Spring: Graduation season, that special time of year; bland wonder and blatant youth filling auditoriums; pomp and circumstance (literal and figurative, visual and aural) leaking out across soccer fields and school lawns. Where else, I ask, can you find such androgynous gowns and silly hats? Where else are the genuine smiles of sons and daughters balanced so perfectly against the fine suffering of pride the parents must go through?

I attended my niece's college graduation recently. I'm a fan of my niece, but not so much of graduations. “Seen one seen them all,” is my general take on the things, but in this case, the balance of my family had been tipped to the West Coast (a rare occurrence) and I figured a couple of hours spent on a lawn chair in sunny Southern California, listening to a few dry jokes and follow-your-dream type speeches, was a small price to pay. I knew at the very least the company would be good.

Graduations are one of the few genuine rituals we cling to these days, a coming-of-age milepost we pound in life’s sand. Like most ceremonies, they are something to endure, the anticipation and lead-up is the real juice, the reception and dinner afterward when you can actually begin to have fun. Despite what the kids think, the ceremonies are not for the graduates at all, but for the families. They are in this one respect like funerals. On the day, my eldest sister and I rose early, dressed and coffeed ourselves, then drove two hours, catching up with the rain that had blown in overnight. An Oregon spring wasn't on the program—that I was sure of—but organizers had arranged for thin plastic ponchos to be handed out, evidence that the college's powers that be are more than just book smart.

As the crowd took their seats, I looked around. I realized I didn't have a single surviving memory of my own graduation. Just as well, I thought. Photographic evidence exists that my friends and I smuggled champagne into the ceremony. It also shows I wore a Cheerios T-shirt under my gown, an undergrad touch I am proud of to this day. My niece's ceremony was less than raucous, but it wasn't for lack of trying. My eldest sister attempted to get the Finns to practice our own mini wave, but concerns seemed to be focused elsewhere and the best we could manage was a feeble ebb at low tide. Even so, not all was lost. Seated in a crowd of complete strangers, poncho-transformed into pink, blue and clear plastic flowers, the rain gave us permission to laugh at ourselves and at each other and in this way saved us from the excessive politeness we would have normally employed.

It was part way through the President's remarks that the sun broke through. You've got to hand it to Hollywood, right on cue. Ponchos were abandoned as the San Bernardino Mountains marched in and I took time to watch the Ansel Adams cumulus blossom, white over-stuffed animal sequences and peaceful Hiroshimas ascending. I couldn't see to the front rows of students, but imagined them tapping their heels, tassels and the light of expectation blinding them to everything but the situation at hand.

Since my wife is in academia, I have more opportunity than most to attend such ceremonies. Which is why when my niece's name was read and my family stood up and cheered, I turned to my sister-in-law and gave her a hug, then leaned across her and shook my brother's hand—and congratulated them. I'd never doubted my niece. I was and am sure she will find her way in the world. But what occurred to me watching her and her classmates troop across the stage, hearing the whoops and hollers, was how proud I was of my brother and his wife. Because it’s not easy, not for anyone. I don't wish to take anything away from my niece, but as the graduates filed out, all smiles and naked relief (pearls you could call them, entering the oyster of the world) I thought it should be the parents commencing, empty wallets and all, proud of their babies, scared for themselves, clutching what I would have imagined to be blood-soaked, sweat-stained, tear-salted diplomas and passing between the clapping avenues of their children, awash in their smiles and baccalaureate of love. I said graduation ceremonies are for the families, and I meant it. Because love is a form of suffering—ask anyone, ask yourself—and while a lump in the throat doesn’t stack up against the price of tuition, it’s a wonderful ache all the same.

Charles Finn is the editor of High Desert Journal. His book, “Wild Delicate Seconds: 29 Wildlife Encounters from the Pacific Northwest” will be out next year by OSU Press.

Sure, this region might be better known for its mountains and recreational opportunities, but there has for some time also been a strong contingent of art and culture to be found in Central Oregon. Now, the scores of artistic and cultural groups in the area will have a louder voice and a bevy of other resources thanks to a new collaborative group developed by Arts Central, our regional cultural council.

The Cultural Advocacy Partnership (CAP) was announced at an Arts Central event last week and presently includes 20 member groups (all of which pay a $100 annual membership fee). It includes some well-known nonprofit and for-profit cultural institutions like BendFilm, the Les Schwab Amphitheater and the Tower Theatre Foundation, but is hoping to bring even more groups into the fold as it progresses. According to Arts Central Executive Director Cate O’Hagan, CAP will allow different cultural groups to work together to enhance the area’s reputation as a place for culture while also helping fund the member groups. Essentially, the partnership aims to increase the community’s interest in the arts, making them once again a priority. This can be done, she says, through collaboration.

Rick Steber, the author of more than 30 books, spent the past 16 years researching and writing this book about the unsolved murder of Phil Brooks, a cowboy who was found shot to death in the desert near Fossil. “I’m going to run with this until there’s an answer. This book answers a lot of people’s questions,” says Steber. “There were so many rumors and it was my job to sift through all these rumors.”

On the last day of summer a deadly dance unfolds on the sprawling landscape of timbered hills and open sagebrush country that defines Eastern Oregon. A curious cowboy on a green broke horse, cow dog trotting faithfully alongside moves slowly, cautiously, down the spine of a rocky ridge. The cowpoke slips from the saddle, takes the lead rope in one hand and squints through a narrow opening between tightly packed trees and into the swale below. Then he squats on his haunches, takes a can of snuff from his shirt pocket and tucks a fat pinch of brown tobacco under his bottom lip. He replaces the lid, adjusts his hat to shade his eyes from the setting sun, and continues to intently stare downhill; hoping to see what he might see, expecting something to happen, not at all sure what that something might be. The lead rope remains in his right hand, the snuff can in his left. Behind him, the horse blows a soft trill of air out of quivering nostrils and begins to anxiously paw the ground. The dog at his side, alert to danger, cocks an ear and points it down the hill.

“My play is mythic more than seedy. I see D as a cross between Mary Magdalene and Don Corleone,” says Howard Schor, co-founder and executive director of the Bend Experimental Art Theatre (BEAT).

A veteran theater producer with more than 30 plays to his credit, D’s Place, written and directed by Schor, will debut at 2^nd Street Theater. Five years in the making, the playwright views his piece, which encompasses two acts revolving around prostitutes and brothels, the first in Denver in 1864, the second in 1881, as “My ode to women. My myth of the first liberated woman.”

Come mid-October, have you ever been sitting in one of our local theaters and wondered to yourself how BendFilm chooses the independent films we get the privilege of watching during the festival? Contrary to what you might think, it’s not through Hollywood movie magic, or based on the recommendation of little green fairies with projectors for eyes who simultaneously both project and watch each submitted film. As cool as that may sound for an animated short (don’t steal this idea), that’s not how it’s done. Instead, BendFilm assembled a team of community members to watch and rate hundreds of submissions as part of their selection committee.