welcoming to the Molalla Pioneer staff and his stage manager Liam Kaas-Lentz was very helpful to me as I tried to figure out what would make a good photo for Bethany’s story.

I must give credit to Sadie Cramer, Molalla’s city recorder, who just last year persuaded the city council to create an arts commission here in Molalla. Without Sadie’s hard work and the work of the arts commission, Molalla would never have been part of this inspiring project.

The play officially opened last Saturday, July 17 and will continue through Aug. 1 at 8 p.m. on Wednesdays through Sundays.

The church location is the Portland Playhouse at 602 N.E. Prescott in Portland and the Molalla barn is at Rosse Posse Acres, 32690 S. Mathias Road near Molalla.

Tickets are $12-$25. And I’ve been told that no one under 8 years old will be admitted.

Now that I’m done writing this column, I’m going to buy some tickets. I’m either going to buy my tickets at their website, http://www.sojourntheatre.org or at Key Carpets here in Molalla, 123 Engle Ave.

Maybe I’ll see you there. I’ll be with the Molalla side of the family.

Growing up in Cleveland, Ohio, I initially took it very hard and personally when NBA superstar LeBron James recently turned his back on my fellow Clevelanders and left for what he must have perceived as greener pastures in Florida. Although if he was leaving because of the weather, I can’t say I blame him. That’s one of the reasons I left. And luckily nobody was burning effigies of me. Thankfully, my mom was afraid of setting the backyard on fire.

All this national attention that my hometown received got me thinking about what it was like to live there and what I’ve learned about life since I left in 1993.

I’m not too worried about the effect LeBron’s insult will have on Cleveland. In the end, any city is bigger than one person — unless that city has a population of one. I say good riddance to a guy who got too big for his britches, as my grandma used to say.

You don’t hear that word — britches — much any more. I kind of like it. I looked it up and it’s an informal version of the word breeches which are trousers ending above the knee. If you’re a bit on the younger side, I wouldn’t blame you if you had to look up the word trousers. Discovering the origins and meanings of words can be quite an adventure, but I’ll leave that for another column.

Back to LeBron. I haven’t ever been to Miami so I can’t verify with certainty that the pastures are literally greener, but even if they aren’t, they are much warmer. I spent my formative years in a climate that makes Siberia feel like a tropical destination during some of the winter months and makes Southeast Asia feel like a nice dry place to cool off in the summertime. It was a climate of extremes and I think that tendency toward extremism carries over into the local Cleveland culture. I mean, they were burning LeBron’s jerseys in the streets and there was talk of rioting.

I don’t think the riots actually happened, but there was nothing mild about how Clevelanders, even ex-pats like me, responded to that slap in the face on national television.

Speaking of extremes, I’ll never forget the extremely cold winter weather. I have this very distinct memory of standing alongside my car as I filled it up with gasoline one frigid winter night. Yes, we have to pump our own gas there. It was quite a tough existence. In what was an unusual act for me, I was dressed appropriately for the weather. I was wearing a thick leather jacket with a wool lining over a thick sweater over a plaid wool shirt over a thermal undershirt. But when that cold and bone-chilling gust of wind came from over Lake Erie, I could actually feel it eat its way through to my skin. I felt the cold creeping in. I remember being amazed at the power and rawness of that cutting wind.

Of course, like LeBron, I moved to a relatively warmer climate. Yes, you read that correctly. I’m calling Portland warm in the winter. If you grew up in the Midwest or Northeast, you’ll agree with me, wholeheartedly.

All this recent thinking about King James (can you believe that’s what he calls himself?) prompted me to drum up some advice for him. I know the chances aren’t good that he’ll read this column, but maybe someone who does will let him know what I said — hopefully without too much change in the message.

My advice to LeBron sounds a bit clichéd but then again, clichés sometimes exist because their truth causes them to be repeated so much. One should never tire of hearing the truth. OK, the advice: The grass is never greener and wherever you go, there you are.

I learned those life lessons the hard way after I left Cleveland. And honestly, I don’t think the message really sank in until I was well into my 30s. So I have to give LeBron a break. He’s only 25. At that age, I was clueless. Even more clueless than I am now, if you can believe that.

When I think of the summertime, I think mostly of my youth. I think of days without school and without adult responsibilities. I remember the invigorating feeling I used to get from just smelling the freshly cut grass. Summer felt like possibilities and the future. It felt positive and exciting. It still does, just not as strongly now that I’m middle aged.

During the winter I would think more about home, my local town and my family. Maybe that was because my folks rarely took vacations during the winter, but instead focused their efforts on the cold-weather holidays that were close to the safety of home and comfort of familial ties.

But during the summer my mind would wander more. I thought quite often about what could be down the road a bit — both in terms of time and of distance. I remember many summer days when it was too hot to roam around outside — I would lie on my bed in the breeze of the ceiling fan and stare at the U.S. map on my wall. I would think about what life must be like in other parts of the country — the people, the food, the accents and the scenery I would discover. The thought of that adventure awaiting me out there would make my heart flutter. The only thing that comes close to that feeling was being in love. Come to think of it, I moved almost 3,000 miles to the west of my hometown during one of my younger summers — and that was for love waiting at the other end of the five-day journey. Summer has always been the start of new things for me — new habits, new relationships, new jobs, new life.

Now that we’re getting a taste of summer, what are you thinking about? What does summer now and in the past, make you think about? What does the summertime mean to you? Or are you more of a winter person?

Now that I’m done writing this column, I’m going outside. For the moment at least, it seems to be summer and adventure awaits.

I wrote a column about the beginning of my effort to lose weight. Here it is on my newspaper’s Web site.