Doc and the Bimbo Posts

The next day dawned cold and sunny and windy.  Alan was his usual demanding self, telling us all to pack up we were going out to breakfast.  Judy and I have found through sad experience that eating out rivals fuel as a big expense on our camping marathons.  We always vow not to do it as we would rather save our coins for visiting museums, buying one of a kind items for our grown kids which we plan on giving them for Christmas, but give them to them when we get home, meaning we have to spend even more money on Christmas.  And of course, no trip would be complete without stopping at at least five garage sales.  So, all of our RV adventures have all started out with a solemn oath not to eat out.  The refer is packed so full of food that when the door opens it falls out.   The cupboards are likewise filled with canned goods, some never to see the light of day.  The Department of Homeland Security advises you to keep three days of food and water handy.  We have three months’ worth for ourselves, the dog, and the mentally challenged cat, Jazzman.   Just as I was about to make a lame excuse about how I really wanted to try that instant oatmeal with apple and pomegranate chunks, Alan said he was buying.  I immediately turned and yelled to Judy, “Grab your coat!  We’re going out to breakfast!”

Alan said he knew this great place on the wharf in Astoria and I believed him as I am basically a trusting soul who never learns his lessons.  As we are driving down the main drag in Astoria, Alan keeps checking out the side streets heading down to the water and saying things like

“Turn left at the next light, no, keep going it’s just a little farther”. 

We finally turn on to a side street but the place he has been looking for is closed.  From the looks of the place it was likely closed when Goonies was made, even looks like the “summer restaurant” from Goonies complete with a rotting fish head on a rake handle. 

It is only then that I start to suspect that this was another one of Alan’s adventures in eating.  But within a block or two we do find a great place that was founded in 1918 by Andrew and Stevens and is cleverly called Andrew and Stevens Place or something like that.  The food was great and lots of it.  I had my usual chicken fried steak with hash browns, and over-easy eggs.  Everyone else had a country omelet, Alan’s without the “shrooms” as he is a picky eater even though he vehemently denies it. 

After breakfast we went to the Astoria Column.  Alan and Colleen climbed the 10,000 stairs to the top to work off the breakfast while Judy and I stayed below. I smoked a cigar and watched a group of kids roll down the grassy slope.  The kids were having a great time and not one of them rolled off the cliff edge or into any lawn fudge, much to the delight of their parents. 

The Astoria Column is not much of a tower compared to the Eifel or Stratosphere in Vegas.  But it does have a mural depicting the history of Astoria that spirals around it with a narrative explaining the history of the town, which basically says

“White man came, Indians died, and now we catch salmon but not nearly as many as we used to”. 

By the time I have finished reading these inspiring words, Alan and Colleen have made it down from the tower without suffering heart attacks and the family with the rolling kids has now made it to the top with a half dozen balsa wood gliders which the gift shop below the tower sells at inflated prices. 

The idea is that you throw these off the top of the tower which is on top of a hill at one of ten most windy spots on the planet.  The glider then flies off taking your fondest wish with it.  Sort of like a reverse wishing well.  We watched in rapt awe as the father pointed out the right direction to throw them. And at his command, swoosh off they went.  Surprisingly most of them really flew off and away, except for the one or two that the tail had been put on crooked that spiraled down like a wounded quail at one of those game ranches where politicians go to have photo ops for the NRA vote, get drunk then shoot each other, good riddance.  I thought later that I should have asked the gift store owner how many of these things they sell and if they were required to file environmental impact statements. 

About the biggest attraction in Astoria is the Flavel house.  This is a restored Victorian mansion where Captain Flavel brought his bride to live after he had made lots of money raping the pristine Oregon environment.  This is a common thread in Oregon history, be it lumber barons, placer miners, fur traders, salmon cannery owners, or in Flavel’s case a real estate magnet.  It is so predictable.  Make lots of money, marry some young thing, in Flavel’s case he was over thirty and she was fourteen!!!   How do these Republicans get away with this shit?  Anyway, eventually the little slut gets older, smarter, and demands a big mansion, which because divorce was not an option in those days, the old fart builds for her, but never gets to live there as while his wife is playing a square grand piano he is struck down with bilious fever, or some other affliction easily diagnosed and cured today by the most incompetent GP.  Please note that this section is a caricature of what happened to all the overly rich in the 19^th century and does not represent the true facts of what happened to Flavel or any of the other Oregon land rapists during that era.  But back to the story, the young widow lives in the house with her children who all die before her.  Their stern, plain faced pictures are all hanging on the parlor walls.  On the bed chamber walls there are wreaths made from human hair, which is really really sick when you think about it.  Judy loves these kinds of places. 

“I would just love to live in a house like this.”  And “When we retire let’s buy an old one and fix it up”. 

As much as I love my wife, there is no freaking way, but I smile and nod and point to a vault toilet which might have snakes in the bottom of it.  End of that story. 

Although museums and Victorian mansions are a lot of fun, nothing in my opinion beats a long narrow and high tow- lane bridge for loads of fun on an RV trip.  Astoria has one of the best.  The spiraling approach to this original “bridge to nowhere” reminds me of the run up to the first drop on the Cyclone at Six Flags.  The stop at the toll booths with a view of the entire span only adds to the gnawing fear in your gut.  Unfortunately, the toll booths are gone now. The bridge is actually paid for.  This may be the only exception to the rule that states when the government starts collecting your money for a project, they never stop.  Then the bridge begins in earnest.  Straight up to a height that would allow a battle ship to cruise underneath then straight down in near free fall with nothing around you but the waters of the Columbia and flocks of seagulls looking to pick the eyes out of your skull when you die after your car strikes a weak section of guard rail and you free-fall into the Columbia below.

This bridge adventure was particularly delightful for Alan who was riding shot gun due to his long legs, relegating Judy (aka short cake) to a jump seat.  Judy is a world class back seat driver, which is a constant delight to him and a bane to me.   He starts pointing out the sights, asking me questions about the mudflat, and making comments about how far down it is and how they should really repair the guard rails.  All the time there is this low groan behind me rising to a crescendo then WHACK! right on the back of the head.

“Keep your eyes on the road!”  then “BRAKES!” as the brake lights of the car a half mile ahead come on as that guy’s wife whacks him in the back of his head for his millisecond of scenic viewing.

You know I should let her drive.  But to be brutally honest she scares the bejesus out of me.  How anyone can be such a cautious back seat driver and Mario Andretti behind the wheel is beyond me. This fact absolutely amazes me, but I have learned never to mention it as when I do it is usually followed by another whack to the back of the head.  Somehow, even with a mild concussion, I manage to make it to Washington, where we drive to Cape Disappointment and visit the light house.  There is a crew there working on renovating the place and as we arrive are all getting out of Washington licensed plate rigs.  Judy gets all pissed off for a bit as she thinks that state parks department should be renovated by a crew from Oregon, rather than going to low bid from workers from another state.  I agree but then we both realize that we are in Washington which might explain it.

On the way back to the KOA we took the loop back through Ilwaco, this is another Native American term which rough translates to “We would be a lot more prosperous if Lewis and Clark had camped on this side of the damn river.”  At this point I spot a garage sale sign.  In my travels with Judy I have learned that there are two things she is addicted to: fabric stores and garage sales.  While I can check on MapQuest for a route that does not pass within sight of a Joanns or a Fabric Warehouse, garage sales are not usually listed.  I could have tried one of my tricks, like pretending I did not see the sign, creating a diversion by dropping a cigar ash in her lap, or claiming that we promised the kids that we would be at their house sometime that week and it was already 11:30 PM on a Saturday.  I occasionally get away with these ploys, especially if the sale is not visible from the main road.  I knew instantly that none of these tricks were going to work as there were two large signs covered with balloons and ribbons, the sale was six inches off the highway and people were loading FURNITURE on a flatbed trailer.  For Judy, FURNITURE is a sign of a sales greatness.  Knowing I cannot escape I pull my most insidious trick of all.  I yell “GARAGE SALE”!  and turn into the driveway before she even sees the sign.  Although this is counter intuitive, I occasionally need to do this so that she does not catch on to all my other tricks.  Also, it was late in the sale day meaning all the good stuff was gone including the FURNITURE being carted away.  As I pulled up to park, I tried my last ploy, “from the looks of it I bet this is a commercial garage sale, you sure you want to go in?”  For those of you unfamiliar with this term, it refers to a person who buys stuff at garage sales then resells it at inflated prices. For those of you unfamiliar with this term, it refers to a person who buys stuff at garage sales then resells it at inflated prices. As there was an ominous silence from the jump seat, I knew my last ploy had failed.  However, it did work on Alan and Colleen as they stayed in the truck. 

Having failed to avoid a sale, I try to reduce the money hemorrhage by limiting the amount of time in the sale.  Sometimes I use the pout and pundit technique,

“Honey they don’t have any tools, so I am going to go back to the truck and listen to Rush Limbaugh”. 

This means that she will have to put up with one of my political rants as I can’t stand that fat windbag.   The other ploy is to convince her that everything is way overpriced and that the proprietors are unlikely to dicker.  Judy loves to dicker. She once got a seven-year-old to come down a quarter on his toy fire engine.  

In my vast experience at garage sales, I have come to realize that all garage sales are not created equal.  The best sales are ones where the people are trying to get rid of stuff cause they are moving or someone has died, or they bought too much at other garage sales and need to unload it at loss so that they can move around in their house in the dark without fear. I fall into this latter category.  Not being an expert shopper, I have developed the “Mr. Coffee Index” or MCI.  As all sales have a Mr. Coffee, the MCI provides a quick, quantitative and decisive means to categorize the sale and hopefully make a quick exit.  If the MCI is $2 or less, then the sale is probably a good one and I might as well start organizing things in the pickup bed so that there is more room.  From $2-$5 it is only worth staying if proprietor is a young, blonde, and has a 38 D bust line.  Anything over $5 and you might as well pack it in.  There were no Mr. Coffees at this sale and the women running it were flat-chested and in their 70’s.  All in all, it looked like it was going to be a bad day at Cape Disappointment. But then I found it.  A movie screen for a dollar.  I go back to the truck and grab Alan yelling “Wild Women of Wonko is back on the menu tonight”.

We finally made it back to the KOA in the late afternoon after having stopped at Chester’s Fried Chicken so that Alan could have a “Scooby Snack” before passing over the bridge of death one more time.  WHACK!, “but I was just checking my mirrors!”  

Our final stop before getting back to camp was at a Fred Meyer department store, as after visiting Astoria we all got nostalgic for Goonies and just had to see it again.  Sean Aston was cute in that movie and that was way before he turned into a hobbit.   But why Chunk never made it into the adult acting world must be a tragic tale of drugs and binge eating.  But then again maybe he just grew up.   Some things just happen by blind luck as opposed to divine design.  As it is impossible to tell the difference, why do people waste their time by trying to decipher God’s plan for their lives.  I gave that idea up years ago when it dawned on me that God’s plan in me might be to set a bad example.  Seems to work for Alan.   Better to try and do the right thing now and try and have fun while doing it.  It will all sort out in the end one way or another.  If it does, great, if it doesn’t, at some time in your life, you won’t be cognizant enough to care.   

In February 2006 there was a forecasted break in the rain on the Oregon Coast and we packed up for a short trip north to Astoria at the mouth of the Columbia River.  We left the homestead at noon, right on time for once.  Trip up Highway 101 was uneventful.  Although it was cold it had been dry for several days so there was no ice on the road, but lots of icicles on the frequent roadside run-off water falls that decorate Oregon coastal and Cascade roads during most of the year.  

Judy and I met my nephew Alan and his current lady friend, Colleen at the Blue Heron Cheese factory in Tillamook.  This is not the more famous Tillamook Cheese Factory, where they actually make cheese and suck in tens of thousands of tourists each year, but a much smaller place that sells cheese, wine, bread, and other goodies and sundries.  It also at that time had a petting zoo or at least a place you can stand and pet the goats, chickens, ducks, llamas and a very friendly emu if you hold your hand out with some food in it and are not too worried about losing a finger or two. 

I always thought that emus are nasty birds which peck the eyes out of unwary children, but this one seems to be okay, except that he (at least I think he was a he, but how the hell would I know) and a llama were having words.  More like stare downs where the emu would sneak up to the unwary llama and try to peck it in the ass and the ever clever llama would sense the emu’s intentions, whirl at it then raise its head higher than the emu’s.  I have heard that llamas spit when pissed off and it looked very pissed off.  Anyway the emu apparently had been spit on before and obviously did not like it so it would pretend to lose interest in pecking the llama in the ass and back away to try again when the llama went back to doing its thing which was different than spitting at the emu.  Maybe I was right in the first place.  Never trust an emu as they will peck your eyes out if given a chance.  The dirty bastards.

But I digress.  Back to the Blue Heron Cheese factory.  They may make cheese there but unlike their more famous cousin down the road, I saw no vats of rotting milk, no cheese makers in white coats and plastic hats.  But they did have a wonderful selection of cheeses and wines you could taste.  I would avoid the fruit cheese as that shit is beyond gay.  Judy said maybe if you melted it and did some other shit to it would be yummy, but then again this is the woman that fed me sweet and sour trout when she was two months pregnant with our first and used morning sickness as an excuse not to eat any of it.  Thankfully both her cooking and ability to have little ones improved with age.  The “cheese factory” had lots of mustards, syrups, salad dressings, jellies, and other con-damn-its that you could try by dipping little pretzel sticks in then. That was kind of neat as I am a sucker for free eats, often stopping at Costco for a demo lunch and to save on that 55-gallon drum of maple syrup.

Alan and Colleen had arrived about 20 minutes ahead of us and were already enjoying a glass of wine and were thinking about getting something from the deli, but it had just closed.  Turns out that was not exactly true as you could still get something if you were nice and Colleen was always nice so she got a cheese sampler with some pepperoni, various cheeses and breads.  Judy went around spending my money, but as I would not let her have a shopping basket, she was limited to what she could carry in her arms. Which due to the sore wrist from the quad accident was not that much, praise the lord.  However, when I turned my back, she made an extra trip.  She must also have been watching the emu.

We made it to the Astoria KOA just at dusk.  The KOA is in Warrenton which is not too far from Astoria and right across the road from Fort Stevens State Park.  Fort Stevens is the place that during WWII a Japanese sub fired its deck gun at the continental US.  The only time the lower 48 was attacked by the Japs during the war if you discount the fire-bomb balloon attacks on the northwest’s forests that occurred later.  Anyway the sub surfaced, fired off a few shells at something the captain thought he saw, and our boys did not shoot back as they thought that the sub out-ranged them and did not want to give away their position.  If it had not been for Pearl Harbor a few months before, the whole war might have been called a draw at that point.  Sure would have saved a lot of bother.  Although there were probably many more decisive engagements during WWII, Fort Stevens has a whole museum dedicated to the “attack” complete with a full sized manikin in a Japanese sub captain’s uniform and a Japanese tank which might have landed there if the Japs had won at Midway, captured Hawaii, and decided to invade Astoria by crossing the most dangerous bar in North America.    

Now I am not a big fan of KOAs.  I think they are over-priced and crowded with senior citizens that should not be driving 45-foot motor homes with triple slide outs.  But we have gone to this one in Astoria several times.  How do you spell hot tub and indoor swimming pool that is open all year round?   In February you have much of the place to yourself, although I was a little surprised to see that all the good spots next to the swimming pool were taken up by seniors in 45-foot motor homes.  But that was okay as we often like to party, especially Alan, who has a thing for loud music.  He is probably going deaf from listening to it all these years.  In the winter it is also nice to have electric hook ups and we often enjoy taking long showers when we have unlimited water and sewer.  We were even looking forward to using the electric option of our new trailer’s water heater.

The KOA office was closed when we pulled up, but they had maps in envelopes for those without reservations which showed you how to get to their recommended spots.  Alan and I took two envelopes which appeared by the letter and number to be next to each other, which they were.  I pulled into our slot facing the wrong direction so that our doors would open on each other.  This is okay, but it usually means that I can’t hook up to sewer unless I remembered to bring the long extension hose which slips into the one stored in the trailers bumper.

As soon as the sun went down it got colder, a lot colder.  I was outside during this mini ice age trying to get the trailer unhooked, the jacks down, the rock guard up, fetching Judy’s purse which she had left in the truck then having to go back and fetch the stuff she had bought at the “cheese factory”.  As the trailer had been sitting for a couple of months, the cubby locks were sticking, the jacks were slow to move, and one of the spring pins that hold down the window rock guard was not moving. I had to give it a squirt with WD-40 and pull on it with vice grips.   As an aside, I am of the opinion that vice grips, WD-40, and duct tape are three of the more important things that separate us from lower animals, as well as our ability to wipe our ass with our hands rather than having to rub it on the living room rug. Mean time it is getting colder and my leather coat is not cutting it as Judy with $5000 worth of sewing machines has not yet seen fit to repair the zipper,  so I go in and get my old ratty car coat which is warm but I manage to spray WD 40 all over it.  So, everything is going just swimmingly and then I go to hook up to electric.  It freaking don’t work!  I run a cord over to Alan’s site and hook up to his outside trailer outlet, which blows his circuit breaker. Then I try hooking up to his site’s electrical outlet box.  That works but I still have the pick-up problem.  The F250 diesel is a great truck but when it gets cold (40 is cold???), it needs to have the block heater plugged in or it will take 20 minutes to get it started.  As this is a lot of time to contemplate your death when you live in tsunami country, I usually try to keep it plugged in.   So, I go to plug it in which pops the breaker on the outlet box when the water pump on the trailer is in use.  So why am I not hooked up to water?  I pulled in backwards remember and my hose is not long enough and it is so freaking cold that it will likely freeze anyway. Eventually I find a combination of extension cords and outlets that seems to work, running the pickup block heater off Alan’s trailer outlet.

We have a dinner that couldn’t be beat; Judy’s cooking has definitely improved over 37 years of marriage as evidence by my portly physique.  After a few glasses of wine we all swaddled and waddled through the cold up the hill to the pool and hot tub and eventually got kicked out of there at 9PM. Waddled back to the spaces to find that the pickup had popped Alan’s breaker again.  So, I had a Scotch, put the WD40 covered car coat outside to air and went to bed while the rest played dice till God knows when.  Would have slept all night too, if our neurotic cat had not found a door that was closed and spent most of the night trying to open it. 

Just in case you are a little slow, you heard me right, we no longer have a motor home.  Our class A, Gulf Stream was getting a little tired.  After having been towed three times in one year and still owing our local mechanic money from the last fixer-up, it was time to get something new.  Alan, having bought a trailer that he liked, was constantly extolling the virtues of trailers over motor homes and like an idiot I listened.  Judy was a bit dubious but agreed to look at them.  We drove over to Junction City, which is the RV capital of the state and started walking around with a salesman looking at various models.  For Judy, the Arctic Fox 26X was love at first sight.  Next thing I know we have attracted the attention of two salesmen, and they are going at us hard core.  When I tell them that my Ford Ranger won’t pull it, they inform me that right across the highway we can trade it in for a suitable towing rig as they own the car lot as well.  Lets see now… new trailer 33K, new truck minus Ranger trade in 20K plus fancy hitch and braking system more K….  

I awoke just in time from this nightmare.  Grabbed Judy by the arm and got the hell out of Dodge with the two salesmen running after us.  What the hell was I thinking?  Judy was pissed. 

“You said that if I found a trailer I liked….”

“I thought we were just looking for next year”

“But you said we should replace the motor home soon cause it is on its last legs”!

“That was before the 60K price tag came up, that is double what I paid for my house!”

“That was 30 years ago! There is such a thing as inflation you know”!

I was losing this argument.  The hour of silence that followed this treatise on the global economy only reinforced that impression. 

After a bit longer I sighed and said, “OK but let me do a little bit of exploring on-line to see if I can find a better price”.

For the next couple of weeks I looked at trailer floor plans that were similar to the Artic Fox and found out the same company made the Nash which is nearly identical to the Arctic Fox substituting wood studs for aluminum and was also about 10K cheaper.

Couple of weeks later we were at another RV dealer eating free burgers and looking at Nash versions of the floor plan Judy wanted.  We soon found the perfect one, but I was still unwilling to commit, apparently a problem common to many men.  The salesman, Frank, however, said he had a slightly used one coming in sometime that was exactly like the one we were in that he could probably get me a good deal on.  Seems like this friend of his had a new wife who was not into RV’s and the guy was looking to unload it.  As this was likely to buy me a little more time I said fine.

Next day we were back in the Willamette Valley at a wedding reception.  Our friends, Mark and Jen had finally tied the knot after living in sin for a decade.  Mark had been trying to get her to marry him for years and she had finally relented.  I told Mark that he was no longer my hero and that he should be kicked out of the man club, but he just smiled.  Somewhere in between the champagne toast and the egg rolls Judy’s cell phone rang.  It was Frank, the used RV was in and a guy was already looking at so if we wanted it, we needed to put a deposit on it right now!   The first time I was aware of this is when I heard Judy say,

“Do you take plastic over the phone?”

That same day we drove into the RV lot to make the final arrangements.  There was our trailer, just like the new one we had looked at the previous week, and 6K less.  It was perfect.  It had the same floor plan, the same comfy sofa and chair, the same bed, microwave, front kitchen.  I was ecstatic.  What a deal I was getting.  Then I felt the icy eyes in my back.

“Something wrong babe”? I asked.

“The carpets darker.”

“We’ll get some throw rugs”

“The sofa’s dead skin beige with black geometric shapes that look satanic.”

“Get some lighter throw cushions”

“The wallpaper has ducks on it”

I’m fucked.  I have a thousand dollar deposit on a trailer that my wife is going to totally remodel at God knows how much expense with me having to do all new wall papering which nearly ended in a divorce the last time I tried it 25 years ago.

We ended up buying the new one that was perfect.  Frank did come down on the price a bit as he felt my pain having been married nearly as long as I.  Now all I needed was to sell the Ranger and our old motor home, buy a larger truck, preferably a diesel 4 X 4 and have it all done within 30 days or begin paying rent on the space the new trailer was currently occupying on the RV lot.

A couple of days later I am telling a buddy, Jim, at work what a fool I was to buy a trailer without a rig to tow it and how I was going to have to try and sell the old stuff in a big hurry to avoid going bankrupt, when this snazzy blue and silver Ford F250 diesel king cab 4 X 4 pulls into the parking lot outside the window.  A little surprised I say

“Jim!  Look at that.  It is exactly what I need.”  Then as it pulls into a parking space I stupidly ask, “I wonder who owns that?”

Jim with a chuckle says, “I could be wrong but that sort of looks like Judy getting out of it”. Amazingly, 16 years later I still have the same trailer, truck and wife.  Would not have it any other way. 

Amazingly, 16 years later I still have the same truck, trailer, and wife. Wouldn’t have it anyother way.