Discover Walla Walla

The Scene: Standing in line behind a 30-something couple...

He (making conversation): What are you having?

She (wondering): I don't know. What are you having?

He (matter-of-fact): A grande caramel frappucino.

She (pondering): What should I get?

He (matter-of-fact): Whatever you want.

She (indecisive): I don't know. I can't decide. You pick something.

He (matter-of-fact): But I don't know what you want.

She (indecisive): I don't either. Just pick something for me. Anything's fine.

He (tentative): Are you sure?

She (exasperated): Yes. I'm sure. Just pick something, okay? Stop it with all the questions. Whatever you pick is fine.

He (ordering): We'll have two grande caramel frappucinos.

She (disbelieving): No, honey. You know I don't want one of those.

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I arrived at Olive this morning and settled in at my table. I'm here most mornings for coffee and the temptation of jam-topped biscuits. I don't get the biscuits anymore. But I look at them.

Bob and Horace are at their table-same table every day.  Bob brings his Bible. He drinks a latte and munches a cinnamon bun while he lectures Horace. Horace drinks chamomile tea and mostly listens.

Sarah, Gertrude, and Meg sit on their sofa-same places every day. Sarah has coffee and a raisin-walnut scone. Gertrude eats grapes and drinks free water. Meg has a cappuccino.

Scott's in his chair-same chair every morning-drinking his coffee-black.

Ron sits at the table at the top of the stairs-the one surrounded by stools-eating one of those biscuits I told you about. Sometimes Ron sits at the table next to mine, but not today.

Ron is sort of unpredictable.

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Happy 2011 and all that...

I'm a member-in-good-standing at the Walla Walla YMCA. I am, according to me, a reliable source of YMCA information.

It's Monday, January 3, 2011. It's 6:30am. The newly expanded YMCA parking lot is full. Folks are parking on side streets and walking all the way to the Y.

"I had to walk TWO WHOLE BLOCKS," Les complained.

"I'm parked way over on Palouse," Steve said. "This town is getting too dern crowded, if you want to know what I think."

"Nobody wants to know what you think," Les said.

If January 2011 bears any resemblance to January 2010 or 2009 or 2008 or even 2007, by January 24 the resolutioners will have given up and gone back to their old ways.

"Can't wait till February," Les said.

"Me, too," Steve said.

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I just returned to Walla Walla from New York City. I was there for several days and-as I always do when visiting the Big Apple-I ate my share of bagels at iconic delicatessens.

But never again!

My wife makes bagels that are way better than NYC bagels. And she's just started teaching a bagel baking class at out farm! That means that she's always tweaking her recipes. And that means I'm always sampling great bagels. (It's the least I can do to be supportive.) And that means I'm stepping up my exercise program.

It's all worth it.

My wife makes the best bagels on the planet-no joke.

Check out her classes at out farm website www.detourfarm.com and click on the "Baking by Hand" tab. You'll be glad you did!

 

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My father was a doctor. Not a kid doctor-an old people doctor. So he didn't doctor us, but insisted that my mom, Coco, haul my brothers and me to the pediatrician for annual physicals.

Every year, Coco dutifully tricked us into her station wagon under some false promise. "We're all going to the movies, yippee!" Then she'd cheerfully lie to us as she drove, until one of us smelled a rat and screamed, "We're not going to the movies! We're going to the doctor!"

Oh, the injustice of it all.

We pleaded. We cried. Boy, did we cry! Red puffy eyes, wet salty cheeks, snot bubbling from our noses-the whole deal. We'd been to the doctor. We had experience. We had good reason to be scared witless.

At the doctor's office, we sat nervously in the waiting room pretending to read Highlights Magazine, trying to control our sobs. We watched innocent and mostly good little children emerge from the examining room with tears streaming down their cheeks.

"McLeod boys," Nurse Curtis called, summoning us into the examining room.

I dove for the carpet and put a death grip on the leg of my chair. While my younger brothers watched, Coco tugged me loose, threatening to dock my allowance.

In the examining room, Nurse Curtis instructed us to strip down to our Fruit-of-the-Looms. The doctor will be in shortly, she said. Nurse Curtis left the room while Coco arranged us in birth order. As the oldest, I was to "go first."

"Sammy," Coco begged. "You're the oldest and I expect you to set a good example for your brothers. Remember last time we came to the doctor? When you fainted out there in the waiting room? We're not having fainting this year. You got that?"

"Yes'm, but..."

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I have a problem. I have nothing to write about. This blog is due. My head is empty. It's a caseload of bad timing.

These Tourism Walla Walla folks can get a little churlish if I don't get my blogs in on time-as churlish as a possum with its wormlike tail caught under a wood pallet loaded with hundred-pound bags of chicken feed. (Just FYI, that's seriously churlish.)

But what can I do? My mind is a blank slate.

"You're saying that like it's something new," Annie said. "That's not anything new."

"Well, engage that over-active feminine brain of yours and come up with something for me to write about," I replied, churlishly. "I have to get this blog written today or these tourism people are gonna..."

"I know, I know," Annie said. "Get churlish as wet possum. You're about to wear that word out."

"The possum wasn't wet. It had its tail caught."

"Then write about the possum," Annie suggested.

"It bit its own tail off and ran away. End of story."

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I went fishing on Rock Creek yesterday-near Missoula, Montana. It's a world-famous trout stream full of colorful cutthroats and feisty browns, or so they say.

Before I made the six-hour trek from Walla Walla, I checked in with my Montana fishing consultant, Matt. He always catches fish, or so he says.

"Fished Rock Creek a few days ago," Matt said. "Caught fish all day. They're eating gold-ribbed, pink-flossed flipsy doodles in sizes 10 and 12."

"Gold-ribbed flipsy doodles? I don't think I have any of those."

"They're the latest. Stock up before you come over to Missoula. You won't find one in a fly shop over here. All sold out. They're killer flies! And check out the new flexi-fluorocarbon leaders. They're killer! And get that new fast-action fly line with the kryptonite imbedded in the butt section. That line almost casts itself. It's killer!"

"Really?"

"Water's come down on Rock Creek. The stream is wading easy. Temperatures have finally warmed up. Those fish are hungry. You can't miss, Sam!"

Why did he have to say that?

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I've been out hawking my new book. It's tough work.
I spent the entire month of June in shameless self-promotion. I wore out my welcome in 12 cities across the South. Everywhere I went I met people who asked penetrating questions.
"Did you write this?" the gray-haired lady asked, holding up a copy of my book. She'd caught me just inside the front door of the bookshop where I was giving a talk. She peered at me from the other side of thick lenses while repositioning her dentures with her tongue.
"Yes'm, I did," I said.
"Is it any good?"
"Yes'm, it is. It's really good. It's my favorite book."
"What's it about?"
"It's about my childhood-growing up Southern, my family, the old neighborhood, kids' adventures, quirky characters, strange doings, conflict, reconciliation, love, hate, envy, greed, war, peace, poverty, wealth, deviled eggs, and the meaning of life..."
"Lotsa people written books like that," she interrupted.
"Yes'm, they have. This is just my take on things."

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Yesterday morning I had a cell phone. I could call people on it. That was yesterday morning.
"You've got to tweet," my editor said. "And Facebook. All day long. All night long. All the time."
"But I don't like to Tweet or Facebook," I said bluntly. "I hate it. It's shameless self-promotion."
"Do you like writing books, Sam?"
"Sure."
"Do you want us to publish them, Sam?"
"Of course."
"Then you've got to sell books, Sam. To sell books you must engage in shameless self-promotion. These days that means you've got to Tweet and Facebook. It's simple."
"But my phone doesn't Tweet or Facebook, so I can't. We'll have to find another way."
"Get a new phone, Sam."
"But..."
"No buts, Sam. Get a new phone."
New York people can be difficult.
So yesterday Annie and I took my phone to the Tri-Cities. (I can't tell you which one.)
We went to the cell phone store and told the phone people I needed a new phone-one that Tweets and Facebooks. Annie had to go with me because she's the account holder. They weren't about to deal with anybody but the account holder.
"You've come to the right place," April said. "We'll get you all fixed up, Mr. McLeod."
April was adorable. I'm guessing 21-maybe 22. Beautiful smile, blonde curls, big blue eyes, dimples-the whole deal. She was bubbly, too. She talked really fast.
April took one look at my cell phone, rolled her eyes, and threw it in the trash. She pulled a little black rectangular thing off the shelf. It didn't look like a phone.
"This is our new 14G Mega-47 WhizPixel with SimSync Sizzlers," April said.
"Is it a phone?" I asked.

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His name’s YODA,” Annie said, all puffed up with satisfaction. “Just look at those ears.”

His ears were extra-long and pointy. His nose was extra-long and wet. His back was extra-long and slightly bowed from holding his belly off the ground. His legs were extra-short.

“Looks like somebody put the wrong legs on him,” I said. “What kind of dog is he?”

“A Corgi,” Annie said. “Isn’t he the cutest?”

“Looks sort of funny. Where’d he come from?”

“He’s yours,” Annie said. “I got him for you.”

“Like you got that new bedspread for me, and the curtains in the guest bedroom for me, and the dining room rug for me, and those chickens for me, and…”

“Yep, just like that,” Annie said.

YODA came into our lives completely laid-back. He never barked. He seemed perfectly happy to wait at the door until somebody let him in. He was okay with my scratching his ears—or not. He was delighted to eat if filling his food bowl wasn’t too much of a bother for us. He carried his empty water bowl around, flipping it into the air every now and again, hoping somebody’d notice. He liked to ride in the car, preferring the front seat, but okay with the back.

He wandered the farm, checking things out in a detached, unhurried YODA-like way. BC the Barn Cat took a swipe at him. No big deal. He waddled on to the next thing. Nothing seemed to surprise him.

“He’s the perfect dog,” I told Annie. “I’m starting to like him.”

“He’s sweet,” Annie said. “Doesn’t do much. Reminds me a lot of you.”

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