After considerable soul searching, Judy and I decided to give up on having family over for both Thanksgiving and Christmas. With heavy hearts we were prepared to have our feast at home with just the two of us, our golden, Kaylee, the beast of a cat who shall not be named. The risk this year is just too great. Who knows what Trump is going to do in the next two months?
Then Judy had an epiphany, which surprisingly is not a recently discovered symptom of Covid-19. What was stopping us from packing up the turkey, giblets, and cranberry sauce, and go camping at a State or County park with an ocean view? We never get to go camping on the beach in the summer as is nearly impossible to get a site. Californians book the State Parks with ocean view a year in advance. I supposed I could have done the same thing, but being retired and 72, I am lucky if I remember what I promised Judy I would do a half hour ago. But this was the off season. It was cold and Californians are allergic to rain. It was also Thanksgiving. Who the fuck goes camping on Thanksgiving? Wow! We were going to have a gourmet feast, then toast the waves rolling up on an empty beach with our favorite adult beverages. I might even sit outside by a campfire and smoke a cigar unless the wind blew it out and dusted my face with hot ashes. It almost made me get a woody, which sadly is not a recently discovered symptom of Covid-19 as I would forgo the vaccine just on off chance …
Excitably, we searched for a State or County park with a great view and within a couple of hours of our home. Our only requirement was we needed to have electricity as a day or two of running our RV furnace runs the batteries down to zip and the campout is over. Although there are two State Parks close to our house, it is embarrassing to camp within 15 minutes of home, the campground hosts tend to look at you funny. Also we like to feel like we are roughing it and if we are too close to home we tend to drive back to the house rather than go without.
We know of several parks to the south of us that meet our criteria: ocean view, electricity, and close enough to shopping in case we forgot something but far enough away from home so that we would not be tempted to drive back to the house. Also, commercial RV parks are out. They pack you in tighter than a virgin and I occasionally like to walk around in the buff and do not appreciate the laugh track.
After two hours on the phone to Reserve America and to various county parks to the south of us, we began to get desperate. Great minds think alike. Who the fuck goes camping during Thanksgiving? Apparently in the time of Covid, everybody does. Eventually we had to give up on the ocean view parks and found a nice State Park in the woods on the wrong side of the Pacific Highway. Our long-time friends, Martha and Bill thought that they would like to go with us. They had recently purchased a pickup camper and there was a site right next to us. No this was not a super spreader event. If anybody is more careful than us, its these two. I have known Sonny (Bill) since we were both students at Oregon State University (may Earthquake Enyart rest in peace). Bill was such a good friend that he would even take Marty off Judy’s hands occasionally, just to give her a little break. What a nice guy. It was only years later that we found out that pushing an infant around in a baby buggy was a great way to meet girls. The dirty bastard! Lucky for him he married Martha, or I might never have never forgiven him for keeping that great idea to himself.
After setting up our trailer, we hopped in the truck to drive back to Reedsport, OR to get a few items we had left at home. Might have been able to skip the milk and eggs, but a single malt, oh hell no. But first, we made a quick stop at an oyster farm to get some steamer clams. Every once in while I get a boner for steamer clams, sautéed in a little wine sauce with bay leaves, then dipped into garlic butter. A little French bread dipped into the still warm cooking juice and eaten dripping on your shirt with a little wine completes the meal. By the way, food slop and wine stains is the Boese family crest. Only problem was the oyster farm was closed due to a fire. Surely Reedsport would have a fresh seafood place. Nope. But after three stores I found frozen streamers. A little dubious, I asked the guy behind the meat counter if they were any good. “Sure are, eat them myself”. Bet he did it only once. There is no such thing as an honest, waitress, mechanic, car salesman, nor grocery store employee. It’s always freshly baked that morning, right off the boat, or only driven by a little old lady to her Sunday School Class. The clam meats were half the size they were supposed to be and tasted like rabbit poops. It even ruined the cooking juice. When will I ever learn? I have often heard that the older you get the wiser you are. I just seem to get older.
Our friends showed up a few days later. We put together a fantastic Thanksgiving dinner. Turkey, stuffing, mashed taters, gravy, garlic green beans, Judy’s famous maple syrup carrots, and Martha’s fabulous deep-dish apple pie with scoops of organic vanilla ice cream. What the fuck is organic ice cream? The turkey was deep fried. Never did that one before. Even bought a giant electric deep fat fryer. Decided to go electric rather than the propane powered ones after watching one of those safety u-tube turkey fryer videos. I could just see my tombstone, Bruce Boese, 1947 – 2020, survives three car wreaks, a heart problem, a Covid-19 epidemic, only to screw up while deep frying as 14-pound turkey. Judy read the instructions as it is against the man club manifesto to ever read a manual. I poured in the peanut oil and when it reached the right temperature, then gently lowered the bird into the hot oil. Wow, I am sure glad I bought the electric fryer as it sure is safer than the gas one. Oil didn’t bubble like the gates of hell when the turkey went in. Could it really be that different from the gas fryers. Quickly, while no one was looking I glanced at the instructions. Yet 165 degrees was right, then it dawned on my pea brain that 165 was the temperature of the meat when it was done. The oil needed to be preheated to 375. I quickly pulled the turkey out, reset the deep frier to 375, and filed that Judy screw up away for later redemption. I had just been given a chip in the big game. To quote the greatest philosopher of all time, “You got to know how to hold em”. So, the dinner was postponed a hour, everything turned out just as well and it gave me more time to drink before eating.
Next day all of us drove a few miles south to see Shore Acres State Park and Cape Arago. Shore Acres was originally the home of Louis J. Simpson, a lumber baron and son of a shipping magnet who inherited then hit it big during the hay day of timber in Coos County Oregon. As was common in those robber baron times, he built a huge mansion overlooking one of the most stunning views in the world, where waves thunderously smash against a hundred food rock cliff not 20 yards from his back door. Included in this 745 acre estate, he made his wife a formal English garden, But like almost all of ilk, the house burned down and his trophy wife took him for his last dime, forcing him in 1942 to sell the land to the State of Oregon. The garden survives to this day. For a modest fee you can stroll through it. But not on the day after Thanksgiving in 2020. Covid strikes again as Coos County did not meet level two of three or one. What ever the gate was locked.
Cape Agago State Park is a few minutes south by narrow two lane. Part way there is a haul out spot for California sea lions. Sea lions migrate south during the fall to their winter condos. Guess they are allergic to rain. Occasionally they need to stop or haul out to lay in the sun and renew their tans. In October of each year you can hear them for miles, sounding like a beer hall full of old geezers telling off color jokes while gawking at nubile bar maids in skimpy attire. Could this haul out spot have been what inspired the founder of Hooters? Just a thought. Every time, I have been to Cape Arago I have seen Grey Whales. Every time. Never failed. Told Martha and Sonny to bring their cameras. Yep Guaranteed. Nope not today. I was striking out as bad mighty Casey did in Mudville. Only one chance to salvage the day. A hail Mary at the Seven Devils. I had never actually seen the Seven Devils. I had been there a few years before but had never seen them as the whole area was hidden by a thick curtain of fog. In the swirling mist I thought I could about see gigantic ocean swells breaking over these seven rock crags and exploding around them like the horns of Satan himself. I entered Seven Devils in my Garmin navigator. We followed it till we found Seven Devils Road. The Garmin wanted us to go further south, but Seven Devils Road would lead us to it and it was right there. Beside Garmin’s are not infallible. A San Francisco family had followed its instructions from Roseburg to Coos Bay a few years back and ended up stranded in the snow, out of gas on a forest service road, where they survived by burning the tires off their car. The tires on my truck are 200 a piece, fuck that. Only took us an extra hour to get there down a one lane dirt road with ruts, washboards and scary looking misspelled “no trespassing or git shot signs”. Finally, the road became paved and sign said “Seven Devils State Recreation Area” one half mile. I nearly wet myself as we pulled into the parking lot. There in the no foggy distance was… a single rock, lamely being covered by every piddly wave that washed over it. The sign at the path to the plain sand beach stated why it was called the Seven Devils. Martha and Judy read it to me, women always read the signs, but I could take no more. Seven Devils was named after the road we had driven to get to the beach. Ashamed I lamely crawled back in the truck, drove back to the trailer to eat left-overs. Next year we stay home.
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