Secret Estuary

NSP Meditations, Oregon Coast_History , , , ,

In a dream I found a secret estuary along the Oregon Coast. It was so real, so vibrant a place, that my mind painted a pointillism portrait of it. Strike that. It was a fresco.

There I was, walking down a river trail, through sedge, wild strawberries and willows, toward the mouth, the ocean, and the river ran green with swirls of blue. There was a roiling of the colors. The wind whipped up some whitecaps and an assortment of waterfowl swam here and there. They paddled upon little waves generated by the incoming tide. Ancient and massive root wads clung to the edges of the channel; they weren’t going anywhere unless the 100-year flood arose.

If I could live in a tree house with a view of this river, I would do so.

This river is a river of Oregon literature, of a classic lost novel that only two people in Oregon have read in the past 20 years. It has been inexplicably purged from libraries and the lists of the new Oregon literati. How does one go about reversing the fate of this novel? It feels almost hopeless to try. But I will try. To try is to honor this river and a writer who prowled this river over a half century ago.

How had I never found this trail? This river? In this dream I found it. I now know it exists and I will become close friends with this river and estuary very soon.

The dream ended with me sitting on a wooden picnic table, a table bleached gray by the rain and covered in lichen. The last thing I remember was writing in longhand and thinking of the great mysteries I would soon contemplate through my writing at this lichen-encrusted table.

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Gold at Dawn

NSP Meditations, Oregon Beaches , , , , , ,

Fog shrouds the beach at dawn. Low tide exposes pools of sea stars and mussels. I walk down a steeply angled face of sand (face is actually a scientific term describing a section of the beach) with the ocean to my left.

I traverse the fog with cheap coffee. My mind is both loose and taut. A few gulls feast on crab. I brought along a banana.

In the distance, I see a man on his knees digging in the wet sand with some kind of long-handled bucket contraption. He’s certainly not clamming in that position. What…?

It hits me—gold mining. I move to investigate because I am fascinated by all things gold mining on the beach. The non-industrial kind that is.

The sun begins to rise over the Coast Range, shooting beams of light into the fog. The man adjusts his position and turns away from me. I see half his ass lit up by a beam. Gold miner’s crack at dawn. I laugh a little.

I pass within 20 yards of the man but he never stops mining. He’s almost frenetic in his process. I keep moving across the face. I walk for a couple of miles, shore up a couple forts, and hunt for beaverwood.

Time to turn around. I walk toward the gold miner. He’s still at it, but standing upright, now in the surf up to his shins. His pants are pulled up fine.

I sit down on a log and sip my coffee and watch the man work.

(If you found this post enjoyable, thought provoking or enlightening, please consider supporting a writer at work by making a financial contribution to this blog or by purchasing an NSP book.)

Another Idea for RV Short Story

NSP Meditations , , , , , ,

The tent camper camped in the RV park reads a history of Roman sex in his tent.

A truck towing an older model 5th wheel trailer, pulls alongside the tent camper and stops. The trailer is named Sea Breeze.

An elderly man emerges from the truck and begins decoupling the trailer. He is alone. No dog. That’s rare in the park with older RVers.

It takes the man about an hour to set up and then he sits at the picnic table near the tent. The tent camper emerges and greets the man. In short order, the camper learns: the man was from Grants Pass, a woodworker, who recently got divorced and had to sell the house for the settlement. He heard a calling from God to begin a mission up and down the coast, converting nonbelievers and sinners, bringing them into the flock. He closed up his business, bought the 5th wheel, and was on his inaugural run. He brought along some of his hand tools and carved crosses from myrtlewood, the holy wood found only on the Southern Oregon Coast and Israel. He sold the crosses to churches to finance his mission. He often parked his rig in church parking lots.

The tent camper listened and asked questions. Being the son of preacher man and all, this mission interested him, particularly the RV aspect.

At some point in the conversation, the man began quoting scripture to support his taking up of the calling. The man asked the tent camper about his religious leanings. The camper told him he went to church every morning and sometimes twice or three times a day. The man appeared confused. The tent camper explained with one word: “Ocean.” The man replied that it, too, was one of God’s creations. The tent camper said there was never any guilt or human hierarchy associated with the ocean. The man didn’t say anything.

The next morning, Sunday, before the break of dawn, the tent camper was worshiping at the ocean’s edge and inhaling the stuff of death and life, rot and rebirth. The man was still asleep when the tent camper returned.

That’s the story.

(If you found this post enjoyable, thought provoking or enlightening, please consider supporting a writer at work by making a financial contribution to this blog or by purchasing a NSP book.)

Idea for RV Short Story

NSP Meditations , , ,

An elderly couple pulls into a coastal RV park towing an Airstream trailer. It’s a brand new Silver Cloud model. It’s so new it has a DMV trip permit taped to its rear end.

They park alongside a tent camper, near two scraggly Sitka spruces. The sun is out, the breeze refreshing, and birds flit around. The ocean is two blocks away. It sends up a comforting roar through the grounds.

The tent camper watches the couple set up the trailer from inside his tent, while he simultaneously reads an Ed McBain novel. It takes the couple over an hour to decouple the hitch, balance the trailer, hook up the power and water, stake down this and that, chock the wheels. There is much starting over, trial and error. They seem highly unsure of the process, but evince no frustration in their voices.

At last the couple seem content with the set-up and take a seat outside on Airstream chairs. The tent camper leaves his tent and strikes up a conversation with the couple. He learns: this is the Airstream’s maiden voyage. They purchased it in Portland and drove west to the coast and ended up in this RV park, where they will stay for five nights. The trailer is easy to tow, the man says, but he’s a little shaky backing it up.

The RV park manager shows up to assist with hooking up the Airstream to cable television. He works on it for almost an hour, trying multiple cords, plugging in here, there, and everywhere. No signal. The Airstream is just so damn new and gleaming and high tech that it can’t talk with park’s system. The WI-Fi works fine, however.

Since there’s no cable television, the couple decide they can’t stay. The park refunds their money and the manager wishes them “happy travels.” It’s now 5:00 pm and they’ve driven all day and still have to drive and find a park where they can watch cable TV. They spend another hour hitching the trailer to their truck and getting everything squared away. They climb inside, the man starts the engine, there are some clinking and creaking noises coming from the trailer, they fall silent, and seconds later, the Airstream is gone.

The tent camper is incredibly sad.

That’s the story.

(If you found this post enjoyable, thought provoking or enlightening, please consider supporting a writer at work by making a financial contribution to this blog or by purchasing a NSP book.)

Oregon Tavern Age: Sawmill

NSP Meditations, Oregon Tavern Age , , , , ,

An OTA woman with a braided ponytail occupied a stool at the South Jetty bar. She was talking to the OTA deer man. She drank a dark beer and he sipped a Johnnie Walker Red on the rocks.

She was giddy and ordered a shot of well whiskey to celebrate. She had just scored a new job at the local sawmill, pulling green chain, I think it’s called. I’d last 15 minutes on that job.

She shot the shot and swigged the beer. She told the man she’d put in dozens of applications around the county—nothing. Then, sweet employment! She started on Monday and the bender began right now.

An OTA woman pulling green chain and happy about the prospect. There was hope in that, for Oregon, I’d like to believe.

Oregon Tavern Age: Derriere

NSP Meditations, Oregon Tavern Age , , , ,

A new bartender in OTA country greeted me warmly from behind the bar. Female. Brunette. Pony tail. Lean. Cut. Slinky pink top. No bra. Doug fir shoulders. Some slight scars about the neck. No makeup. A face a thousand distant years from OTA.

But too long under the dim lights, grease hoods and the distance could shorten in the blink of a black eye.

I ordered a local malt liquor. The bartender turned around to pull the tap and I saw her attire below the waist: faded and fraying jean cutoffs. They were unraveling right before my very eyes.

Sometimes, just one look, and you are gone.

No, no, no. I was done with all that. I looked away like Lot’s wife should have after leaving Sodom. If I had kept looking, I would have turned into a pillar of margarita salt.

A lifetime ago, I had a brief affair with a bartender in OTA country with a similar derriere. She had a name ripped from the Old Testament and a power ballad from the Oregon Jam era.

Our affair was a total disaaaaaaaasssssster.

I did, however, get a healthy portion of homemade smoked salmon out of the bargain and a valuable lesson that I didn’t properly learn at the time: when the legend becomes fact, don’t pursue the legend. Let the legend titillate and delude. Let the derriere become dust in the wind.

Jim Harrison wrote ten thousand words in his books about this lesson. I’m not sure he learned it, either.

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