Winter break started for us about 10 days ago, on November 30, when we trudged our way by plane, train, and automobile across the US … car to the Burlington airport, airplane to Portland, light rail to the Portland Amtrak station, rail to Eugene where we met up with my brother Joe, then pickup truck to Florence, arriving 20 hours after we left home. We spent the next week with Joe and his partner Marsharee … a major story unto herself. (We have all been friends for over 50 years. She decided to sell everything in Atlanta and head to Oregon to move in with Joe. What the hell. Why not start fresh at 74!!!!)

We did the usual Oregon coast stuff: hiking in the rain, hanging out with friends, and eating really well: salmon, crab, oysters, ribs, etc. After a chill week with Joe and Marsharee, we rented a car in Coos Bay bound for Grass Valley, CA to visit Rebecca’s son and daughter-in-law, Aaron and Lisa, who just bought a house and moved there from Illinois. But a visit was not to happen. Lisa’s father died in Florida at about the same time we arrived in Oregon. We did, however, get to take a spectacular drive, down the southern coast of Oregon and the northern coast of California before heading east at Fort Bragg, named after Braxton Bragg, the same slave-owning Confederate general as Fort Bragg in North Carolina.

Here are two moments from that drive. One: The redwoods in Jedediah State Park in the northwest corner of California compare well with other astounding redwood groves, such as the Avenue of the Giants and Muir Woods. Thanks to some light rain, we had the Stout Grove totally to ourselves. If everyone had at least one opportunity to experience a redwood grove in solitude, the world would be a better place. Everything about it is humbling: age, scale, beauty, ecology, patterns, natural sculptures. If being in a redwood grove is within your grasp, do it. Period. The biggest tree we saw measured 20-feet at the base, a couple of feet shy of the width of a 2-car garage.

The second moment was a little more thought provoking, or at least it was for My Inner Sociologist.

When we drive, we go slow, pulling over for more time-conscious drivers to pass. We stop when we get tired … but always before dark. In remote areas, we have to be deliberate because lodging is not always nearby. (We love traveling in the off-season because we don’t have to worry about reservations; every motel has room and is happy to see us.) By early afternoon, we realized our destination would be Garberville, an inland town on Highway 101, about 175 miles south of the California-Oregon state line. We had stopped there on earlier trips, so we kinda knew it. There’s not much to it, a few run-down motels, a few over-priced motels, and a couple of places to eat. 

We checked out all of the under-$100 motels, and none of them passed muster. (One clerk would not let us check out a room before renting it, and the other showed us a room with hair remaining on the toilet seat. Our bar is not very high, but those were clearly not going to fly.) One of the pricier options looked a lot like the lower-priced options, so we didn’t even check it out. The new Best Western would work in a pinch, but surely we shouldn’t have to spend $150 for a damn motel room in Garberville. We had one more option: The Northern Inn in Redway, about 2 miles to the north. Homerun!

Damien, the owner/clerk, won our hearts. The room was not only clean and comfy, it also had no carpets … which is a real selling point in our eternal search for cheap but clean motel rooms. Damian was proud of his new floors and even noted that he would mop the room we looked at if we wanted another. Damian may have carried a waft of cherry tobacco wherever he went, and the whole exterior made it pretty obvious that cannabis was fully encouraged around Redway, but the room had no smell whatsoever. Just a good, clean motel room at the right price. We had found a home. Damian noted, by the way, that Redway had been the heart of California pot growing for a very, very long time.

Now that we had a bed, we had to figure out how to fill our bellies. We had three options right in Redway: pizza, burgers, or a tavern. The tavern, the Brass Rail, shared a parking lot with our motel. Choice made.

We arrived as the place opened, at 5:30. Stella the Bartender was getting ready for the evening. The cook, however, did not arrive until 6:30. Oh well, we thought, time for me to have a cocktail and for us to play a game or two  of cribbage, so we waited.

The Brass Rail became a living example of the glory of My Inner Sociologist. From our first moments until the last, the place teemed with stories. I could have stayed for hours if not days. But we were headed south to see Rebecca’s son. There was no time to turn over the sod to reveal some of the gems hiding beneath the surface.

First, we learned a little about Stella. She had grown up in Redway, then moved east to attend boarding school at Phillips Andover Academy in Massachusetts … only one of the most prestigious boarding schools in the US. She’d lived in Boston and New York, then returned home to Redway to tend bar. The trigger for our conversation had been the bouquet of fresh-cut flowers behind the bar. They were a gift for her 30^th birthday. What did Stella do with her prep school education? Had she attended one of the Ivies, gotten an MBA, then gone to work for a hedge fund? Was she an “eastern elite” dropout, eager to return to the scrappiness of the western forests? Was she escaping something or running to something? All I learned is that she was smiley and friendly to everyone and she poured an OK drink. Anything is possible.

As we played cribbage, the bar started to fill. The patrons were of all ages and all levels of dress and dental care, from gleaming pearlies to jagged browns. We had discovered a real-life Cheers. Everybody knew everybody. Everybody was friendly and in a holiday spirit. Everybody seemed to have a story. 

We felt totally at home and comfy by the time Bruce the Cook arrived. He made suggestions about Rebecca’s gluten intolerance. We had gluten-free chicken wings, a lettuce-wrapped burger, and salad. The food was exceptional, the kind of place I could eat in every day. Bruce had learned to cook somewhere. Something brought him to the Brass Rail every evening at 6:30. I’d love to tip a brew with him. He seemed like a really good guy. I’ll never find out.

The preppy-looking guy at the bar was going back home to Houston for the holidays.  He’d be staying at his parents’ house, which would be OK, but a little constricting. At least he’d have his own room. What in world brought him to Redway? Everyone seemed to enjoy each other’s company without pretense or façade.

By 7:30, the place was almost full of people and chatter. A small group made their way to the pool table. As I might have expected from Brass Rail patrons, they weren’t hustlers or sharks. They weren’t even good pool players. They just wanted to shoot a game together. They appeared to have a great time.

At the end of the game, one of the women – middle-aged and rough at the edges ­– stopped to talk with Rebecca and me … not for any reason or provocation: we were at the Brass Rail, so we were friends.  Within seconds, we learned about her son who had committed suicide a few years earlier. Oddly, we had just been with a good friend in Oregon whose son had also committed suicide years ago. The conversation did not catch us off guard. She was sad and emotional, but not inappropriately so. She just wanted to talk, so we listened. (Such moments bring out the very best in Rebecca!) It was a human moment, but without depth. We listened, and then we left. We never explored. There was so much more to learn.

Fortunately, we did get a small bit of affirmation before the end of the encounter.  She asked where we were staying. We told her we were right next door.  She asked how it was. We said we were very pleased with the cleanliness and the comfort of the room.  She was happy to hear that.  She’d had “some moments” in the past with Damian, she explained, so all’s well that ends well. Maybe our presence helped to mend a damaged bridge.

I loved our evening in Redway. It made me realize how eager I am to resurrect this My Inner Sociologist blog. It has been dormant since we left the Mississippi River, well before the pandemic. There are just so many people to meet and stories to hear.  Stay tuned.