A summer afternoon turned deadly on Fern Ridge Reservoir, resulting in a recovery by the Lane County Sheriff’s Marine Patrol.
At approximately 3 p.m., Marine Patrol deputies and Oregon State Police responded to Fern Ridge after receiving a report of a drowning. According to witnesses, the victim, a 26-year-old man, was swimming sans life jacket from their boat and failed to resurface after diving beneath the water’s surface. Volunteers with the Lane County Sheriff’s Dive Team responded and after a search that lasted several hours the unnamed victim was located. Thanks are being given to those Lane County Sheriff’s volunteers who assisted with this emotionally difficult case as well as to the Trauma Intervention Program (TIP) volunteers who aided the witnesses to the drowning. Lakes and Rivers are still quite frigid, which makes them particularly dangerous on hot days. The sheriff’s department stresses that if people are going to be enjoying their time on or in the water that they please wear a life jacket.
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A Lane County Sheriff’s KP, Ripp, was instrumental in the apprehension of a suspect wanted by the U.S. Marshals.
Early on July 12th, a Lane County Sheriff’s deputy who was investigating a theft case became aware that Kirbie Lynne Hulsey, 40, was at a residence in the 24600 block of Demming Ridge Road. The U.S. Marshals Service had a federal warrant out for her arrest. Upon deputies’ arrival, Hulsey fled into the woods behind the property. Additional deputies responded with both a drone and Ripp. With his assistance, Halsey was found hiding in thick brush and arrested without further incident. A shooting on Sunday has led to the arrest of a 33-year-old man by Lane County Sheriff’s deputies.
At approximately 7:20 p.m., deputies responded to Perkins Peninsula Park after receiving a report that a female had been shot. She was taken to an area hospital with a non life-threatening injury to her arm/shoulder. In the course of the investigation, deputies took Timothy Earl Shaw, 33, into custody on charges of Assault in the 1st Degree and Unlawful Use of a Weapon. Another individual, Hannah Fetko, 32, was also arrested on an outstanding warrant. Both were lodged at the Lane County Jail without incident. Anyone with information about this incident is requested to phone the Lane County Sheriff’s Office at 541-682-4141. ![]() I never planned to have a farm. Not once did I ever think, “Gee, I’d like to find out what it’s like to nurse a dying rooster back to life, get up at midnight to give a goat an injection of antibiotics, open and drain an abscess, give a duck a therapy bath. No, I had hopes of finding the right person and settling down in the suburbs to raise a family. A farm was once the farthest thing from my mind. However, Mr. Right never came along. But the farm did. Things started surreptitiously enough. While I was volunteering at the library years ago, the then Assistant Director came in one morning with a storage container containing three fuzzy ducklings. Their mother had left the nest before they had hatched, and the assistant director was leaving for vacation. Would somebody be willing to raise them in her stead? I couldn’t help glancing in at them and as I did, I read the accompanying note. Half Mallard and half Indian Runner, free to a good home. Indian Runner? I pondered this. The only duck breeds I knew were Mallards and those really cute white ducks. Oh, and those ducks with the fleshy faces. Weren’t they Pekins? Indian Runners. What on earth kind of a duck was that? I had to admit, those ducklings were awfully cute. Before I left the library early that afternoon, I told Alice that if nobody wanted the ducklings by the end of the day, I would be glad to give them a home. I felt confident saying this as I was sure that somebody would come in, see them, and be as enchanted as I was. There was no chance whatsoever of these ducklings becoming mine. At five thirty that evening however, the phone rang, and Fern Ridge Library came up on the Caller ID. I groaned. I knew exactly who was calling and why. A mad rush to the library shortly before closing followed so I could bring home the two ducklings who were left (somebody took the third) and quickly check out a pair of books on the care of ducks. I was going to need to cram. I knew nothing where ducks were concerned. I also was going to have to figure out how to house them and, how I was going to explain them to my sister. Thus, began the era of Junior and Jellybean, ….. It turned out I was rather good with ducks. It also turned out that I had checked out two volumes of the same book on duck care but with different covers. One was returned immediately, one was read from cover to cover, save for the chapter about butchering them, which was worth only a glance and a grimace. There would be no butchering of these little creatures, thank you very much, and, who knew there were so many duck breeds? Huh. Junior and Jellybean quickly imprinted on me and would follow me about the yard. If I would pause, they would immediately stop waddling and lay down. As soon as I would resume walking, so would they. I was their mama and they trusted me implicitly. It was a good feeling. I figured if they were willing to put such great faith in me, I must be doing something right. Seeing them swim for the first time, replete with diving beneath the water’s surface, a nod to their Mallard half, was enough to make my chest swell with maternal pride. When they moved from their nursery in a small animal pen in the shop to the little yard we constructed replete with a house just big enough for the two of them, I worried about them spending the night outdoors. Would they be safe? Would they be warm enough? Would they remember to brush their teeth and say their prayers? My babies had grown up. I had managed to raise them to the point that they could start to become independent of me and I was rather proud of myself, considering how little I knew at the time. In keeping with their having become teenagers, Junior and Jellybean no longer wanted to follow me with the complete adoration they had once bestowed me with. Rather, I seemed to just be someone who was there to feed them and clean up after them and, at times, I was even a nuisance with my seemingly constant fussing and worrying. I opted not to take it personally. After all, I was once a teenager myself. A few months after their arrival, Junior and Jellybean were joined by Jacob, a full-blooded Indian Runner drake with black plumage that glistened green in the sunlight and a small white patch on his chest that could have passed for a clerical collar. Then came Monty, Midge, and Myrtle, three of Jacob’s relatives, and I had myself a small flock. With four ducks, the proper term for a female of the species, I also had eggs and I would dutifully collect them every morning while thinking, “Wow! I’m practically a farm girl!” Hiram was next to arrive. A bantam rooster with deep red and blue plumage, he had narrowly escaped ending up in a soup pot when an ad pleading for somebody to spare him this fate caught my eye on Craigslist. Even though I had no interest and less desire to own a rooster, I found myself responding. Just like with Junior and Jellybean, I just couldn’t help myself. The next thing I knew, I was making arrangements for Hiram to be brought out to live with my ducks. If I had held any doubts about Hiram being able to hold his own with the ducks, he quickly proved that I had nothing to worry about. He wasted no time in assimilating himself with his new flock and, as far as he was concerned, he was a duck. Everywhere the ducks went, so did he. The ducks didn’t mind, even if he did seem a little odd, what with his stopping to crow every so often, once he learned how. They weren’t quite sure what to make of that. I mean, why would he need to puff his feathers, throw his head back and emit those raucous sounds? It probably made no sense to them. They probably saw no point in such behavior. Hiram, for his part, no doubt couldn’t understand why his flock would happily frolic in water of all things. Did they realize what they were doing? Had they not heard the old saying, “madder than a wet hen?” Alas, they came to an agreement of sorts that Hiram would crow whenever the notion struck, which was often, and the ducks would be free to swim all they wanted. Eventually, hens joined the now growing farm as I thought Hiram would appreciate some of his own kind. I had envisioned him lying in the sun alongside his harem in a state of bliss that only a free ranging rooster with a bevy of hens at his disposal could experience. Hiram, however, could not have been less interested. He was a duck, a crowing, water hating duck, and how could I have been so foolish as to not understand this? Though I was a bit disappointed in his lack of enthusiasm, I was not to be dissuaded. I was learning as I went along, and I found that I liked it. Chickens were a lot more interesting than I had ever given them credit for. Maybe, just maybe, I was becoming a farm girl. With all those birds, we began to get more eggs than we needed, so I started to sell the extra to colleagues at Womenspace, the domestic violence agency where I was a community advocate. They thought of me as a farm girl. Perhaps they were on to something. This way of life, unplanned as it was, definitely seemed to agree with me and I wore my newly minted designation with a bit of pride. I even began to write a column for the agency’s monthly newsletter about the happenings on “This Here Farm” that was met with great rejoinder. Little did they know how little I knew. Little did I know how little I knew! Then, came the goats. A series of conversations with my then hairdresser on the subject led me to acquire from her Boer goats that had been headed for the auction and, probably, slaughter. I couldn’t stand that thought. Why should they have to lose their lives just because they were too small to be good breeders? Though, I wasn’t really set up for goats, and in spite of the fact that I knew nothing about them either, a clear trend was emerging. Besides, I’d been wanting a goat or two. They seemed liked they’d be good for clearing up brambles and such around the acreage and I was all for any kind of a helping hand or hoof we could get. On a warm Sunday afternoon in late summer, Mocha, Sweet Pea, and String Bean were delivered to me and I was entranced. I was also quite surprised. I had thought I was getting just Mocha and Sweet Pea. I hadn’t realized at the time that Sweet Pea had a twin brother, albeit one who refused to let her go without him. When I was asked if I minded if String Bean stayed, too, I was delighted. Of course, he could stay. Owing goats was a much bigger undertaking than chickens or ducks, but I jumped right in. Because Mocha had just weaned a pair of twins, her udder was full, so I tried to milk her. In my then ignorance, I attempted to place a quart sized glass measuring cup beneath her and then carefully squeeze her teats in the way I remembered being shown by a neighbor years before when I was a child. Mocha would have none of this and I finally had to give up or get killed. I was bummed. I really wanted to be a farm girl and milk the goat! There were other things to learn about caring for goats as well, such as how to trim hooves. The goats’ former owner came over and gave me a lesson while making it look quite easy. I’d had no idea that goats needed their hooves trimmed and, when I attempted to do as she had done, I fumbled terribly. Subsequent hoof trimmings were rather noisy affairs as my sister would struggle to hold the goats still while I trimmed and tried to avoid bloodshed, and we both yelled. One such session resulted in Mocha giving me a swift kick to the ribs. To say it hurt would have been an understatement, but I somehow managed to catch my breath and continue. Another day found me becoming entangled in a lead that was attached to Mocha while simultaneously (and accidentally) wrapped around Sting Bean’s horns. The next thing I knew, I was being dragged, on my back, for several feet before I was somehow shaken free and left to lay in the dust, a mere object in the way of their destination. My right shoulder and my right elbow suffered some nasty abrasions and I was breathless from the shock of such a violent method of traveling, but none the worse for wear. It was all a part of learning, and there was so much to learn that couldn’t come from a book. Goats don’t have upper teeth!? Wow! Who knew that, and who knew a goat would steal your apple out of your hand and eat it themselves? That was rude! As if ducks, chickens, and goats weren’t enough, turkeys then came along when one sunny summer evening, a large flock of wild turkeys came strolling into the yard. It wasn’t long before they, too, were a part of this ever-growing cast of characters. I was quite taken with them. They had a way of communicating that fascinated the inner ornithologist in me. If one would become separated from the flock, it would whistle in a certain way as if to call out and say, “Where are you? Where did you go?” Upon hearing the lone turkey’s cry, the others would whistle back as if to respond, “Over here! We’re over here, you dummy!” I decided I wanted to conduct a scientific experiment and I decided one day to try and emulate that whistle. When the opportunity presented itself, I puckered up and did my best to sound like a lost turkey. My impersonation wasn’t half bad. At least, I thought so, but would the turkeys? They showed the slightest modicum of interest and I was encouraged. So, I decided to up the ante. The next time I whistled, I also threw some seed on the ground, food being the great motivator that it is. Then, I stepped aside and waited. Sure enough, after some wary eyed glances in my direction, the flock paraded up to the farmyard and began to eat. Wow! I was impressed with myself! Maybe I was a bona fide turkey whisperer. Maybe I needed my own wildlife program to host. The next day, I tried it again and, once again, I got a response. The turkeys weren’t quite as wary as they had been and, to reward them for humoring me, I gave them more seed. As long as I made it worth their while, they were willing to play my little game. Many years have passed since those early days and I am a bona fide, dyed in the wool farm girl with the work worn hands and developed biceps to show for it. My knowledge of the animals in my care has increased immensely as has my ability to care for them. I can now tell you about the various breeds of chickens, which ones are best for laying and which are used more for their meat, as well as what color eggs they lay and what size. I can give you similar advice about ducks (the fleshy faced ducks are muscovies and I just love them now) and even answer questions about turkeys. I can also talk about goats with a healthy amount of knowledge. Being a farm girl means I have also gained skills I never expected to have. I can and do trim hooves with little in the way of difficulty. I always make sure to have my phone perched nearby and Pandora playing 60’s tunes as the goats enjoy music with their hoof trim. If it will keep them calm and make the job easier, I’m all for it and I enjoy the music, too. I can and do give booster shots to the goats with great skill. I have bottle raised kids and I have midwifed. Watching a new life come into the world was an awesome experience once I assured myself that I could do this. When the second goat gave birth four days later, I was practically an old hand at this and not the slightest bit nervous. Of course, raising mama goat #2 from a 1 lb. 3 day old to an adult was pretty awesome, too. I have also hatched eggs in an incubator. It never gets tiring watching a duckling tumble out of it’s shell, wet and exhausted from passing nature’s fitness test. And, yes, I have opened and drained a few abscesses, nursed a rooster back from the brink, given a therapy bath (or two) and gotten up at midnight to give an injection of antibiotics to a sick goat. I can lay claim to this and so much more. The farm has come a long way from those early days of Junior and Jellybean, who have long since traded their earthly wings for something angelic. Hiram has done the same. Mocha, String Bean, and Sweet Pea have also left us as age and illness have struck, but a herd of Nigerian Dwarfs now calls the farm home and live in a small goat barn that could double as a fort it is so sturdily built. Some of my own sweat equity has gone into this building as it did with the construction of an extra, extra, large poultry yard when free ranging was no longer safe or feasible. Some of the nails in the laying house are ones that I drove in. There are others who have since joined this cast of characters that comprises my farm such as the pea fowl and they have all succeeded in stealing my heart. It’s just that way. Chicks need to be raised, as do ducklings in order to provide the eggs that I now sell to a healthy customer base, some of whom have become friends. If a kid goat needs a surrogate mommy to raise her, I am not going to say no. For me, it’s just not possible. There is always room in my heart for one more. No, I never planned on having this farm that began with two orphaned ducks and an inability to keep my mouth shut. This was one big accident that has turned out surprisingly well. I have learned, I have laughed, and, yes, I have even cried. It might have been nice to have found Mr. Right and settled down in the suburbs, had babies, but, when a three-month-old kid goat stands on end and wraps her front legs around my legs so she can give me a hug, that’s pretty nice, too. The weather could not have been better for the first Veneta 4th of July celebration. Though temperatures were hot, a steady breeze blew, offering much needed comfort, and there was nary a cloud in the sky.
Held at the Veneta park, Veneta 4th was well attended by both those who wished to enjoy themselves with the various offerings as well as different small entrepreneurs, the Applegate Art Guild, and Applegate Regional Theatre, which not only had information about upcoming events, but also hosted a presentation by several members of the Reader’s Theatre troupe performing a Five-Minute Mystery. A dunk tank proved popular for those inside and outside of it on this toasty Independence Day as did the water that was sprayed from the top of a long extension ladder compliments of the fire department. Hot and excited children cried out gleefully as they ran back and forth beneath the refreshing shower. A hydration station offering cold water to drink was set up near the entrance to the park as was a shaved ice truck that seemed to be doing steady business. Free face painting was available and at one display, several children worked diligently on coloring in visors that they would be able to wear while showing off their artistry. Music, both live and recorded, played from the bandstand, and at one point the National Anthem was sung followed by a small parade that was led by a gentleman on an E bike and populated by people waving large inflatable pencils, a person with a walker and a Golden Retriever puppy. The small group tromped around the park’s perimeter before coming to a stop near the entrance and at that point, a contest was held to determine who had the most patriotic costume. All of this and more came about because Veneta City Councilwoman Alexa Benson decided the city needed to do something and went from business to business seeking donations, according to Brittany Jones, who was working at the booth were the first Veneta 4th mural was being painted. Everyone who participated in the festivities did so on a volunteer basis, Jones explained, and it is the collective hope that the city will see how successful this celebration was and be willing to financially back next year’s. Judging from the happy faces, the warm hellos between friends, acquaintances, and even strangers, along with frequent laughter made the park a place where differences were temporarily set aside, cares were momentarily forgotten about, and people came together to celebrate rather than finger point. For those several hours the celebration was held, those who attended were of one accord and all were there to have a good time. From what could be seen, the celebration of July the 4th was a success and a new tradition in unity that will be looked forward to, was begun. Make a trip to Grocery Outlet and you will see the silver trailer parked in a far corner of it’s lot. The door is wide open in a welcoming gesture to all who wish to come in as is the fold-out window and the wheelchair ramp at the back. All are invited to peruse the selection of books at Hideaway Hollow, Veneta’s new mobile book shop.
Run by resident Amy Kocyan, the new business has been met with postive reviews and happy customers since it’s opening last month. Kocyan, who is a self-professed lover of the written word, did so after sensing a collective frustration, one that she shared, over the lack of an easily accessible bookstore in the area. After deciding to do something about this dearth, she purchased a utility trailer off of Craigslist and with help from her husband, added shelving and flooring and completed the previously unfinished ceiling to create a small, but comfortable space for people to look over the titles she has for sale. Kocyan carries a selection of adult and children’s books in a variety of genres such as romance, science fiction/fantasy, mysteries, YA, picture books, and graphic novels. Some of these are new releases she obtains from the publisher, and others come from remainders dealers. These, she explains on a warm, but cloudy Sunday morning, are unsold copies of books that dealers are allowed to return to the publisher in exchage for credit. The publisher then marks the book as a remainder and once this is done, it can then be sold to small, local shops at a steeply discounted rate that can then be passed on to the shop’s customers. Kocyan says these remainder books are “a mixed bag” and she tries to read reviews before deciding on a selection. Originally open on weekends only, Hideaway Hollow, a name given to the shop to suggest a hidden gem after Kocyan conferred with family and friends, is now open from Tuesdays – Saturdays from 10:00 a.m. until 6 p.m. While she would eventually like to expand and have a brick and motar store, Kocyan knowns this is currently beyond her budget and this is okay as she is happy where she is in the Grocery Outlet parking lot where she is visible to both store customers and those driving by on Highway 126. For now, she is just trying to get estblished. Because the shop is moble, Kocyan would like to also take it to events and Hideaway Hollow has a number of arrangements that would be feasible for both large and small spaces, which includes a large tent that can be utilized rather than the trailer in smaller areas. She is also open to working with other businesses and the community on projects and promotions. Eventually, Kocyan would like to add biographies to her shelves as she wants to have a good selection of genres so that everyone can find a book or more than one of interest. She would also like to do an outdoor display beyond the small one she has just beneath the window. She loves keeping kids interested in reading with smaller chapter books that aren’t too duanting to the beginning chapter book reader, and knows that they also love Manga, so she always keeps selection of those on hand. With her enhtusiasm for books and her desire to pass this on to her customers, Kocyan has made quite an impression already. People are happy to have a place to buy books without having to make the trip to Eugene and it has been a good three decades since there has been such a place in Veneta. Business, she says, has been good, and it is no wonder. Buying books from Kocyan is a chance to not only own some good titles, but to be greeted with a warm smile as she makes it known how happy she is to see you. As she succinctly puts it when describing what she does for a living and why she loves it, “It’s like Christmas every day and I get to give the gifts.” What wonderful gifts they are. Michael Donovan Sr. seems like a jovial sort. Friendly, loquacious, he’ll share stories about his time as a drummer for various bands and wax poetic about his animals, many of them rescues. But, beneath the smile and the easy laugh is a heart that has been so badly broken, it may never be fully repaired. This is what happens when one loses a child to the scourge known as Fentanyl.
A formidable man-made opioid, fentanyl is akin to morphine but 50 – 100 times more powerful. It has been used as an intravenous anesthetic in the U.S. since 1960, and is prescribed today, many times in patches and lozenges for the treatment of severe, chronic pain from cancer and other illnesses as well as injuries. However, Fentanyl production has shifted from pharmaceutical companies to being produced by drug cartels. Dealers progressively mix Fentanyl into a number of drugs such as heroin, cocaine, and methamphetamines. It is put in fake prescription pills such as oxycodone, hydrocodone, and valium (diazepam) that are sold on the street. Two milligrams of Fentanyl can be deadly depending upon a person’s body size and one kilogram (traffickers typically distribute it by the kilogram) can potentially kill 500,000 people. Michael Donovan Jr. had battled addiction in his native N. Adams, Massachusetts, and had known his share of heartache including the loss of his young son after an unsuccessful court fight with the child’s mother, and a falling out with his mother, Michael Sr.’s ex-wife, with whom he hadn’t spoken in two years. Michael Jr. struggled with these twin losses and Michael Sr. was concerned enough to bring him to Oregon to live with him in his home in Veneta. Michael Sr. knew that Michael Jr. used marijuana and that he had had past issues with methamphetamines, but he had hoped that this was behind him. When Michael Jr. was able to land a job at American Market on Broadway within two days of his arrival, Michael Sr. was sure this was the beginning of the turning of a new leaf for his son. Michael Jr. was well liked by those who would shop at the market and was especially popular with the kids who would come in. Not wanting them to make the mistakes he had made; he would warn them about the dangers of drugs. Sadly, it was a danger he, himself, would fail to heed. Michael Jr. became involved with another woman and began doing meth with her. Though Michael Sr. was suspicious, it was difficult to prove anything. When he asked Michael Jr.’s new girlfriend if he was using, she denied it. Michael Sr. and Michael Jr. worked opposite shifts, so they would have most of their interaction on the weekend, but Michael Sr. wanted to give Michael Jr. his space as he was an adult, and he admits to not thinking anything of his son’s sudden burst of energy and lack of sleep. He just couldn’t. On June 25th of last year, the employee who worked the day shift at American Market arrived and found Michael Jr. dead on the floor. He was only 38 and would soon have turned 39. Toxicology tests revealed that he had suffered a Fentanyl overdose. Michael Sr. had worked a gig the previous night on Lorane Highway and when he received a message on his phone from the Lane County Sheriff’s office, “I just knew,” he says, his eyes clouding over as he recalls that horrific day. “Everyone talks about what it’s like to lose someone to an overdose, how they understand,” he says, “but unless you’ve been there, you can’t possibly know.” In the days that ensued, Michael Sr. learned just how valued Michael Jr. was in the Veneta community from the bank teller who told him about how much she and her kids had loved him, to the overflowing memorial service that was held at the store. Some people, he says, have stated that they don’t wish to go to the store without Michael Jr. there. Now, Michael Sr. must go on without his son and the dreams he had had of the two of them operating a food truck and serving such things as pulled pork and meatballs, things he calls “comfort food.” He draws on his strong Catholic faith to get him through, and it has given him comfort to wear the Miraculous Medal he found tucked among Michael’s belongings. It also helps to know that Michael Jr. believed in God and had told his father that “you might be getting to me” when speaking about the Catholic religion. It is Michael Sr.’s hope to raise awareness of the dangers of Fentanyl and to this end he has ordered bracelets and often wears a customized T-shirt in Michael Jr.’s memory. He longs to find a way to reach out to the community. “The biggest thing is to get this out to the community. He tried to help everyone but was not at peace deep down.,” Michael Sr. sadly states. “This is a community battle; conversations need to be had. How do you address it?” Maybe it starts by people realizing that even a small town such as Veneta is not immune to the scourge wrought by Fentanyl and that there needs to be education regarding its danger, it’s lethality, so that more lives will hopefully not have to be lost to this insidiousness. No parent should have to bury their child after such an unnecessary, preventable death. No one should have to grieve the too-soon loss of a life and the potential that it held, potential that will never be realized. Michael Donovan Sr. will never know what kind of future he and his son might have had together, but he does know he wants others to be spared the pain he carries with him, a pain he wouldn’t wish on anyone. The Lane County Sheriff’s Office did investigate Michael Donovan Jr.’s death, but the case was closed after his dealer, street name “Niner,” suffered a fatal overdose of Fentanyl in a case of cruel karma. On Friday of last week, beneath azure skies and warm temperatures, a group of four resumed work on the veteran’s memorial at the Veneta city park. It was tedious work, scraping excess paint off the names of various service personnel etched in the bricks, but it was also a labor of love for Jonathan Phillips, himself a serviceman, and his crew of three high school honors students from Elmira High on this summer morning.
Phillips, a trustee at Jack Kelly Post 9448, agreed to take on the project when it became apparent something needed to be done when the clear coat began to flake off and look unsightly. Knowing that high school students need 20 volunteer hours and honor society students need an additional 20 hours for a total of 40 hours in order to graduate, Phillips spoke with Forrest Cooper who teaches the Options class that was begun due to Covid and was given the names of Araya Price, Bradley Storrey, Jesus Coronado-Valle, Hannah Yaskovic, and Emily Weston who all agreed to participate. On Saturday June 15th, the group met and toiled for ten hours removing the old clear coat and painting the names in the bricks while making the discovery that they “suck at painting” and scraping out each letter individually, was just not working. This revelation led to them using larger paint scrapers that are more efficient and make the task much easier after first applying a coat of paint over the names. Only Price, Storrey, and Coronado-Valle showed up to finish the job and as they worked, country music played on a portable stereo and conversation flowed easily as the project was discussed and questions were asked and answered. Once the excess paint was removed from the bricks, the next step would be the application of a clear coat for the finishing touch. This memorial is just one of two ways that the city of Veneta honors its veterans. To get a loved one immortalized at the memorial in the park, one must contact the Jack Kelly post of the VFW (Veterans of Foreign Wars). When the demand is great enough and enough funds have been secured, they will then cut more bricks, according to Phillips. To have a banner hung on Broadway in a loved one’s honor, the Chamber of Commerce must be notified and the details of the person’s service along with a fee must be submitted. Phillips, who serves in the Oregon National Guard, was surprised by twin Daniel with a banner of his own. Currently, Phillips works at The Farm Store, but come the end of the year, he will deploy to Iraq after several months of training and will operate a C-Ram, which he says is a big anti-air gun. Previously, he served in Qatar. It is commendable what Phillips, and his crew are doing to make the memorial look new again. For them, it is more than just a way to spend time on a summer morning or earn volunteer hours. It is more than an obligation to fulfill or a way to draw attention to oneself. It is an act of caring about those who served, many of them giving their lives in the process, and their families, some who have welcomed their loved one back, some who have grieved their loss. It is a way to say that these people who displayed such valor under such daunting circumstances will not be forgotten and the freedoms that we enjoy as a result of their sacrifices are not taken for granted. If, in the process of completing this project, someone should thank Phillips for taking this on, or the students should walk away with a feeling of accomplishment, this is just icing on the cake. Thank you, Jonathan, for your service. We are truly indebted to you. Daniel Phillips grew up scouting with his twin brother Jonathan and now as an adult still keeps the Boy Scouts “kicking along.” He not only serves as a commissioner for the Fern Ridge area scouts, but he also assists scouts all over Lane County. It’s in his blood and what he loves to do.
In January, while attending a meeting to discuss plans for Memorial Day, talk turned to the flagless flagpole at the West Lane Center, and it’s having fallen victim to the ravages of time. After standing sentry for 40 years, the top bearing and pulley system became a casualty of the weather and Old Glory was found laying on the ground near Banner Bank by employees of Ray’s Food Place. West Lane Center owner John Hammer was not interested in maintaining the flagpole. He had become disillusioned after having the fountain by Ixtapa removed when people would not stop throwing their litter into it. Nonetheless, it was decided that something should be done so Phillips got to work on getting the necessary repairs done to the flagpole so the flag could fly once more. It was a team effort, however, as it was Pat Coy who located the old flag after hearing rumors about its location. Phillips collected the flag in February from where it had been kept since 2023 and then launched into the task of attempting to source and locate all the pieces needed to get the flag flying once again. It took a total of three months just to get a lift and this was done courtesy of Peterson Cat in Springfield who generously donated one of theirs two different weekends so Phillips could first go up to figure out the threads so he could order what was necessary and then to make the repair the following week after researching what was needed. Once the repairs were complete, the flag was flown until dusk and then it was discovered that the light on Banner Bank was nonfunctional. Banner Bank, which had been working with Phillips, hired an electrician to replace the lighting and covered the cost. Now there is dedicated lighting, a requirement for flying the flag, so it does not have to be taken down at dusk any longer. On May 11th, a flag raising ceremony was held and Veneta Mayor Keith Weiss performed a dedication. BSA Troop 50 (now Scouting America) has also stepped up and will assist Phillips in caring for the flag, raising and lowering it on holidays, etc. They participated in the ceremony and a new flag that measures 15x25, slightly smaller than the Garrison Ford, now flutters proudly against a cerulean sky just as its predecessor once did. Phillips wants to thank all those who made it possible for Old Glory to fly again and this includes Lewis Rucker of Roger’s Towing who supported the transportation of the lift and the project in its entirety, Peterson Cat for donating the lift two weekends in a row, Swanson Brother’s Mill for their cash donation, Banner Bank for the lighting system, the Fern Ridge Chamber of Commerce, the VFW (they plant the flags along Territorial and Highway 126 on holidays such as July 4th), and Boy Scout Troop 50. Phillips says he “loves utilizing local sources” and is very grateful to all who participated while not seeming to realize just how much thanks he is owed for his own efforts. No longer is the flagpole barren and lonely looking and this is in no small part due to what Phillips was willing to undertake on top of what he already does to help the community. Now the West Lane Center is complete once again. The flagpole has been dedicated as the West Lane Flagpole and its maintenance will be an ongoing thing with a budget sustained for future repairs and an all-out effort made to do the best job possible to give the flag the care it deserves. A man is in custody after an attempted rape in Eugene.
Lane County Sheriff’s deputies responded to the area of East 24th Ave. and Henderson Ave. on May 30th after receiving a report of an attempted rape. The victim was able to describe the suspect and the vehicle he drove, which had just departed from the area shortly before deputies arrived. An investigation was begun and on June 1st, a deputy became aware of a matching the description of the suspect’s in Veneta, and the owner was then identified as Bobby Allen Boyd, 50. Once additional follow-up was conducted, Boyd was taken into custody on June 4th and lodged in the Lane County Jail on charges of Attempted Rape in the First Degree. |
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