Wallowa

Ron Gay, the Mayor of Wallowa, owns the town liquor store. Really, do I have to say anything more?
41 down, 201 to go.

Cove

After our week in La Grande was up, we couldn't bear the thought of heading home to Portland so soon so we booked a night at the Union Hotel. On our way to Union, I happened to get in touch with Mayor Jim Lundy of Cove. Cove is kind off a highway that is off a highway, so you really have no reason to go through there unless you're really trying to go through there. In fact, this was only the second time I had been there--and both times I've had to stop in at the market to ask for directions.
The entire town is on a gentle slope at the base of Mt. Fanny facing west-southwesterly, something my wife immediately picked up on. At our house the sun seems to go down an hour earlier than everywhere else in the world because of Forest Park being directly to our west. But here in Cove, sunset is probably at a more Mid-Western, acceptable (to her) time. Cove's unique topography might explain why they have one of the region's only wineries.
Mayor Lundy invited us to sit down in the shade of his deck while he autographed our map and he told us a little about life in Cove. I swear if there was lemonade involved, we probably would have stayed there all day because Mayor Lundy is one of the friendliest and most interesting people we met on our trip to Eastern Oregon. The man keeps bees, for chrissakes.
The Lundy family and their yorkiedoodle (?) live on about an acre of this gently sloped land on the eastern edge of town. He has a little creek that feeds his garden and apple trees year round, although he explained to me that Cove was originally "prune tree country." Apparently the landscape around Cove was dotted with prune drying houses years ago that would occasionally burst into flames and destroy the entire town. I find it fascinating that in addition to all the other things one had to worry about 60 years ago in Eastern Oregon, prune house fires could destroy your livestock, house, barn, or entire town on a whim. Maybe that's why we call them dried plums now.
40 down, 202 to go.

North Powder

We just came back from 9 days in northeastern Oregon. We saw many things, and met many mayors. But one of the main reasons I scheduled our visit for last week was because of the North Powder Huckleberry Festival. Firstly, I love huckleberries and anyone that doesn't is seriously misinformed. And secondly, I was intrigued by the promise of something called "Chicken Poop Keno." I had a pretty good idea what it involved, and if you guessed that you buy a square for a dollar to bet on where a chicken is going to poop, then you've got a pretty good idea what it involves as well.
Near the base of the Wallowa Mountains in the Baker Valley, North Powder holds about 500 or so people about a half a mile from Interstate 84. It's a hot, desolate place in the summertime with the only shade on the downtown parade route coming from the shadow of the abandoned tavern. Like most places in Eastern Oregon, their mill closed down sometime in the 60s or 70s and most of the people that live there now commute to La Grande or Baker City for work. The sidewalks are kinda crumbly for lack of any considerable tax base, and their fire truck is as old as I am--possibly older. In other words, I love it. And I love it even more when there's a frickin' HUCKLEBERRY PARADE going west down the very Main Street that covers up original wagon ruts from the Oregon Trail.
The Rose Parade, this was not: You'll find no dazzling floats of 200,000 peonies here. But you will see some sort of freakishly midget horses pulling a wagon of toddlers, a hot rod doing cookies mere feet away from spectators, a cheerleading team made up entirely of 8-year-olds, and tractors. Lots and lots of tractors. Our son was extremely impressed and excited when someone from the back of a fire truck threw candy at him. He still talks about it.
Gravy Dave's from nearby Union was serving huckleberry ice cream, and someone was selling huckleberry doughnuts. Every few minutes or so, some guy on an ATV drove by selling official huckleberry t-shirts. There was a dunk tank. There was a sack race. There was a bluegrass band made up of teenagers. It was just so damn small-town American that I almost called my realtor and put our house on the market right then and there, devoted to move right away to North Powder for the rest of my days, even if that damn chicken wouldn't poop on lucky number 49. C'mon chicken! Baby needs a new pair of shoes!
Interesting fact: The Mayor of North Powder, Bonita Hebert, is actually my plumber's wife's cousin. So it was no problem finding her--I just had to walk up to the parade announcer and ask where she was. After I told him why I was looking for her, he announced over the PA that "If anyone knows where Bonita is, tell her to come to the booth." She had heard about our little trek to get all the Mayor's autographs, so when she first walked up I think we shared one of those awkward "do we hug?" moments. Maybe I'm wrong about that. I don't know. Pretty cute for a Mayor, though, so now I'm almost regretting not hugging her.
This year had the highest turnout ever for the North Powder Huckleberry Festival, according to Mayor Hebert. If you're not doing anything in August of 2010, I strongly suggest you make the trek.
39 down, 203 to go. (I'm about 50 or so behind with the whole blogging thing. I'll try to catch up.)