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Jacksonville, Oregon
Paint a picture using only grey. Taking its name from nearby Jackson Creek (which incidentally flows through my backyard), essentially the entire town of Jacksonville is a National Historic Landmark, originating from the conspicuous architectural wellspring of the downtown area that accompanied one of the first major West Coast gold rushes of the 1850's, which suckled much of its former sustenance from the aforementioned stream. There are just over 100 fossilized structures in Jacksonville on the National Register of Historic Places, which is good news for me, as so far in my explorations I'd estimate that I've seen probably only about two dozen of them. I'm going there again tomorrow, by the way, if you'd like to accompany me. In the meantime, if you can't, read on, and enjoy the pictures. I'd tell the story but no one would listen that long...
A good capture of the magic of Jacksonville and its surrounding expanse takes us back to 1942, when a schoolgirl by the name of Laura Gentner found a flower in a field. Thinking it unique, she sent an inquiry to the conservator of a herbarium at the Oregon State College. Designating the lilly as a new species, the curator-in-charge named it after our dear friend Laura, and Fritillaria gentneri entered our ecological lexicon. Without smell, but not needing it, on account of its awesomeness and rarity, the ghostly flower is almost unique to the Jacksonville area. The Nature Conservancy lists it as an endangered species, with an estimated population of only 1,200 plants. On a recent visit to the Jacksonville cemetery, taking an unfamiliar trail on a southern slope, I was blessed enough to see three of these exotic blossoms. Impressionant. Ontzagwekkend. Wow. Tear into yourself, count days upon your arms.
As mentioned a moment ago, a big attraction of Jacksonville, at least for me and my room mate, and her dogs, is the cemetery. It's right there on the corner of California and Oregon Street, up on the hill. We all head up there about three days a week. Or more often, if we can. Wait a minute… do I sense a hint of recoil, or a modicum of disdain? My nephew Brian buries one or two dead people every workday, for a living. Harvester of Sorrow…and Justice for All. Feast your soul on that. You're next in line, as am I. I will tell you right now that I love cemeteries. So does Jaclyn, and her dogs. Is there anything faux avec cette? Je ne crois pas. Nay, as it is all of us… collectively… our future home. On one of our last tromping voyages there, we found a tombstone from a woman that was born in 1786. For the west coast, from a person of European ancestry, à savoir vraiment ancient. Much like myself, and indeed, yourself, but somehow much less so. For now. One day, someone may gaze at your granite slab, slack-jawed, in exactly the same way. Choose well. Turn your eyes upon Jesus, look full in his wonderful face. And the things of earth will grow strangely dim, in the light of his glory and grace.
The Jacksonville catacombs are a true rarity in the God's-acre-world, a time capsule of the mid-1800's American gold rush. The only equivalent I've ever laid eyes upon is the Roslyn, Washington tombfield, with its numerous and varied sections of religions, nationalities, and affiliations from the eccentric worldly draw of men and women who decided they would give their lives to the quest for gold. Amen. Abruptly. You stare at the thousands of graves in tacit amazement, hopefully with no regrets. Alone in your casket, sunk deep; your bank accounts, friendships, and earthly accolades useless, where will you go? After having seen all that they saw. A stroll down the main street of downtown Jacksonville gives you the warm impressions of all the best of a very old American town has to offer, and upon walking through the doorways of any of the stores offered within its midst, you'll find it combines its old school charm with abstractions and rarities for purchase you'd run across only in your favorite big city niche establishments…hard to find goodies that you search on weekends when you finally have the time. Jacksonville Mercantile contains, for example and among other unusual delicacies, Klene Zoute Drops and Venco Dubbelzouts, two exclusively Dutch black licorice oddity confections that would make the average American nearly puke-upon-lip-contact (including myself, even though I'm of 100% Dutch ancestry). Bruto. Beurk. Blech! I haven't seen these thoroughly unpalatable and truly gruesome "candies" since I was in Holland, and before that, in my grandma's kitchen; but awesomely, they somehow find a market in the surrounding area. If Basque cheese is your thing, you can find a wedge of Petite Basque Istara here, when available. Truly amazing stuff. And it goes on and on from there… exotic olive oils galore, $12 tiny bottles of freaky looking mini-artichoke hearts (which currently inhabit my pantry), and $30 micro-tins of caviar (which will remain on their shelf until I can overcome The Guilt). Sushi mo' yo' thang? Umi Sushi smelts in their forge a shrimp and vegetable tempura that knocked my tongue off. It was laying there on the ground, writhing around, tasting the wood floor. Thai? Notwithstanding its arid moniker, The Thai House Restaurant amalgamates a yellow chicken curry that I immediately scored a 9.5 out of 10. It was a head changer, I felt like I was in a fronton watching jai alai simultaneously gawking at a Miami Vice episode on my old iPhone. And there are a number of other restaurants within 100 feet of all of that of bon repute that I haven't been to yet. 'C Street' Bistro, Bella Union, and the Mustard Seed Cafe, for example. Can't wait. As usual, for a town of this sort, there are also a number of awesome tiny hotels and bed-and-breakfasts you can crash out at, as well multifold antique and specialty shops to visit, old and new. Things were different then. All is different now.
I'm hoping someday Pearl Jam will play the Britt. What I'm speaking of is the Britt Festival, a yearly summer music series taking place in an outdoor amphitheater literally a mere few hundred footsteps west of downtown J-ville… Natives wearing turquoise and silver, dirty dogs barking in the distance. It's not too far off to envision. With their blue collar affections/respect and small town roots/ sentimentalities, I could totally (insert Fast Times at Ridgemont High Jeff Spicoli accent here) see it. Combine George (WA), and the Greek (L.A., CA), and a bit of Tokyo horizon, and now you have the Britt Amphitheater… within sight of Jackson Creek, staring out at the grandiose Rogue Valley below, and with Mount McGloughin's uncanny semblance to Mount Fuji on the horizon overlooking it all, nothing lacks. Mount Calais to Mount Everest, down to the river Ganges, oh to follow your mighty past, learning the primitive rights… The warm summer air and clear sky, fading blossoms wafting in the breeze, cemetery within view… ah, all perfect. Shabooh shoobah. When Michael Kelland John Hutchence died, Eddie Vedder inherited most of his proverbial spirit. He's nearly the only living soul left. When I lived in California, my favorite surf spot was Leucadia. I would foot-in-water and cast-sail halfway between Grandview and Beacons, into a mushy, forsaken break where unless a freak storm in New Zealand a week earlier would push the temperature up to around 10 to 12, my only non-wave-riding consolation was perhaps the visit of the occasion playful chattering dolphin, or the dire thrill of squishing a dinner-plate-sized stingray underfoot as I moved toward the endless horizon, both of which would inspire an prolonged underwater plunge in an attempt for First Contact. Otherwise, I was the most forlorn surfer out there, to be sure, but I could always count on being amongst the waves all by myself on that break on any given weekend, and as a result my soul was satiated probably more than any other within ten klicks. Your backyard. So, duuuude. Help a brother out. I know nothing… grow old, look wise, never knowing 'til I die, but I'll keep listening. I'll keep listening. The Britt Festival, incidentally, was named after Peter Britt, a hardscrabble man with the austere face of a pioneer frontiersman; who in 1852, with three other Swiss natives that had also left their homes in the old world, challenged the newly forged Oregon Trail for an untried life on the fringes of the new world. Just like me, sort of. Hmmm, btw, lol, omgosh, last year and among others, The Crystal Method, Ben Harper, and Bill Cosby performed at this 19th century's Chuck-Norris-namesake tune palace. So why not? I just found out today that Pink Martini will be playing there on July 16th. BOOM. I will be there. Chloe Dancer and Crown of Thorns, coming to a venue near me. I will be there too. Yes please. So help me God. (Dreams like this must [not] die.) Things were different then. All is different now.
Tomorrow (today)… Jaclyn and her dogs and I made our daily pilgrimage, only to discover that the flowers, on ground and on trees, were blooming with vibrant fervency in the seasons first day of 80 degree heat. The aroma of countless white madrona blooms dominated, blending with the virtually indistinguishable incenses of dozens of species of blossoms that in the meadows and draws, numbered in the thousands, conjuring abstract memories of childhood, and of renewed life. Not encountering another living soul on the trail throughout, for hours and hours, the hum of insects and the chatter of birds, expending their efforts fully in anticipation of evening, flooded our explorations. As the day waned, we found more rarities in the midst of an already extraordinary world. What had been three rare lilies discovered days earlier, became five, and then ten, and then twenty. Incroyable. Ongelooflijk. Sweetskees. After taking hundreds of pictures of these rare treasures, it came to mind that in just a week or two more, these very unique blossoms will wither and fall to the ground, like the last generation, relinquishing their present mortal state back into dirt. At the very end of our day, and wandering onward, we found a tombstone from another fellow that had been born in 1786. I stared at the granite slab that was the only remainder of him, and of his life. He also once hiked these same fields, enjoying the warmth of day and the flowers of the fields. After having seen all that they saw…
We drove home in the Scout, and built a fire in our newly constructed and truly magnificent backyard sand lot, using long deceased madrona wood gathered only an hour earlier from just outside the cemetery grounds. After a few beers, and with the animated voice of the crackling fire accompanying our own lively conversations, we cooked a magnificent dinner and both eventually wandered off, satisfied with the day, to our own individual slumbers. Late, late into the night, I went back outside, and stared into the ashes of the fire. Shadows cast by a nearly full moon filtered through the trees. As I looked down into the what remained of the blaze, the rare glowing embers that remained exhaled their last whispers of breath into the endless evening sky. It's hard to imagine. It's hard to imagine.
_______________________________ Lyrics in italics: Related Articles: |
go to Jacksonville almost every day. I don't need anything there, but
at some point during my waking moments, I almost invariably hop into
my '79 Scout, crank up the Lost Dogs, and drive the three miles or so
from my house and drive through its charming streets, just because the
place is awesome. Prachtig. Séduisant. Spellbound.
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Stay tuned.
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