Turkish Taffy Days

Marlon Brando as Johnny
The Wild One, 1953

Being what is, or was, referred to as a Dependent Wife, in addition to reduced-rate college tuition, PX and Commissary privileges and inexpensive traveling overseas, I occasionally took advantage of free or nominal-fee classes, such as woodworking, skydiving and photography, using a 110 camera.  Service members and their families deserve all this and more; let’s just get that out of the way.

I remembered the photography class this morning while taking pictures of O’Brien, a little town in Oregon along Hwy 199, on the way to California.  I could stand in one spot and get it all; blink and you pass it, but amazingly, just about anything you need is on either side of the highway: a well stocked grocery store, Post Office, gas station, propane, realtor, felt doll artists, and a decent honky-tonk with live music on Saturday nights.  Biker's welcome.

Budweiser's Biker's Welcome banner

Initially put off by the sign, despite Marlon Brando in The Wild One papering my teenage bedroom wall for a time (or was it my Sister's?), I frequently saw the same greeting along my travels, making me wonder how much this segment of society is shunned.  I don’t know, but it seems to me that more and more bikers are my old high school classmates, with less of some physical traits and more of others, bless ‘em.  I don’t often look at the daily Internet photos designed to surf, but the recent series of 5 buddies, over a 30-year period, says it all.  Even though I subsequently learned that the local honky-tonk was indeed a decent place to go, finances and aging prevented me from joining in like I used to.  But I did take an evening walk with BC and sat listening, across the street, next to the vintage Caboose.

O'Brien, Oregon General Store

All this was a 2 minute walk from Lone Mountain RV resort, my home for a month.  Reminds me of the city block in Sunnyside, Queens, where I lived ‘til my parents joined the exodus to the wilds of New Jersey in 1963.  Three sides of the block had apartment buildings, but the fourth had everything from the caw-ner candy store with Turkish Taffy bars we’d freeze and smack against brick walls (city kids, we had to find our own entertainment), to the jeweler who had to cut the ring off my finger after catching it on the sidewalk fence, trying not to fall down wearing Big Sister’s roller skates, the old fashioned kind with a key.  Ahhh, the good-old days.

I frequented the General Store often these past weeks; for a convenient store, the prices were less than the nearest town, just 7 miles away.  I’d tie up BC outside and wander inside, surprised at the diversity packed in such a small space.

I’ve become addicted to Orange Crème bars; for some reason, no matter the brand, they still taste good, especially on a hot day.  Waiting in line for my daily fix, a little half-pint in a cowboy hat addressed me, without hesitation,

“Please, go ahead.”

I did not visibly falter, but internally it took a moment to comprehend what I was witnessing:  manners in a child.  Having drowned my own at birth, I cannot determine the age of children, only approximate their height.  About three feet tall, the only thing missing from his Norman Rockwell visage were two six-shooter cap guns at his side. Opie came to mind.

THIS is what I mean when I write that I want to re-discover the America of my youth.  To know that there are still people out there more interested in continuing the kinds of values which really count. I'll keep looking, and reporting.

Oh, now I remember.  Hillary had Marlon; I had Steve.