To: Friends and Family
For those who wanted to hear more about Netarts:
In this same spirit of egalitarianism, the beaches in Oregon belong to everyone.
I gathered from their conversation that a woman named the Postmaster Yvonne and a woman she called Janet were taking care of water-district mailings. The transactions took place on the narrow sliver of counter not occupied by the big white and black cat. When the corner of an envelope infringed on Lugs’ space, the President hopped down in a huff and took up a spot on a rocker behind the counter.
Janet greeted me as if we’d already met, then said she’d seen me walking and supposed I was the one in Barbara’s rental—unequivocal proof, I think, that no one in Netarts has any secrets and most news travels faster over fences than wires.
“The President certainly has a presence,” I commented and was quickly drawn into the neighborly fold with the story of the President’s rise from unlikely beginnings:
As a young cat, abandoned and flee-ridden, Lugs wandered into the school-district bus barn up the coast in Rockaway. Dubbed Lug Nuts by the mechanics, he lived on the edge as a mouser. Jeff, one of the mechanics, who also happens to live in that turquoise house, saw that the cat was a mass of wounds and fleas so brought him home, cleaned him up, and took him to the vet. Following his recovery and another fateful trip to the vet, Lug Nuts returned to the bus barn as Lugs.
When Jeff left the bus barn for a new job, he brought Lugs to live here permanently. Lugs started hanging out across the road and up the street at the grocery where his charisma earned him great affection, generous supply of jerky from locals, and high position. Eventually, he began spending his nights with Yvonne and her husband Bill. Jeff was hurt, but in Netarts you learn to move with the tides.
As Janet and Yvonne spun Lug’s story, Yvonne filled out the card, showed me where to sign, and gave me the key for P.O Box 156—no fuss or bureaucratic muss. And yes, Netarts does have a zip code: 97143.
Joan
Next: Catching Fire in the Land of Many Waters
Subject: Unincorporated
From: walden@intermind.net
Netarts is an unincorporated town with small neighborhoods scattered on either side of the highway. The town covers about 2.6 square miles at an elevation of 69 feet above sea level, although my house couldn’t be more than 30. There are370 households and 750 people, many of whom aren’t full-time residents.
My meanderings revealed a microcosm of egalitarianism with homes that included trailers at the Big Spruce trailer park, faded beach cottages like mine, a variety of upscale designer dwellings, and everything in between. For example, at the corner of Holly Heights Avenue and the main road is a ramshackle and overgrown turquoise house. Yesterday, my heart jumped at the sight of man in flannel sitting under the sagging porch roof with an arrow through his head. A closer look revealed it was a mannequin. Today, the fellow is sporting a green wool scarf and rakish fedora. At the top of Holly Heights hill is a row of upscale condos with oversized garages, a southerly view over Netarts Bay at the Pacific, and a beautifully manicured commons area.
Most of the towns I passed through on my way up the coast were tourist meccas. But even with its spectacular view of the sea and the pristine beaches, Netarts remains just a quiet town with ordinary people doing quiet ordinary things.
The air is so pure that when I walked past the deli this morning, the exhaust from an idling car made me nauseous. When a man all spiffy and fashionable in layers of fleece and Gortex came out of the deli juggling coffee and a muffin while speaking urgently on his cell phone and motioning to the woman in the car to open his door, I felt jarred by an alien energy. Instead of becoming more reflective, as planned, I feel myself, how shall I say it?—fading. Like an old beach house, beloved by several generations who always keep swearing they should come here more often.
This morning I was trying to decide if I’m going inward or dropping out. No conclusion. For now, there is only this place.
Simple as life here is, though, the place is not without irony—take, for instance, Happy Camp, a beach site for tourists that is also an officially designated tsunami hazard area. Barring the arrival of a hundred foot wave, there’s no way to convey the peace here where everything floats on the sound of the sea.
Following my walking tour, I stopped at the post office inside the Netarts Grocery for some stamps and to inquire about how I might receive mail since there’s no delivery on my street. The post office is a small beige room, more like a wide hallway, just past the ice cream freezers lining the front of the grocery. At the end of the wall of post office boxes is a Dutch door with a counter extending outward from the lower half. Lounging on the counter was Lugs, the resident cat, you will recall as President of the Netarts Chamber of Commerce.
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| Lugs in front of the Sea Lion Motel |
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