Great American solar eclipse

Oregon Tavern Age: Eclipse Part 2

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As I waited to call the Old O and get the curmudgeon exclusive, I sat outside with two of my best friends, and their great dog. We had macaroon and chocolate chip cookies and French apple brandy, Calvados, as our quasi eclipse brunch.

I surveyed Youngs Bay, Saddle Mountain, Tillamook Head and beyond. The sun was shining and barely a trace of a cloud appeared in the sky. It became obvious: a perfect day on the Oregon Coast to observe the eclipse, dialed up by the Sun Gods. There would be no rain on their parade. Not even drizzle! My Oregon Gods had failed me and now I would soon hear singing from Whoville and feel enraged.

Then it began, slowly: the invisible moon moving into alignment, the partial darkening, the strange,crisp reflective light, the odd behavior from birds, the temperature dropping, the increasing silence. We donned our special glasses and watched the subtle show, the Ms. Pac Man in the sky. I started writing a few notes. I felt a tinge in my heart. Perhaps it was growing a tiny bit. The dog got up and came over to me. I gave him a chunk of a macaroon.

I called the Old O. It rang a long time before the bartender answered. I greeted her and gave a quick briefing. I asked her her name.

“Lena.”

“Okay, Lena, can you help me out?”

My pen and notebook were primed to record curmudgeon history.

“I’ll check and see for you.”

I heard a muffled asking of the regulars.

“Everyone’s going outside, me too.”

“How many are in there?”

“Nine or ten.”

“What are the drinking?”

“Bud.”

“Okay, thanks.”

I ended the call and laughed. I put my glasses back on, sipped the Calvados, petted the dog, informed my friends of my OTA findings, and stared at the sun. Wondrous. Exhilarating. Atavistic. Far out.

In the distance, I heard clapping and cheering. My heart grew and grew and then blew out of my chest and it felt pretty damn good.

Perhaps my Oregon Gods had answered my prayers after all. We had all stopped and looked up together at something that brought us all together.

To quote Gandalf from Lord Of the Rings, “Hope is kindled.”

The next day, Astoria was socked in with fog and drizzle ruled the landscape.

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Oregon Tavern Age: Eclipse Part 1

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The Old Oregon Saloon in Lincoln City had the distinction of being the first Oregon Tavern Age joint directly in the Path of Totality of the Great American Solar Eclipse, the first one across the continental United States in 99 years.

At approximately 10:00 a.m. on Monday, August 21, the moon would fall into perfect alignment, and blot out the sun. The media had fanned anticipation and people had journeyed for around the world to don the glasses and witness a marvel of our solar system in person.

The Old O opens at 7:00 a.m. (seven days a week) so I guessed a couple of regulars would be bellied up to the bar drinking as the momentous celestial event occurred…and…they…wouldn’t budge an inch. Too much strain. Too much science to consider. They couldn’t be bothered. In fact, they were bitching about the fuss. A bunch of crazy tourists buying gewgaws and nude hippies dancing on Cascade Head.

That was my eclipse story—the curmudgeon—and I would damn well get it, while other the lemmings dug up their cliches and interviewed a corporate executive waxing spiritual or single mom whose baby got his retinas fried.

I would nail the curmudgeon angle because I was a curmudgeon of the eclipse. The Grinch of the Eclipse. I wanted rain, a freak summer storm, a viscous gray, to obliterate the joy and awe of Whovilles in the Path of Totality. They would get the Path of Nothing and like it.

The Oregon Gods were summoned the night before. I knelt by my bed, anointed myself with Rainier, lit myrtle wood incense, and prayed to the spirits of Tom McCall and Ken Kesey for a secular wet intervention. I relished a holy washout and terrible things said about Oregon.

I couldn’t travel to Lincoln City to investigate the OTA indifference myself, although I dearly wanted to. Authorities predicted cataclysmic traffic jams and coastal gridlock. Locals had hit the liquor stores to stock up and ride out the madness. Vodka dried up first. Then came the mediocre brands of Canadian whiskey.

This story was mine! I would not be denied! Thus, I went deep into my bag of storytelling tricks and conjured a solution. My great notion was to call the Old Oregon Saloon during the eclipse and interview the OTAs who didn’t care and stayed in the bar. They’d be lining up to bitch to me and ordering shots of Fireball to fuel their harangue.

I placed a call 30 minutes before the event to prep the story. A bartender answered and I gave her the lowdown on my angle. She was game and would query the regulars. I would call back later and get the cynical goods. I asked about eclipse drink and food specials. None, she said. Good. She did add that commemorative sweat shirts were gone and only a few t-shirts remained.

What? Alarming. There was some interest and several OTAs had spent money on apparel. This was good beer money poured down the drain instead of the the gullet.

“Thanks for your help,” I said.

“Sure honey,” the bartender said.

I love being called “honey” in OTA country, just nowhere else, though.

The call ended and I waited for the eclipse. I would be calling the Old O soon. I rubbed my hands together in anticipation of listening to a double shots of sheer vitriol. I might even crack open a Rainier to chase it.

(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.)