Oregon Tavern Age: Red Devils

It took me all of five minutes to inspect the crafting vendors row at Coquille’s River Days celebration. Most of the crafters appeared dour, as crafters typically do at these type of rural events. At least some of them had their dogs along to alleviate the boredom. I’ll give these people credit: this is gigging and gigging the hard way, ass to chair for eight hours Friday and Saturday. I’ve done something this at a book fair but for only one day and that nearly broke me as a creative entrepreneur.

The parade was a half hour away and the downtown streets were teeming with people decamped to check out the show. Doubtless, some 4-H kid (is there still 4-H?) would leash up her prize chicken and march that fowl right behind the vintage fire truck and ahead of River Days court.

I’ve seen many of these rural Oregon summer parades and they no longer interest me, especially with so much MAGA shit in sight.

The vintage car show would also be bypassed; I always did wish I had driven an El Camino.

I did step inside the Coquille historical museum and overheard an elderly volunteer explain with incredible detail how Coquille dentists performed oral surgery 150 years ago. I absolutely dug the black and white photos of the volunteer fire departments from the 70s and 80s. Men sure looked better then, an weighed half as much as contemporary American men.

So why Coquille with River Days happening?

OTA, that’s why. I wanted to find an OTA joint in Coquille and see if there was any storytelling action.

I asked a couple of men attired in MAGA wear who were running a food truck specializing in barbecued meats if there was a joint in town. They directed to me to The Corner, a mere two blocks away. One of the men said he’d been there last night but didn’t remember a damn thing.

Seconds later I entered The Corner and beheld its supremely vast and dark interior which included pool tables, a shuffleboard table, disco ball, stage and a professional PA system.

I ordered an IPA from a male bartender who took forever to make two bloody marys for some locals. I stood and waited, hoping for some scuttlebutt, but nothing. Everyone was talking about sports.

At last my beer arrived and I decamped to a far table and whipped out my notebook and pen. My mind drifted to a fabulous woman I’ve known for a long time who grew up in Coquille and doubtless broke a thousand country boy hearts in Coquille High School, home of the Red Devils. One might of thought the school district might have changed the mascot from something satanic, but I’m glad they didn’t.

I have often wondered who I might have become had I grown up in a town like Coquille. Oregon City was working class for sure in my youth, but nothing like Coquille. The close proximity to Portland ruled that out.

There’s no telling.

Nothing much happened in The Corner. I scribbled a few notes and an OTA couple sat near me with food orders that could have fed six people.

On the walk back to the car, I passed some of the unhealthiest Americans I have ever seen and the most misshapen Boy Scout in the history of Scouting. Nevertheless, they were out on the streets in the sunshine, lining up for the parade, bringing their community together to celebrate.