THE NORTH BEND OF COOS BAY

Who saw this messy map and thought, “That’s where I’m going?”

My parents, apparently.

This is where they raised their family.

I asked the old man, who had grown up in a logging company town, whose hometown was tougher, his or mine?

“North Bend. Where I grew up the loggers fought each other. Here they fight each other and the fishermen, and fishermen are tougher than they get credit for.”

That’s when I learned my Dad was a social fighting fan and kept score.

He must have heard all about it on the rounds of his insurance territory that ranged from Brookings to Florence.

Must have been lots of fighting on 101.

Or maybe he heard the highlights in his office in Pony Village. It was across from the barber shop with a back hall connected to the men’s clothing store in the mall.

I don’t remember it being a fighting men’s store, but that’s where he heard about the home room throw down.

(The teacher moonlighted as a sales guy in the store and always had fancy shoes.)

 

Dad: I heard you had a problem today.

Me: From Prusmeier.

Dad: It doesn’t matter from who. What happened.

 

I got a phone call on a Sunday night. This was the following Monday.

Two guys on one line called to shit talk my girlfriend. I knew who it was without asking, so I didn’t ask.

It was eighth grade and the first time this had happened, but not the last, as things turned out.

Before they got much further I heard a chair move in the living room and knew my mom went to her bedroom, which meant she was on the call with the three of us.

We all stayed anonymous.

 

Kid 1: We know your girlfriend doesn’t like you and we’re going to ask her out and she’ll go because she hasn’t got anything better to do.

Me: Okay.

Kid 2: Okay? What’s that supposed to mean? It means we’re right and you’re a loser.

Me: It means go ahead and find out she’d never go out with anything resembling you two jerks.

Kid 1: You motherfucker.

Kid 2: You fucking motherfucker.

My Mom from her bedroom: I’ve never heard such foul language in my life.

Me: ‘click’

Dad: What’s that all about.

Me: I don’t know.

Mom: Don’t you ever call this house again, do you hear me. Your mothers ought to be ashamed of you. What? How dare you speak to an adult with that kind of language.

Dad: Who’s Mom talking to?

Me: Some kids from school.

Dad: Friends of yours?

Me: No.

Mom in the living room: Did you hear what they said?

Me: I hung up.

Dad: What did they say?

My Mom leaned over to whisper in his ear then stood back staring at him.

Dad: They said that?

Mom nodded.

Dad: With you on the line?

Mom nodded. Dad turned to me.

Dad: You don’t know who they are? I know what I’d do if this were my Mom. I’d find out who they are.

 

So I did, and added a tough but fair layer of homeroom learning.

There was a push and a few punches in a room ruled by a man who knew how to clamp an arm around an unruly student’s neck and dog-walk them to the principal’s office.

They always got a good view of his new shoes.

After the pushing and punches I heard the teacher’s chair scrape and knew he was coming for the headlock, so I turned toward him with my arms raised.

 

Me in a class full of students: HE CALLED MY MOTHER A MOTHERFUCKER. YOU’D PUNCH HIM IF HE CALLED YOUR MOTHER A MOTHERFUCKER, WOULDN’T YOU?

Teacher: That’s enough.

 

I said it a few more times because even then I had a sense of ‘once in a lifetime.’

I explained what happened to Mr. Ludlow in the principal’s office.

Me: He called my mom a motherfucker and no one’s mother should be called a motherfucker, Mr. Ludlow.

Ludlow: That’s enough. I understand. You could have put an eye out.

Me: He could have damaged my Mom’s ear when he called her a motherfucker. I think it did. 

Ludlow: That’s enough of that language.

Me: Will he apologize for saying motherfucker to my mom?

 

Rooms With A View 

This was one of the Simpson houses on the Oregon coast.

Not exactly a beach house from the looks of it.

Did the old ship builder live there so he could watch the boats sail past?

I read somewhere that one of the houses had a room paneled with myrtle wood and all of the furniture made of the same.

They gave some myrtle wood furniture as gifts, which ought to encourage you to look under any you’ve got to see if it’s Simpson myrtle wood.

Or Jack London:

 

By the late 1800s, woodcarvers on the south coast of Oregon were using Oregon myrtle in their work, and in 1907 author Jack London commissioned J.H. Oerding to make furniture out of myrtle for his California ranch. In 1911, the earliest manufacturing operation was established, Duncan’s Myrtlewood Crofters, which today is the Real Oregon Gift Factory in North Bend.

 

From Old Land Map To Land

The top right of the map, and this picture, show the water, along with the bridge and causeways over the water.

It’s a lot of water, sand, and plants. The dunes don’t look impressive until you’re out in them and it’s all you can see.

The beach is a long stretch with no headlands until further south.

I see a picture like this and feel like it’s an invitation to poke around and see just where that road, or this road, goes.

After a drive around the loop of the Olympic Peninsula, Oregon feels even more extraordinary.

I envision a water tour off the area in the future, which we all know is closer than it looks.

 

PS:

If you have a vision, act on it.

 

PSS:

A real writer would act on their vision, then write about it.

Or ? ? ?