The headline of the first day on
the road comes from the East Oregonian in Pendleton, Ore. Have a look at the
headline on the top left of the paper’s Page 1.
How could I not buy this paper?
How could I not buy this paper?
The story inside explains that
26-year-old Dustin Irons appeared in the Umatilla County Court via a video
hookup from the jail, where he has been since December for tearing apart a room
in the Pillars Motel. The judge wanted to review Irons’ case, but Irons was
having none of it.
Despite being in restraints, Irons
managed to drop his pants and expose himself on a large screen TV in the actual
courtroom.
“How he was able to do that with
restraints was pretty creative,” a sheriff’s captain told reporter Phil Wright.
But the judge gave Irons no points
for creativity. Instead, Irons got another 30 days in jail for contempt.
This is the kind of story that
would have headline writers scrambling to see who could come up with the best
title that would never appear in a family newspaper. As a former headline
writer, I could not resist imagining what my entries would be:
In a flash, Irons back in irons
Exhibit A does not please the court
My fav:
Man must stick it out in jail 30 more days
Pendleton
had two attractions for me: The outlet store at the Pendleton Woolen Mills and
a Chevron station, or so the exit sign said. I hate it when the sign says “gas
this exit” and the station is miles away. I never found the Chevron station in
Pendleton, and the woolen mill store turned out to disappoint me just like it
did a year ago when I stopped. What they consider a sale really doesn’t
register cash out of my pocket.
But I spent
about an hour in Pendleton, left without getting gas and barely made it to
LaGrande, OR, where the exit sign assured me of a Chevron station, However, the
sign at the top of the exit ramp said the station was two miles away, straight
through downtown. But it’s a very nice downtown, and I did get gas.
Worst joke of the day came at the
gas station. Since it is against the law to pump your own gas in Oregon, an
attendant appeared at the side of my truck as I pulled up. “Fill it up,” I
said. “The canoes?” he said. “They’re kayaks.” “You want them filled?” Groan.
I realized I was behind schedule
while in LaGrande and that I would not get to Idaho as planned. Then I thought
of Huntington, OR. I biked through here in 2004 when on an Astoria, OR, to
Boise, ID, ride with my sister. We were
about three days into the search for the best fruit cobbler in the nation when
I stopped in at Howell’s Café here. My speedy sister had streaked on ahead of
me as usual so she missed out on what might be the national winner. A big bowl
of warm peaches in a delicious crust with ice cream melting down through it. I
may have licked the bowl.
I also noticed that the people
behind me were having a breakfast (anytime is cobbler time) of pancakes as big
as the hubcaps on my truck. I have the Howell’s menu in my cabin and see that
the note with the $12.95 pancake entry says, “IF YOU CAN EAT IT ALL . . . WE
WILL BUY IT.”
I’d like to try, but unfortunately
the sign on their door says they do not open until 9 a.m. I’m hoping for an
early start in the morning and plan to be on the road before then. Maybe next
time.
Right under the word "Cafe," it says, "All white help." Sorry about the shadows. |
Paint over it? I’d be against that,
just as I’m against leaving out the offensive language in “Huckleberry Finn.”
Those are reminders of how racist our society has been, contact points to push
away from toward what I consider progress. Sad thing is that when you look
around today, it seems that not all of us are pushing very hard.
Deluxe accommodations here in
Huntington. A room with a single uncovered light bulb in the center of the
ceiling. The bathroom sink is in the shower stall (first time I have seen that
arrangement) and the TV doesn’t work. No phone, no pool, no pets. Cheap though.
Off to the Streamliner Lounge,
companion to Howell’s Café. I was there
earlier to rent this room. Only one person at the bar, a lady having Black
Velvet mixed with Red Bull. Is there a name for that drink? Does it have to do
with a painting of a matador on black velvet? It should.
Great heds on the flasher story, JB. You've still got it. -- Matassa
ReplyDeleteHey, John! I am right there with you, re-living my one and only visit to Arkansas. Jack and I spent our first Arkansas evening perched atop Petit Jean Mountain (not-so-mountainous by Northwest standards) drinking in the fragrance of honesuckle - which was the only intoxicant permitted in the state park and counting fireflies. I'd never seen fireflies before. I googled your destination and I see the Buffalo River is a bit north and east of Conway, a little river town where Mary Ann Gwinn went to college and where Jack and I attended the annual Toad Suck Daze festival. No intoxicants there either (dry county) so we joined the private "drinking club" at the local Outback steakhouse so that we could have wine with our dinner. We did ultimately find Arkansas' Wine Country and brought home a bottle of Chateau Aux Arc. What I like better, though, was the juice of some native Muscadine grapes that grew in trees. It tasted like honesuckle smells.
ReplyDeleteHave a great trip and keep the travelogue coming!
I was thinking about Jack the other day and his story about visiting the state that completed his list of all 50 visited. Arkansas is one of two I have not visited. The other one is Maine. Another trip.
ReplyDeleteToo bad it's too early for fireflies. We called them lightning bugs in Ohio.