In September 1975, I moved to the Oregon Coast. I was fresh out of college, grew a beard, long hair, and bought a motorcycle. I wasn’t looking for work, just loafing. I collected weekly unemployment checks of $93 from a coal mining job I’d quit six months earlier. I then dodged Employment Security rules by only seeking jobs for which I was miserably unqualified. It was a practice upon which my parents rightfully frowned.
The summer crowds had gone home. It was just me, my Honda 360, and a head full of dreams living at the Lincoln City cabin my parents inherited from my grandfather. I walked for miles along empty beaches to out-of-the-way places. On a long hike to the most secluded stretch of beach imaginable, I found a Japanese floating glass ball. I fixed grits for breakfast, upon which I slathered thick slices of butter. I learned to bake cheesecakes and ate them over the next few days. There was no shower at the cabin, so I took long, hot baths and contemplated in silence.
Some pages of history are best left unturned, but not this one. I was stupid. The third night there, I decided to make popcorn the old-fashioned way, so I heated cooking oil in a pot and left the lid on. It got hot! While lifting the lid, the oil caught fire. I panicked and badly burned the knuckles of my left hand. That night, I slept on the sofa with my hand in a gallon-sized jar filled with ice water to stem the pain. By morning, the burned skin had filled with liquid and grown to the size of a lemon. Foolishly, I sought no medical treatment but lived with it for days until poking a sterile needle through the skin at the base of the burn to slowly release excess fluid. Months after healing, the skin was still stained a reddish hue that took years to fade to beige.
An organic food co-op had opened in 1973, a few doors up from the Old Oregon. It was a thrown-together, hippie-type place with barrels, buckets, and jars of grains, nuts, fruits, and vegetables. The co-op was operated by volunteers, and after several visits, I offered to help.
I joined the staff and one day reorganized shelves to better display the myriad jars of grains. I had grown close to a guy named David Morgan, who was part of the co-op structure. When I mentioned to him my layout improvement, David admonished my boastfulness. The co-op’s ethos was to not take credit for personal accomplishments but to subdue one’s ego for the advancement of the common good.
David was in his early 30s, charismatic, with a kindly wife and daughter. He invited me to join his family at the Taft Tigers high school football game on several Friday nights. It was just like being back home in Enumclaw.
The food co-op morphed into the Lincoln City Cracker Barrel store that was managed by Harold Christiansen, who assumed ownership in 1993. The name was later changed to Trillium Natural Foods. Today’s store is located across the street from the outlet mall, but still sells bulk grains, flours, nuts, and fresh organic produce. It’s now owned by Harold’s son, Carl Christiansen, who operates the store with hints of the original co-op ethos still lingering in the air.
I watched movies at the Lakeside Theater (now the Bijou), but many nights, I just walked to the Old Oregon and hung out with the hippies and long hairs that populated the tavern. There were two pool tables and a jukebox loaded with good 45s. On some weekends, a local rock band occupied a spot in the corner and patrons danced. Usually, I can recall the times and places by which songs were popular, but the only ones I remember that fall were Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run” and the Eagles’ “Lyin’ Eyes.” Mostly, I listened to old Beatles albums on a record player in the cabin.
One night at the Old Oregon, I made the acquaintance of two carpenters, Dave and Rick, who were building a home on the Salishan spit. We joined for breakfast the next morning, where I drank my first cup of coffee. Even with cream and sugar, I could stomach its bitter taste. Afterward, we drove to the house they were framing, where I hung out for half the day. Mostly, I wanted to access this long spit of land forming Siletz Bay that was only accessible through a private gated community.
In mid-October, I geared up to watch every inning of the 1975 World Series between Boston and Cincinnati. For years, World Series games were played during the day when I was in school, so I could only watch on weekends. With no work or school obligations, this series would be different. To prepare, I bought copies of Sporting News and Sports Illustrated, reading every article. I got lucky because that showdown is often called one of baseball’s greatest. If you’ve forgotten, Carlton Fisk’s game-six walk-off homerun tied the series for Boston, but Cincinnati’s Big Red Machine won the seventh game. My parents visited for a couple of days that week, picking up Danica on their way. She was in her first year of college at Lewis & Clark.
Generally alone, I found solace at the Driftwood Library. It was a three-block walk to this ramshackle building of uneven floors and narrow passageways. The library was like an overstuffed bookstore – the kind with a sleeping cat in a window – except this repository observed the Dewey decimal system. I mostly read classics like John Steinbeck, Jane Austen, Somerset Maugham, and Isaac Asimov’s science fiction.
Bolstered by my recent World Series fascination, I read Roger Kahn’s classic, “The Boys of Summer,” joining the author’s love of the Brooklyn Dodgers. I explored the poetry of Robinson Jeffers and wrote a few lines myself. I spent long afternoons reading in front of the cabin’s picture windows with stunning ocean views. I absorbed “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” and stared in wonder at the birds on the beach.
But that autumn’s most surprising literary leap was Albert Einstein’s “General Theory of Relativity.”
It’s not a difficult book to comprehend. Einstein’s genius was to use thought experiments to illustrate scientific principles. There in Bern, he formulated his theory of relativity while employed as an examiner in a Swiss patent office. He simplified the speed of light by conjuring the image of a streetcar rushing away from a clock tower. Einstein surmised that as the streetcar gained velocity, time for the human rider slowed relative to the hands of that clock in Bern. As the tram approached the speed of light, the second hand on the clock would appear to stop – at least to the passenger with telescopic eyes looking back. But, the passenger’s clock in Einstein’s streetcar beat normally.
A storm broke loose in Einstein’s mind after realizing that time elapsed at different rates depending upon how fast the observer moves through space. Upon arriving at his theory, Einstein insisted that he’d tapped into ‘God’s thoughts.’
As for my thoughts, I’d grown lonesome and figured this current life experiment hadn’t produced satisfactory results. Cashing unemployment checks, alone at a movie theater, reading books, and endless beach walks are interesting diversions, but not the foundation for a gainful life. Volunteering at the food co-op for an hour or so reminded me how much I enjoyed working with others. My months of seclusion needed to end, so I packed my bag and rode my motorcycle home, arriving the week before Thanksgiving.
The best buddy trip of my life was about to launch. I’m not quite sure how it came together, but Keith Hanson, then working at Almac-Stroum planned a one-week vacation and invited Bill Wheeler and me to join. Wheels secured his dad’s Lincoln Continental Mark IV with ‘Eugene Wheeler’ engraved on the dashboard. That plaque was a solid fatherly reminder to three guys in their early 20s as to whose car we were driving. We left the day after Thanksgiving.
On Friday morning, November 28, 1975, Mom captured our mid-70s fashion with several photos in the driveway. For most of the trip, I sat in the back seat while Keith and Wheels traded driving duties. On that first day, we traveled all night through a snowstorm to Reno, arriving Saturday morning to a cheap breakfast and games of Keno. There we played blackjack and roulette, then tested our luck with dice. Wheels and I stayed out very late, only to be awakened abruptly Sunday morning when Keith, a fan since his North Dakota days, turned on the Vikings game.
We drove south for L.A., stopping at the Joshua Tree desert on our way to an adventure in Disneyland. After that, we twisted north along Highway 1, admiring Big Sur scenery and listening to the 8-track Beach Boys tapes we’d bought in San Luis Obispo. After picking up my sister, Danica, in San Francisco, we toured the Sonoma wine country, getting buzzed on Chenin Blanc and other blends, then, lest we wear out our welcome, drove north along Highway 101. We continued up the Oregon coast, driving all night through rainstorms that never stopped, arriving back home the following morning. It was a road trip that, more than anything, solidified the bonds of friendship we’ve shared for five decades.
Back home, I hung out with Wayne Podolak, who was similarly out of college and unemployed. That December, we played tennis on the Junior High courts, during which we hatched a plan for a long trip to Hawaii in the spring.
I hadn’t yet digested how my months of solitude added up. I didn’t keep a journal back then, but each day I typed out lists of words and their definitions to improve my vocabulary. I was inspired by Uncle Evan Morris, who gave me the handwritten pages of words he memorized thirty years earlier while in college.
At the time, poetry seemed the best way to convey thoughts and feelings I couldn’t yet fully articulate. There in the warmth of my childhood bedroom on a fog-bound day with Christmas fast approaching, I penned the first draft of a poem initially called “Beaming.”
Channeling the Bern tram car of Einstein’s thought experiment, I rewrote the poem and gave it a new title:
A Single Moment Captured
Traveling on a beam of light
bound to live until
a single moment captured
motionless and still.
A simple thought now trapped in time
caught within that wave
a glimpse of yesterday revealed
now listlessly engaged.
Light, oh light shine on from here
and never stop to rest
your brightest beam will one day find
its destiny no less.
Bill Kombol – Dec. 18, 1975
Post Script: I was trying to make sense of the uncertainties as to where life was taking me. At the moment, the tram car I was riding had no particular destination. But I found comfort in believing it had a destiny.