The whirlwind tour continues.
Yesterday my mother and I drove from Bend to Powers through Zane Grey country on the Umpqua River. If all goes well, I will have some tales to tell of colliding rivers and the bloated egos of western writers.
But this post is something quite different.
We are in southern Oregon to honor my mother's cousin, Ken Rolfe, during his induction into the Powers Hall of Fame at a picnic Sunday afternoon.
This is my mother's home turf. And I lived here long enough that memories tend to well up unbidden out of the very soil.
The photograph at the top is a perfect example. The very place a boy could believe was troll central. A steep gully with a stream at its base.
But the memory is a bit more prosaic. My grandmother, who lived in Powers, knew I was very fond of one of her cats. A yellow striped cat, who I imaginatively named Tiger.
We were in Powers visiting her, having just moved to the suburbs of Portland. So, she boxed up the cat in what passed for a cat carrier in those days. An Arm and Hammer cardboard box.
Into the car went Tiger inside his fancy new digs. By his yowling on the 20 mile drive to Myrtle Point, it was evident he did not share my joy in the prospect of a new pet in northern Oregon.
For some reason, we stopped in Myrtle Point. Whatever our reason, Tiger had his own agenda. No sooner had the first car door opened than Tiger did his best Steve McQueen impression. And high tailed it into the woods. The above-pictured gully.
We looked and looked for Tiger. But thousands of years of kitty evolution stood between our offered comforts and his immediate fear. Off we drove with our box once filled with hope.
I cannot look at that gully on visits to Myrtle Point -- a gully that borders the back of our motel -- without wondering what became of that great yellow hope.
But reminiscing about cats is not why we came south. On Saturday night, the Powers Alumni Association held a fundraiser dinner. Not being an alumni, I attended solely to reconnect with some of the classmates I left behind upon completing the third grade.
And I did. Here are three.
Yesterday my mother and I drove from Bend to Powers through Zane Grey country on the Umpqua River. If all goes well, I will have some tales to tell of colliding rivers and the bloated egos of western writers.
But this post is something quite different.
We are in southern Oregon to honor my mother's cousin, Ken Rolfe, during his induction into the Powers Hall of Fame at a picnic Sunday afternoon.
This is my mother's home turf. And I lived here long enough that memories tend to well up unbidden out of the very soil.
The photograph at the top is a perfect example. The very place a boy could believe was troll central. A steep gully with a stream at its base.
But the memory is a bit more prosaic. My grandmother, who lived in Powers, knew I was very fond of one of her cats. A yellow striped cat, who I imaginatively named Tiger.
We were in Powers visiting her, having just moved to the suburbs of Portland. So, she boxed up the cat in what passed for a cat carrier in those days. An Arm and Hammer cardboard box.
Into the car went Tiger inside his fancy new digs. By his yowling on the 20 mile drive to Myrtle Point, it was evident he did not share my joy in the prospect of a new pet in northern Oregon.
For some reason, we stopped in Myrtle Point. Whatever our reason, Tiger had his own agenda. No sooner had the first car door opened than Tiger did his best Steve McQueen impression. And high tailed it into the woods. The above-pictured gully.
We looked and looked for Tiger. But thousands of years of kitty evolution stood between our offered comforts and his immediate fear. Off we drove with our box once filled with hope.
I cannot look at that gully on visits to Myrtle Point -- a gully that borders the back of our motel -- without wondering what became of that great yellow hope.
But reminiscing about cats is not why we came south. On Saturday night, the Powers Alumni Association held a fundraiser dinner. Not being an alumni, I attended solely to reconnect with some of the classmates I left behind upon completing the third grade.
And I did. Here are three.
That is Doug on the left. He was one of my best friends in the 1950s. We have met several times in Salem. Susan is in the center. She was quiet in grade school. But I had a great time hearing her stories of her life after Powers -- and some after her return to the area.
Linda is on the right. She was undoubtedly the prettiest girl in my third grade class. When we moved north, I lied and told my new fourth grade classmates she had been my girl friend. Linda cringed a bit when I told her that.
I also had the honor of meeting a reader from Brookings who follows this blog on Facebook. It turns out our mothers are long-time friends.
It was a fun evening. Even though I did not live long in Powers, it will always have a special place in my memory -- solely because of my friends there.
On our drive back to Powers, the sky reminded me that the Mexican beaches may have fantastic sunsets, but the Oregon mountains can put on a show almost as competitive.
Linda is on the right. She was undoubtedly the prettiest girl in my third grade class. When we moved north, I lied and told my new fourth grade classmates she had been my girl friend. Linda cringed a bit when I told her that.
I also had the honor of meeting a reader from Brookings who follows this blog on Facebook. It turns out our mothers are long-time friends.
It was a fun evening. Even though I did not live long in Powers, it will always have a special place in my memory -- solely because of my friends there.
On our drive back to Powers, the sky reminded me that the Mexican beaches may have fantastic sunsets, but the Oregon mountains can put on a show almost as competitive.
