He Cared

NSP Meditations, Oregon Coast_History ,

A while back I had the occasion of standing in front of former Oregon Governor Tom McCall’s grave in the Redmond Memorial Cemetery. I had always wanted to visit the site of this legendary figure’s final resting place, and, finally, here I was, on a bright sunny morning.

At first I was a bit underwhelmed. I expected something much grander, opulent for the greatest governor in Oregon history. I mean, there was no headstone!

His was a simple slab of marble with his beloved wife Audrey next to him. It read “Governor of Oregon,” and it also read “He cared.” A two-word epitaph from a master wordsmith.

He cared. That was it. I thought about that sentence. It doesn’t say he cared for this or that. He just cared.

Because Tom McCall cared for Oregon, and not in an abstract or ideological way, my life was immeasurably improved and keeps improving every time I visit one of Oregon’s public beaches for free.

Where are we today Oregonians?

It didn’t occur me to bring along a flower or swag of Oregon grape to leave behind on the grave. That was wrong.

As I left, I wondered how many people visit this grave a year? Does anyone send flowers to it?

Reopening OTA Country in Reedsport

NSP Meditations, Oregon Tavern Age

I blew into Reedsport a couple days after the Reopening. I would have bet a thousand bucks the Tides Inn wouldn’t have been open. No way this OTA joint would comply with a commie Governor’s Phase 1 edicts.

It was open! I walked in and beheld a full house, everyone social distancing, drinking beers and rum and cokes and losing at video slots. Giddiness reigned. A state of giddiness in OTA country is utter heresy. We like it underwater.

But prison was over, somewhat, and the patrons were in a jovial mood. The talk was of new gun and flatscreen purchases and the various home improvement projects completed. But an OTA man can only home improve for so long! He needs to drink and gamble and bullshit.

I ordered a hippie IPA and sat near the trophy case.

A rodeo played on television. A bull threw a cowboy against the boards. He didn’t get up. Good.

One guy decided he had to leave. He said, “I got to see if I still have a wife.”

The mask-wearing bartender tossed a slab of ham on the griddle. It sizzled and soon the bar was filled up with the smell of ham.

A woman said, “Hey, it wasn’t like we were Anne Frank up in the attic! We had some freedom.”

Another man reported that an 87-year old man had been decapitated a couple days ago while riding his quad in the dunes. No one seemed particularly sad about that.

I overheard some off color jokes and the line, “I’m not a Democrat, I don’t have my head up my ass.”

God I have missed the banter! The stories! I thought I was finished writing about OTA country. It occurred to me in the Tides Inn that I would never stop writing about OTA country. It just got a lot more interesting.

The Drummer

NSP Meditations, Oregon Beaches

I am writing this in a notepad while sitting on a driftlog with my back to the ocean. It’s 7:30 in the morning and rain threatens.

Some 30 feet away an older, grizzled man is sitting on the sand and drumming an overturned paint bucket with his hands.

He saw me a few minutes ago and smiled a big smile on his weathered face. He took off his ear buds. I asked him if I could listen and he said sure. I asked him if I could take a picture. He said sure. He asked me how it sounded and I said great. He told me he was playing along to Paul Simon’s Graceland and then pulled out a tiny speaker, fiddled with his phone, and then the album began playing. I could barely hear that classic record but when he began drumming along to it, I heard that fine and the sounds of percussion drifted to me on the breeze while the ocean provided its low harmony.

I feel rain drop on my head. It’s going to bust loose soon.

He is barefoot, wearing a gray hoodie and an oil skin brimmed hat. Pinned to the hat is a Grateful Dead pin. An ornate staff is stuck in the sand near him.

More droplets fall. I get up to go. I tell him thanks for the show. I wish I could have tipped him but my wallet is at home. I pass by and notice his shoes and a bag of chips behind him.

A minute later I am on the road above him. A squall whips up and I pick up my pace. I turn around and see him still drumming away, in the rain, while the surf lands closer and closer.

Tail Gate Makeout Session

NSP Meditations

I parked my car at the South Jetty. It was around noon and threatening sunshine on a weekday during the second month of the virus lockdown. Twenty or so feet away a huge gray Chevy Silverado pickup was backing up to the edge of the jetty. Any closer and the truck would find itself drowning in the mouth of the river. Odd. I’d never seen such a thing before here. I started making my way to the beach to hunt for choice cuts of beaverwood to add to the world’s greatest collection. An osprey flapped by overhead with a wriggling silver fish in its talons. The ocean was rolling in grayish green and I had positive thoughts circulating in my mind in a deepening time of of negative energy. I passed the truck and looked back to see a large young woman and a large man emerge from the cab. She was wearing blue scrubs and had an ID lanyard strung around her neck. He wore construction worker clothing. He walked around to the back of the Silverado and unlatched the tail gate. It crashed down into position. The couple proceeded to sit on the tail gate. It held. Chevy is hearty brand of American truck. Then the couple embraced and started making out! I mean this was no tender kissing. They were going for it hard. Why the hell not go for it? Why not while sitting on the tail gate of a truck near a mighty river as it emptied into the ocean. Why not make out with ospreys flying above you and seals undulating in the surf below you? Yes, why the hell not? Seeing the makeout session quickly brought to mind one my favorite poems of all time, “Kissing” by Dorianne Laux (please Google and read). This couple was doing exactly what that poem was all about—resisting by kissing. Kissing as something that could never be taken away by a regime or disease or indifference. Some 20 minutes later I returned from the beach with 11 choice cuts carried over my shoulders and stuffed in my pockets. The couple was still making out! I laughed a little bit to myself and snatched secret looks. It was about the damn most romantic thing I’d seen in a long time and that was even despite the Trump decals plastered on the truck. As I loaded the wood into my car, they hopped off the tail gate, got back in the cab and drove away. I put it all together pretty fast. She worked at the local clinic or hospital. He was probably building or remodeling something close to town. He picked up her for lunch and away they went to the jetty to make out. Then they returned to work. Lovely. Love. More love like that. More, more, more as that disco song goes.

Oregon Tavern Age: Back in the Saddle!

Corona Virus Thoughts, NSP Meditations, Oregon Tavern Age

I walked into my favorite OTA joint after a two month absence caused by the virus that was all Obama’s fault. I was a journalist at the front of the reopening. A crap Western played on television, you know, the kind with Donna Reed as an Indian Maiden. The slot machines were placed six feet apart and all full, with three or four shifty meth dudes and elderly men in wheelchairs waiting their turn. Only the socialist unemployment insurance made it possible! Get that money back to the state! I answered the trivia question correctly, the name of a lake where Native Americans were slaughtered by the US Army a couple centuries ago in the name of Manifest Destiny. I ordered a pint of craft malt liquor and repaired to my table near the window by the lending library. I’d happily been social distancing there for years and written about a half million words at that table. It occurred to me that I’ve been happily social distancing for most of my adult life. It’s the only way you become a writer and not have a steady girlfriend.

The bartender wore a mask but no one else. An old man walked his pug outside down the sidewalk and carried three large stuffed animals. On my way here I composed a fight song for this joint. I’d never composed a fight song before. I dug it. More fight songs in our lives.

They spruced up the joint during the lock down: new paint and lacquer. The curtains looked new. I asked about them. First time washed in 20 years!

A taxi pulled up outside. The driver had no passenger. He ambled in and got in line for the slots.

The joint’s opening time is now 9 AM. The bartender told me there were five people waiting to get in—all gamblers. I think one early customer had a Crown and coke to celebrate his freedom to lose money.

Oh I had missed OTA country! I never realized how much it served as my informal writing and editing studio. This place was my Cannery Row but I wasn’t Doc.

The Western ended. Someone switched to Fox News. The Space Force flag was revealed. So was Operation Warp Speed to find the vaccine. A rotund OTA regular walked in and ordered a cranberry and soda. He hadn’t taken a sip before he launched into conspiracy theories. I got the sense people didn’t give a shit. You don’t want to hear scripted propaganda from a gas bag after two months in self quarantine. It sounds so stupid.

Oh I had missed these Steinbeck and Bukowski and Bad Company characters!

Things got a bit rowdy. A new OTA woman in town living in an Airstream was hitting it hard with shots of terrible liqueurs.

Gary and Linda showed up with Dotty the tavern dog. Linda brought me a gift of a wedge of key lime pie from New York and a paper doll set from 1936. I really have no talent as a writer to explain both those gifts.

Everybody gambling was losing, but really they were winning because they were losing together and relishing it.

I stayed for an hour and cranked out the prose. I was a little disappointed I didn’t see a new OTA weirdo, but rest assured, they will emerge. How can they not in these times?

Story start: A man walks into a bar with nothing; he walks out with key lime pie and paper dolls. Oh yeah, that’s good….

OTA Country Lives Again!

Corona Virus Thoughts, NSP Meditations, Oregon Tavern Age

Today, I drove by one of my favorite Oregon Tavern Age joints. Two months has passed since I sat at my favorite table and wrote utterly noncommercial crap or art. I was never sure. But I surely loved writing at that table and gathering stories. The OTA book was already out but I never stop writing the book.

The virus had shut down OTA country. At times I feared it was for good. It seemed like these great greasy joints might not survive. They were already threatened with extinction from gentrification, and now this?

BUT NO! The sign on the window of the joint said it would open tomorrow at 9 in the morning! How they would go about with the social distancing and all that was a story I must investigate. I doubt I’ll be there when the doors open, but I want to see what the OTA regulars had to say. And of course I already knew! It had all been a Left Wing conspiracy! Give me cheap lager or box wine in a dive bar or give me death! Will they conform to the rules? Would they rail against Governor Brown and rip the Chinese and blame Obama? I am dying to find out!

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