As the Irish philosopher-king Paul David Hewson sang, “All is quiet on New Year’s day…” And so it seems. Under a light rainy sky, it is a pretty quiet day for a walk with the pooch.
In so many ways, today is the calm before the storm. We, at work, are between terms; the students are, by and large, away. The town is quiet, and many houses show bowl games on the big screens seen through street-facing windows as Charlie and I pass. Traffic is light, so we make good time, without much difficultly crossing even the bigger streets.
Beyond our burg, a brief pause, while the bowl games continue, while many take today and tomorrow to start the year with a four-day weekend. The headlines of the last eleven months seem to lurk in the distance, far enough that that they don’t seem to weigh heavy, if only for a day.
This is the time that many use as a pause to reset. Flipping the calendar is always a good time to reflect and to plan ahead. A lot of people condense these thoughts into resolutions. I’ve learned enough about myself to eschew such lists, though I have been clearing my desk and files as a way of clearing my mind, getting things in order for the coming months.
I predict, with great confidence, that in about 360 days we shall all be marveling at home fast 2026 went by. In this calm, the year seems like a long time stretched ahead of us. Maybe it’s me, but as I’ve gotten older, things don’t seem to go any slower; if anything, the time passes more quickly. Perhaps I’m more keenly aware that each of us has a reservoir of time that is not not infinite; the more we go, the less we have stretching out ahead.
If I did the resolution thing, I would not sweat the common details like weight or diet or lifestyle that seem to be at the top of so many lists. I prefer to think instead about what difference I might make.
This past year I stepped into new role when I was appointed by the governor to the Board of Trustees of Oregon State University. Since 2014, OSU has operated with an independent board, as an independent public body, a “governmental entity performing governmental functions and exercising governmental powers.”1
Which makes me, since September 30 last year, a public official.
When I was part of the Fourth Estate, my job was to pay attention to public officials of all walks. Beyond my day job, I paid attention to public officials in order to provide critiques of their activities, for good and for bad. Growing up in the Granite State, politics is akin to mother’s milk; from the annual Town Meeting form of small-town governance to the largest state legislature in the United States (400 seats in the House!), living there, you knew someone who was in elected office.
In my day job, we provide technical support to the board’s meetings, with cameras and microphones making the whole affair a big Zoom webinar, so I have been familiar with the goings-on of the board for a few years now. The board is made up of a number of at-large members, plus five seats reserved for students (3), faculty (1) and non-faculty staff (1) members. As the clock wound down to the end of the term for the previous holder of the staff seat, there were no folks stepping up; rather than see a seat go empty, I put my name in.
The past few months have been an interesting transition for me, getting used to being on the other side of the camera, literally and figuratively. As a public official, there are some things I can no longer say, at least in the way I might have said them, at least about where I work. Of course, I am appointed, not elected, so I do not have to worry in the same way about offending potential voters when I do choose to opine.
Which I will.
But, for now at least, all has been quiet on New Year’s day. 2026 beckons, and there is a storm or two in the offing. So pay attention, and for the love of Pete: be involved.
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