Wing Sing
If you're ever blind and lost on the tiny winding highways of central Oregon, watch for an unlikely town called Philomath, and an unlikely restaurant called Wing Sing.
Wing Sing has both kinds of food, Chinese and American, and both kinds of music on the jukebox, Country and Western.
My wife and I were exploring off the coast during our delightful stay in Waldport, and got mad lost on highway 34. I kept imagining it would "hook back" to the water. My wife knew I had taken us down the rabbit hole. I kept saying, "It's going to hook back right after this corner." And then there'd be another view of this pretty stream, more towering trees, denser fog, another pickup truck with a rifle, etc.
Anyway, after about an hour of praying for a hook back, we roared into Philomath. Philomath looked to me, like heaven. It was a town with a highway that went west again. I saw a sign that said we were - impossibly - 100 miles from where we had started. I know we hadn't come that far, but I wasn't going back on Hwy. 34, it of the suddenly winding curves, the nervous and tiny shoulder.
But before I committed to the larger Hwy. 20 and its unknown pleasures, I thought we should get something to eat. We looked up and down the main drag and saw only two lit signs, one that said "TAV RN," and one that said "Wing Sing's." You know, of course, that no place has a finer reputation for Chinese food than central Oregon, so that's where we went.
There are two rooms at Wing Sing, a bar attached to the north side of the building, and the restaurant to the south. a little walkway attaches the two rooms together. Over in the bar there were three people, a woman behind the bar, an old guy at a booth, and the old guy's daughter, Sherry, playing video poker while her dad waited for their food. It was Sherry's birthday. Our waitress told us.
My wife and I sat in the restaurant alone and ordered chow mein and sweet and sour chicken. I was still fretting, still thinking about the hook back, wondering what kind of meat the chicken would be, but my wife was into the new adventure. We waited about 8 minutes and two gigantic plates arrived. The food smelled delicious and we dug in.
Twenty minutes later we pushed back from the table, still the only one occupied. I gave my money to Darnelle, gave her an extra $5 to buy the birthday girl a drink, and we went back into the pitch blackness, aiming at Highway 20, delighted to see what and how it would get us back to from where we'd come.
Pause
There's a soda company I've stumbled across out here called Jones Soda. At a tiny groceteria somewhere in central Oregon, we bought four bottles, two of "M.F. Grape Soda," and two of "Fufu Raspberry." They're in glass bottles. They're fizzy and delicious, and full of bubbly satisfaction. (I get too much pleasure from stuff like this, I know.)
The company has recently expanded into the hot hot hot energy drink world with two offerings: Big Jones Energy Soda and Whoopass Energy Shots. If I could, I'd buy into the company. They rotate different black and white photos on the labels of their sodas, and they've got feel-good propaganda on their bottles and on their website. If I had any cajones at all, I'd be this brave. Maybe if I drank some Whoopass I'd get out of the academic world and start making soda (or cheese, or chocolate) and be a nutty corporate wonk of the flaky variety; I'd wear ribbons and sandals and really let the big belly go.
But alas.
The book project is on hiatus for 8 wonderful days. We've rented a lovely house in Waldport, Oregon in order to give us a chance to save up some strength for coming months. I started this project more than 2 months ago, but my wife and I have been rolling in Winnie Cooper for exactly 1 month. 25 poets so far. 3500 miles in September. 4000+ in October. Gasoline? Hamburgers? Ice cream sandwiches? I don't even want to count those things. The shock and dismay would cripple my already withered spirit. But really, would God have made so many varieties of the ice cream sandwich if he didn't want me to try them all?
To my pals who are in email contact with me, I do complain a lot about the travel and the relative discomfort of living in the big rolling tin can. But here's a picture of our view today while we had soup and sandwiches for lunch:
So, the trip has a wondrous upside.
Not least of which is the unending string of interesting poets, all who welcome us - albeit briefly - into their lives and work. I continue to be appreciative of their help as the book continues its growth.
This week I sent out some proposals to some university presses. I hope to get an editor interested in the project, and I think we're at a good point to do that. The project is taking shape on this website, but the real meat, the interviews, are still on my computer, still on tape, still getting transcribed. Their addition to the website blurbs will really bring the themes of the book together. There's some real poetry in the interviews.
Barbara Drake - Yamhill, OR
Barbara Drake lives amidst the rolling foothills of far western Oregon, surrounded by vineyards and nut farms...no, really...nut farms: hazlenuts, walnuts, chestnuts.
Her pretty - and self-described "funky" - farm is crowded with sheep, chicken, one big rooster, and Guy, a large and happy Border Collie.
She and I walk through the farmhouse and I am buffeted by the smell of scones and hot coffee. She shows me the floors and ceilings that her husband Bill did himself. "They're soft wood," Barbara tells me. "The dog marks them up." They look terrific to me.
We sit in her sun room as the Saturday morning light floods in there.
We talk about her recent chapbook, a gorgeous limited edition offering full of earthy poetry, all of it rooted in place and the natural world. Barbara tells me about an old guy who showed up at the farm one day, a guy who had lived on this land almost 80 years ago. He remembered it as the place where he was happiest. They struck up some correspondence and he sent her a photo of the place from the 20s that showed some of the same trees that are there today. Barbara likes living here a lot, and a lot of that has to do because she knows the history, feels the history of the place. She knows that the spirit of the place is something that existed before her, and she hopes it continues long after.
We struggled to get Winnie Cooper up the dirt road to Barbara's place, and going down is the same. We knock a few limbs down as we go, but - as always - hope we leave the places as we find them.
