A Licorice Buzz

After 12 pieces of black licorice today, I am on the verge of licorice intoxication. Hard to stop after just one piece. This isn’t ordinary licorice, or that gummy “Swizzler” variety. It is ‘Red Vines’ finest ‘black licorice,’ purchased last week at Walmart for $1.29 a pound-sized bag. Good licorice is like a good red wine, though. It needs to breathe a bit before consumption. If the bag can be ripped open and left on the shelf at least a week, the licorice takes on a taffy-like toughness that chews for a long time. It also needs to be nipped off in little chunks no longer than ½ inch. When driving the RV down the highway, it can instantly restore alertness---it sells by the case at truck stops.
Truckers never use red licorice—the kind that secretaries keep on their desks in those one-foot diameter licorice tubs from Costco. Just too wussy.
Can’t write about it without snagging 2 more pieces. Hanging out of my mouth like a good cigar. Now you know the basics of licorice.

Today’s morning exercise consisted of a walk through the woods behind the nearby USFS headquarters, followed by a stroll along Highway 58, returning to camp. The latter segment was anything but refreshing, as we had to share the road for a couple miles with mammoth trucks zooming along the 2 lane roadway. We occasionally hopped over the guardrail to escape certain pulverization, hanging on as the post-truck “blow” nearly sucked us off our feet.
Quite a collection of detritus along the roadway. A roadside collection of America on the go: Soft drink cups and bottles, gum wrappers, slabs of tire tread, gas caps, empty cigarette packs, and a paper-thin lizard that tried unsuccessfully to get to the other side of the road. Very surprised that we didn’t see some old pedestrian fragments. They need a Saturday work-day by the local inmates, or is that, too, “cruel and unusual punishment” now?

While dining the other night at the local Mazatlan Mexican Restaurant (good chow), we met an Oakridge couple in the booth next to us. She, a German- accented fraulein in her 70s and he, a spry octogenarian, were engaging. They had obviously been eavesdropping on our conversation, and she interjected over the booth top when our dinner-mates told us they had almost gotten lost in Oakridge, “Achtung! You can nicht get lost in das Oakridge.” This led to a full-blown meeting in the parking lot where she extolled the virtues of Oakridge, likely trying to convince herself (again) that there was a sane, logical reason to move here. She owns an upscale clothing and glassware boutique in one of the most dilapidated sections of town, next to the Corner Bar, in case you’re looking for it. Driving by her store later, we saw little evidence of her claim that the town will be rejuvenated….soon, and she will be riding the crest of the boom. ‘Upscale’ around here means new polyester seat covers for the pick-up truck..

The local press heralded the opening of a boat manufacturing plant at the site of the old Oakridge mill. 12 to 14 locals would be hired to make fiberglass boat hulls, at a time when RV plants and boat builders in Oregon are pulling the plug. Having lived in a struggling burg once before (Yreka), we are well aware of the drunken optimism that attaches to any inkling of economic development, only to have hopes dashed when the phoenix fails to rise out of the ashes. This phoenix won't fly---mark my words.

Cloudy and cool (60s) today. Wearing long pants (jeans) for only the second time since arriving in Oregon..

We have befriended "Honey,"one of the RV park dogs, and look forward to her daily walks through the park. She's an eleven year old female lab.