Aug 10 2007
Cannon Beach, Oregon
The Mistress of the Knavish Sprites and I are on the road again, this time in Cannon Beach, a lovely, well kept, flower-laden town filled with cottages that has had to become a tourist trap to survive. Ah, the nipping jaws of capitalism. The MKS says she finds it remarkable that the shopkeepers have not become jaded, even after what must be a long season for them. I reluctantly agree, even while noting all the “help wanted” notices which emphasize that the potential candidates for these low-paying service positions must be cheerful in the face of all retail tourism adversity. Not just capitalism, but new age capitalism is at work in this lovely town.
Plus, there’s the Haystack, a monolithic sea stack that makes this place an icon of the Pacific Northwest coast. (That said, this coast is loaded with sea stacks, conical protuberances that begin to glaze together into a single snapshot memory.) And after the furnace of the Palouse, it’s cool without testing one’s capacity for wardrobe. Then, too, the LBBs (little brown birds) are seemingly tame and all dogs that come here find themselves in a heaven of scent and surf.
But you’ve got to wonder about a town that names its main drag Hemlock. Is there a Socrates hidden in Cannon Beach’s closet?
Hemlock is lined with shops–far too many kitchy galleries–and motels. We’re staying at the Inn at the Village Centre, but it should be more properly called the Room at the Village Centre, as there’s only one. The Centre is one of those malls that stretches back into the lot, like a strip mall turned on its ear, and with maze-like obstructions thrown in for adventurous shopping fun. It’s always a hunt for hidden treasure here in Cannon Beach. Jennifer, the manager of the Inn, is a kindly, cheerful young woman with a couple kids she said we should “smack” if they get too loud. That hasn’t been necessary, though, as her children are like the birds, tame and cooing with the bliss of the good life. It’s summer, after all.
On the steps up into the new books bookstore (as opposed to Jupiter Books, which sells used, and is pretty cool, featuring a proprietor with a Carolinas lilt) we overheard a young woman on her cellphone.
Hi, Mom! It’s me! I’m in Cannon Beach. The air is so fresh.”
Earlier in the day I walked into Jupiter Books and the Carolina lilt of the bearded owner chortled, “That might be him now.” I did a double take, not really sure the remark was directed at me, even though the heads of the owner and his customers all turned and stared at me.
Freak! Old insecurities die hard.
“Just kidding,” he said. “I was telling them that I heard Terry Bishop had a place in town.”
“I am not he,” I said, to clear things up as quickly as possible. I wanted to browse on books like a manatee in the library of the sea.
Then I found, way in the back, precisely where you’d expect to find the poetry, some old copies of Talus and Scree, a lit zine that once published a poem of mine (in number 3). I’d been used as a conversational ploy, temporarily confused with a famous science fiction writer, and here was the proof of my obscurity in the who-knows-how-many-times-turned-over inventory of literary America.