Pasta & Me

No, this is not an article about Italian cooking, although some historians believe pasta originated in China in the BC Era, this is about me and my dog Pasta, my travelling companion for hundreds of miles throughout the Pacific Northwest,

Pasta was dropped off in my driveway when she was about six months old at an age ready to be spayed, my guess is her owners didn't want to take on that expense so I was “gifted” with this beautifully proportioned smallish black lab with soft, pendulous ears, a white blaze on her chest and the most soulful, emotional eyes I’ve ever seen, canine or human.

As I drove my trusty five-speed Toyota pick-up, she rode shotgun. She had the uncanny ability to tell me when I needed to change gears.

If I was in second gear too long, she would stare a hole in the right side of my head til I felt her and made the proper adjustment. She knew the sound of a struggling engine. As soon as I up- or down-shifted she resumed her attention watching for little things crossing the road, especially bunnies, at which point her lips would quiver and her shoulders would tremble slightly.

I had three dogs living with me for 16 years. It was the best family I’ve ever known. Each dog had his/her own personality. I must admit Pasta was my favorite. I suppose parents of several children also notice distinctive personalities in their offspring and probably develop favorites, although they may not want to admit that discrimination. But for me, I had no problem doing so. Pasta was my favorite,

I took many car trips during the late 1980s and early 1990s, I rotated dogs. Two had to spend time in a kennel while I chose one to accompany me to Idaho, Nevada and Montana. The rest of this article will focus on the unusual and pun-iferous road and business signs I saw during these excursions.

We'll start in Wolf Creek, Oregon, in 1992 where. My truck had a broken water pump. We hung out there while it was repaired. A local landscaper had a sign saying “We keep rolling a lawn,” and Burger King praised their third assistant team leaders with banners and posters. I wondered about the first and second team leaders. Did they feel that they were short-shrifted? 

Moving along to Kellogg, Idaho!, I stopped at a coffee shop called “Rise and Shine,” and then bought bread at the “Silveradough Bakery.” Eureka, Montana, had a charming, homey restaurant called “Time Out Cafe” where coffee was 25¢. This was 1992, remember. Montana had some great hair salon signs. One said “Expertease” and my favorite was “Curl Up and Dye.”

Hamilton, Montana had a most creative use of its retired ferris wheel. On the front of each seat hung a sign advertising a local business. In Lewiston I checked into the “Ho-Hum Motel” for $20 a night with tv and kitchen. It was more commodious than any Motel 6 could ever hope to be. Our 1992 travels came to an end and we headed home through Nevada with its many truck stops. The best billboard said “24 hour diesel showers.” What would that do to sensitive skin and lungs?

I loved Idaho and Montana so much that I returned again in 1993 taking the route through Nevada. Passing through Lovelock, I couldn’t help but think of liplocks and sex in general, another innuendo appeared at the A-1 Radiator Shop telling us it was the best place to take a leak.

As I crossed into Idaho and drove into a rest stop I was astonished by this warning sign, “Beware of rattlesnakes.” I was told by other travelers that Idahoans despised the influx of Californians into their fair state and they rallied against having another rest stop created half way up the state. Why encourage these slimy golden staters with their espresso machines and pinko attitudes? Idaho even had signs along the interstate that said “Californians must be dipped,” alluding to the practice of having livestock swim through decontamination pools of chemicals.

I was tired, so despite the threat of lethal reptiles, I decided to spend the night in my truck. At daybreak, I lowered the tailgate and set up my morning ritual items. Toothbrush, water, coffee, propane stove. A man who had pulled in next to me approached me as I was brushing my teeth, not the most opportune time to solicit female favors, but he was undeterred by my frothy mouth. With an Arabic accent, he said he'd give me the three packages of Rye-krisp crackers he held in his outstretched hand if I would spend time with him in a motel. I've been propositioned before, in my younger years, but this took the cake. Smiling, I declined and hoped he wasn’t a deranged axe killer who would exact his revenge!

Driving through Nampa, Idaho, I wondered about the mindset of its residents. The bike shop was called “Suicycle” and a billboard admonished us to “Do Not Use Your Freedom To Indulge the Sinful Nature.” 

Yellow pine was hosting the annual Harmonica Festival. I believe it still carries on. Musicians from far and wide came to display their skills on the mouth organ. Some able to play three at a time. If you're a harmonica aficionado, check the web and see when the next gathering will be.

A local fundraising group sponsored the Elk Turd Bingo Toss. Fifty cents got you three dried elk turds which you would toss onto a numbered grid. Whoever had the highest total score won the pot, a whopping $5.00.

The Yellow Pine Café’s menu was hand-written in a loose leaf notebook; nothing fancy here, unlike Denny's many laminated menu pages. The. theme of this harmonica gathering was “harmonica players don’t die, they just blow away.”

We moved on To Kooskia, population 700, a town defined by its lumber industry and its hair and tobacco shop called “Patty’s puff and snuff.” A few thrift stores had catchy names like. “Now and Then,” “Round 2”, “Remains to Be Seen,” and “Then and Again.” An animal clinic was called “Noah’s Bark.”

Somewhere between the towns of Donnelly and Crouch. Were more amusing signs. The roadway pavement was stenciled “Don’t be a guberif.” (Read it backwards.) And on an outhouse door, “Please shut the door or a do-gooder Democrat might escape.” The town of Lowman had a plaque honoring Emma Edwards who designed the state seal in 1890. In Grimes Creek, I bowed my head in tribute and gratitude to the great folksinger Rosalie Sorrells who lived in that tiny hamlet.

And so ended my two summer adventures in Idaho and Montana. Pasta went with me the first time. The next summer I took my setter/retriever who leapt with joyful exuberance at seeing snow for the first time. All three of those dogs died in 1999; all at the age of 16. I loved them dearly and forever, who says only humans can make a family? Canines can too, and often it’s deeper and longer lasting.