Songs, essays, poems, books, photographs, readings, short comments, long comments, posted at random times. 

Jon Remmerde, editor. earwashEverything on this website is copyrighted. For permission to use any of this material write Jon@oregonauthor.com.

 Why is this website?  About the author, singer-songwriter, photographer, and website editor. (Photo of the editor having his ear washed.)

 Recording My Songs   An essay. 852 words. All songs on my website are written, performed, and recorded by Jon Remmerde unless otherwise noted. I've copyrighted all my songs and registered the copyrights.



Songs Archive  Essays Archive   Poems Archive  Fiction Archive



Why donate?

Descriptions, reviews, samples of these 3 books: Order books:
1) Quiet People in a Noisy World: 2) Somewhere in an Oregon Valley: 3) Abraham's Journey 



2-25   Superman is Dead   Fiction.


2-18   Good Morning Sunshine  A song.


2-8   Going to the Country   A song.


2-3   Lackadaisical Blues  A song.


1-28   Ramblings of the website manager:

What I plan now, I'll put songs on my website, one at a time, interspersed with an essay, a poem, or other writing, pretty much what I've been doing anyway, with no new recordings of songs for quite some months because I've been trying to achieve a closer approach to my songs as I hear them in my head, without regard for how songs are usually constructed.

And, we moved from central Oregon to eastern Oregon, which took some time, especially the getting-settled-in part. Now I try to get more back to work. I impose more order on my work, writing, music and this website.

Sometimes at night when the cold winds wail, I wake, look into darkness and quit posting stuff on my website. I rarely hear that anyone cares about what I'm doing. In darkness of cold night, that matters.

In daylight after breakfast, I continue putting stuff on my website anyway. Maybe that defines the art of what I do.


Mistletoe in tree1-26   Bad News   A song.


January 9, 2020  As if a Noisy Weekend  A Poem.


12-23   Our Christmas Angel  An essay by Laura Remmerde. 1483 words.


12-3   Miss Molasses, She Goes Slowly Rolling  an essay.  714 words.


11-21  The Coldest Place in Oregon  An essay.   926 words. I ran this before.

S'okay. I do things like that sometimes. And winter keeps coming at us, over and over.


11-17  A Unique, Light Grey Cowboy Hat   A Unique, light grey essay about a hat.


11-7   I Find Grace in the Middle of a Mountain Lake  An essay.  597 words. Published in The Christian Science Monitor.



We've moved.I've set up enough to continue working with my website on a regular basis. Ascreech owl close wild celebration ensues as my followers dance around the room in gratitude. And me. I dance around the room in gratitude that we've moved and have emerged into order enough that I can continue with my work.



The Unplanned Bounty from an Untended Garden  654 words. An Essay, taken from archives and revised.


I'll do little or nothing on this website until some time in November. We're moving from Central Oregon to northeastern Oregon, and moving takes time.

Advice to future movers follows: Don't acquire much. Trimming material possessions and then moving what's left is time-consuming work.



Every Politician Cultivates a Garden


We, the people, abjure

contemporary politics

demand, rule, specify, order,                                                 

vote VOTE

every politician

must cultivate

a garden,

this wide world over,

has many helpers, yes,

supervises every seed,

every plant,



all harvest with every


who judges (VOTES)

by quality of food

of flowers

of every fungus growing

every organism of soil

garden soil.


Every politician / gardener




Life and Love.

Vote Life and Love

every action

every breath

every prayer

every thought.





Jon Remmerde

Webmaster’s Journal

Ramblings, September 24, 2019

756 words

I’ve got a million ways to think and write and sing about three hundred and thirty-three thousand, thirty-three past experiences, developing experiences, and other forms and colors and smells of ideas blossoming in my memory, in my mind, moving visions of colors, blues, morning blues, evening blues, mule-skinner blues, greens, soft, swirling mists of white fog and pastel movement. Violet flowers into lavender, flowers, soil, smell of mule manure and soil, dry soil, wet soil, flowers, colors, shades of lavender, lavender flowers, smell of lavender flowers in sunshine, flowers and green grasses, flavorful food and pleasant odors for a thousand pounds of muscle and bone, my favorite mule, that pulls metal to open ground so I can plant corn and potatoes and beans and squash and grass and flowers and grains, wheat, rice, oats.

The world cools toward night, smell of night, movements, growing plants, movement of growth, smells of growth, soaking sunshine into smooth movement of long muscles in my back when I bend to work, work toward moonlight, bursting-open-mushrooms smell, the smell of cutting mushrooms with sharp knives into fresh wicker baskets all across the face of the living mountain, flowers red and gold, gold heavier than stone, malleable, the butterest of all metals, malleable, smell gold, hot metal already malleable but more, but more, when heated. Hot gold.


I want to write them all. Down. Or up. memories. experiences, ideas, visions.

But I won’t. I haven’t that much time.


I also have these, maybe a hundred songs, and I want to sing them well, I want to sing them well already, I want to sing them well, as precisely as the songs I hear in my mind, when then I write the words onto paper and build sounds from my guitar and my voice into the room around me, into the air, into the universe. I hear them in my mind and see the colors flow like mist and the smells of flowers and forbes and trees and soil, brush, brush. acrid, insects, sunshine caressing. I want to touch them well, I want to touch them all.


a question for you, if somebody plays and sings a song so far out into the forest (or upstairs in my room, my studio room, studio B.) that no one hears the song, is it a song? Was it a song? In the moment of play, of voice singing into sunshine, of joy in this performance, Did it get sung and played? Does a song, recorded and played millions of times and heard by millions have more reality, more existence, more presence than a song sung in the wild wild wood and heard only by the singer, the dancer, dancing hands and feet on instruments of golden tones, dancing animals, wild animals, dancing plants, stone, soil?

I lift my keyboard from my lap and place it onto the table, and the monitor and the speaker, I push back, toward the center of the table, and I shut off the monitor and the speaker, and I pick up my guitar, golden guitar, golden tones, colors of tones, golden, soft silver, colors of sunshine, all glowing colors, alive, life memory in song, memory of life, of music of life. Black guitar, and brown and white, brass, color and sound of brass, of steel. And gold, sound of gold. Gold.

My neighbor starts a lawnmower. Another neighbor trims straight where his grass and his concrete meet, uses ignited, exploding gasoline vapors for power to turn the blades that cut the edge. The machine has not-much muffler, is very loud. An airplane flies above me, up in the blue sky, louder than a lawnmower. Airplane exhaust gasses spew into blue, clear blue sky, joins my concert, without my consent, but as Chip often says about unwelcome actions in the world around him, "Oh well." or sometimes "What’re you gonna do about it?" shrug shoulders, upturn palms, raise brows toward sky.

So what could anybody do about it? Stop singing? NO. NO. Never. Never never never.

Having said, explaining why there are gaps in my website, at that time when practice, practice, practice of my songs does not yet quite come to recording, but will. There have been gaps. There will be more, but Maybe and maybe, eventually, I’ll record songs and make them available from this website, that are better-performed than I have previously been able to perform and record.

Ain’t evahbody thrilled?

Check back. Explore everything else on this website. As I promised much earlier, I will make archives available, a lot of stuff in there now, but I haven't linked to the various archives, because some pieces aren't formatted the way I now want them to be, and I have to re-do them, and one day, one day, I will.

More about this Later



9-19  Shrike News  From the Sonoran Journal. Test and Photo by C. Remmerde.


9-9   We All Live in a Quiet Neighborhood  An essay. 1445 words.


9-4   Good Morning toooooo whoooooo?   From the Sonoran Journal. Text and photos by C. Remmerde.


8-22   Catching the Copper  An essay. 1,944 words.


8-17  Caught up in summer and several personal events, including visits from friends and family, I fall behind when I had thought I would post new material.

I try to maintain a stream of writing, working every piece I’ve started toward completion and starting new pieces, like the one I extracted this comment from, just started, to record the most persistent thoughts of the day. At the same time, I maintain a stream of music, practicing every piece I’ve performed toward better performance.

When the music, the writing, the dog barking next door, the airplane flying noisily overhead, the lawnmower roaring two houses over become one movement toward expression of something good, I’m moving the direction I want to go.

Irrelevant, irritating sounds blend into my movement as I try to turn the total force that enters my awareness toward positive expression.

I live in a steadily noisier environment. I want to express primarily positive thoughts. Distractions turn me toward positive expression. Distractions as part of artistic existence turn my attention to the work I need to do to bring harmony to my thought.

Something good must come of irritants. Irritants stimulate my awareness that I must change the irritants, my thoughts about them, myself so they are no longer irritants, so my thought reaches more and more into harmony regardless of what my environment seems to be. Peace in me stimulates peace around me, stimulates awareness that peace exists in our environment, creates the awareness that we can move deeper into peace, into quietude, into gratitude for peace, into gratitude for awareness that quietude is a positive state of existence that I continue to work toward.



8-1 Essays from a Family of Four  An essay. 1281 words. Published in The Christian Science Monitor.


7-22  A Mystery from C. Remmerde's Sonoran Journal.  The killer drug the body into the hot desert, unmindful of tracks left in sand.

7-19   Storms along the Pete Mann Ditch  An essay 1,562 words. Published in The Christian Science Monitor, March 28,  1990.

7-11  Birthday Car  Fiction 2926 words.


July 6

Jon Remmerde

Carrot Ice Cream

An essay

389 words

Carrot Ice Cream

Bob, Alice, Jan and Warren, Ash and Ingrid and their sons, William and John Scott, joined us at Whitney that hot summer afternoon. My garden carrots, baby sucrams and touchon, had grown abundantly. They were sweet, tender and crisp. It seemed to me a natural step to put them into homemade ice cream.

The most adventuresome among us said, "Might be good," and the conservative said, "Sounds weird."

We mixed finely-grated carrots into the ice cream mix. I liked that, but some of the people there didn’t like it very well. We ate all the ice cream, but not with the unqualified enthusiasm hand-cranked ice cream should have. We all liked the flavor, but we agreed the crunchiness of the frozen, grated carrots wasn’t consistent with the smoothness we expected from ice cream.

Ingrid said, "We have the juicer at home. We could juice carrots and use the juice." The next time we gathered in Sumpter, where Ash and Ingrid had also grown carrots and had electricity and the electricity-powered juicer, we harvested carrots and launched the ice-cream project before dinner. We washed and juiced carrots and added the juice to the ice cream mix and cranked and added ice and salt and cranked some more, until the carrot ice cream was done. It was so good that even those who had been the most severe doubters looked hopefully into the metal container from which we scooped out ice cream and, seeing it was empty, said, "If we make another batch, I’ll do the cranking," and we made another batch and another.

With all of us harvesting and washing and juicing and making mix to put into the ice cream maker and cranking and keeping the ice and salt level high enough around the metal cylinder that contained the mix, dinner got delayed and delayed, but we had plenty of ice cream. Ash said sternly, "You kids eat all your ice cream or you don’t get any dinner."

The children loved Ash’s approach to discipline and cooperated fully. Children and adults talked and laughed, listened to Cracker Creek run clear in sunshine, used the front lawn as dining room, and ate carrot ice cream and more carrot ice cream in northeastern Oregon’s Blue Mountains. We never did get to the main courses of a dinner that evening. Nobody objected.


7-1   Racing Blind  An essay. 1048 words.

6-28  Soaking Wet in the Sierras  An essay. 699 words.

6-25  Examples of Real Life  From the Sonoran Journal by C. Remmerde.

6-19  Understand an Edible-Pod Pea  A Poem. A reading of the poem.

6-15 Ponce de Leon   Fiction. Taken from archives and revised. 2141 words. Some readers missed this story because of a hyperlink malfunction, and this audio presentation of the story is new (I think. Who really knows what happened several years ago? Computer crashes and consequent loss of memory affects our understanding of history. Modern approaches to history often take into account contemporary knowledge that memories vary tremendously from person to person, even in one person from telling to telling.) 

  I wrote this story in reaction to several articles I read about average comprehension of history in our modern world.

 6-5   I don't have a cell phone. I don't watch tv.  An essay 2,702 words.

Besides that, the pest exterminator who came to my door and offered his services "very cheap," because he has other work in this neighborhood, had trouble believing, and never did understand that insects are my friends, and I don't want to exterminate them. That's another story than this one, but I mention it here because it's related to the story I tell in this essay.

5-20   Springtime Man   Tom Niehus's newest recording of this song, written by Jon Remmerde. Tom adapted it, performed it, and recorded it.

A line in this song, "Wild geese fly, calling, in the kingdom of the sky," I took, with her gracious permission, from one of Laura Remmerde's poems.   



Jon Remmerde


           I Load Rocks. Raven Rides the Wind             Raven in tree                                               


I blade the dirt road, pull up rocks,                   

lift them into the tractor’s bucket,

tractor them down

and dump them on the rock pile

near the stream,

blade and rake the road smooth through camp

across Lone Pine Creek

and around the loop below the lodge.


Fierce mountain wind blows down a big pine tree,

blows a picnic table against a tree and shatters the table,

blows the door off the latrine in tent site two.


Raven watches me every day.

Some days, the wind doesn’t blow

so fiercely.


I rake, lift, load rocks,

cut up a blown-down tree,

build a picnic table,

repair the latrine in tent site two,

watch Raven.


A smooth, rockless road is necessary, Raven,

so I can plow the road clear of snow in winter.


Raven never loads rocks in cold wind,

never noises up the day with loud tractor,

roaring chain saw,

never makes explanations for existence.


Raven glides above me on lazy wings

quarters away from the wind,

soars black above silver water in Pine Creek,

soars black above grass of the meadow,

growing green

in the cold wind

of spring.



5-8-2019  Cool Motorcyclists Tour the Sierras  An essay. 762 words.

May-4, 2019  

Jon Remmerde

(An essay)

228 words

Published in The Christian Science Monitor




Breezes blew smells of growing grasses and mountain flowers through open doors into the shop where I painted the frames of window screens I had brought up from the big lodge on the Girl Scout ranch we took care of 7,700 feet up in east slope of Northern Colorado=s Rocky Mountains.

I heard music from hummingbird wings and saw the iridescent flash of green, red, and white as a broad-tailed hummingbird flew by me into the shop and stopped and fluttered against a small window in the wall opposite the big, roll-up doors. Where sunlight shone in, there would be a way for him to fly out, he thought, and he struggled to fly through the hard, unyielding glass.

I walked across the shop, reached out, trapped the hummingbird against the glass, and closed my hand around him. I felt a very small, very light motion in my hand as I walked back across the shop and outdoors. I felt a much larger stirring inside me, where emotions live, at being able to touch, hold, and help this tiny wild bird.

I extended my arm and opened my hand. He knew he was outdoors and free. He flew straight up, a flash of brilliant colors in sunshine and out of sight into mountain blue sky.

I went back to work, light on my feet and singing of sunshine and freedom.


5-2   (Webmaster's Journal) I'm updating my website archives, as I have time. I'll make each archive category available on this website as soon as I finish each category (songs, essays, fiction, poetry, comments). In the process of working to make my website more navigable, I've fallen behind on my music practice, so I'm setting aside more time to work on my performances of my songs. As often happens, I get behind what I think of as optimum spacing of entries to the website through time. This becomes "not a problem" because my goal is to make all parts of my website fit together in the highest quality I can achieve, and high quality is always more important to me than optimal timing.




4-25   Dog's Body   An essay. 4,409 words.   "I was ten when our cocker spaniel, Rusty, got killed by a car on the road in front of our house, early in September...."

4-11   Down to the River  A song.

4-5   Going to the Country   A song.

3-31   Funny Little Thing  An essay from the Sonoran Journal by C. Remmerde.

3-20  Know Your Grower  A song, arranged, performed, and recorded by Tom Niehus. Tom performed every sound on this recording.

         Know Your Grower  Written, performed and recorded by Jon Remmerde.

         Communication between Tom and Jon about putting both versions of this song on this website.

3-14  Butterfly's Name  A poem.  Audio of the poem.

         Butterflies in Our Rudbeckia  A Poem.  Audio of the poem.

3-8    Meeting the Muse  Fiction. 5,980 words. This story is dedicated to all writers who have problems with alcohol or with life interfering with their writing.

3-3    Hey, Hey, Hey  A song.

2-26   Four-Wheel Drive on the Meadow  An essay; 953 words.

2-21  Another Day Done Gone  A song.

2-16  Must be a Magic World  A song .

2-13  Burned-Out Blues  A Poem, and audio reading of the poem.

2-6    Summer Rose Special  Fiction. 1552 words, and audio reading of the story.

12-20   Winter of the White Dog   Fiction 2,141 words.

12-13   Jake's Song fiction. 3,147 words.

12-7     Lyle's Place  Fiction 3,631words.

12-2     Webmaster's Journal 12-2-2018

11-23    Fox in My Yard   Essay and photo by C. Remmerde, from the Sonoran Journal.

11-20    I’m taking a short break, again. I’m behind schedule, because of restructuring I need to do to my website, music practice I need to catch up with, preparations for Thanksgiving, various exigencies of living. I’ll be back right after Thanksgiving. 

11-13   Headed Down the Road   A song.

11-10  Water in the Horse Trough, Skunk on the Stairs   From the Sonoran Journal by C. Remmerde

11-4    Slams and Rainstorms Delivering Papers  An essay. 

11-1    Webmaster's Journal   November 1. 2018  

10-29   Light inside My Existence  A song.