Future is Now Enterprises Shopper & Snack Food Advocate Northwest Edition PUBLISHER DUANE “HAWKEYE” LA RUE NORTHWEST REGIONAL INSERT CHIEF (PART TIME) Jim Blashfield Editorial Offices are located at DAHLSTROM INDUSTRIAL PARK, Silver Springs, Maryland TALES OF THE WILD COUNTRY BY WALLY MIRANDA DUQUETTE of the Portland Insert Bureau I suppose all of us, at one time or another, have dreamed of spending a week or two in the variety Section of a Fred Meyer store. Like so many others, I’d had fantasies too, but it seemed that there was always one reason or another to put the trip off, to delay it “until spring,” or until fall, or until the following spring. Unfinished projects, not enough money, fear of isolation, language and dress code barriers ... they all entered in. And the result was that I stayed at home, year in, year out, dreaming, when I would allow myself, of that perfect outing. The HOLD IT RIGHT ARE YOU CONDEMNING YOUR HOUSEHOLD PETS TO A LIFE OF CRIME? If you’re like most people, you’d probably say no. A brief glance at the cat squatting behind the radiator reveals nothing out of the ordinary ... Fido’s panting could hardly be construed as lust for the neighbor. And yet, experts tell us that 3 out of every 4 domestic animals will, at one time or another in their lives, commit a serious offense and could wind up in jail. Take the case of Marcel, a 4-year-old dachshund who in 1974 nearly bankrupted the New Hampshire state lottery. His fate: 6 years in prison. His crime: Forgery. Or Squeaky, a calico cat from Bozeman, Montana, convicted on 4 charges of armed robbery. Her fate: 12 years in jail, 4 in the state mental facility. If you’re not concerned about your pets, perhaps you should be. Write the National Criminal Animal Foundation and ask for our free booklet, The Ten Danger Signs of Animal Malfeasance, you'll be glad you did. (A Division of Future is Now Enterprises) (Please include $12.00 for postage and handling.) 24 Clinton St. Quarterly smell of bacon frying over an open fire in Isle 13 ... day hikes into the grocery section... lazy evenings with good friends over burnt weiners in the automative department with nothing but the sounds of the janitors sweeping and buffing floors to mar the pristine silence ... they were all part of my fantasy, all a part of my dream. It’s not that I never went anywhere. I’d had pleasant Friday nights at Fryer’s Quality Pie like everyone else, drinking endless cups of coffee at the counter, reading The Oregonian, watching the fry cooks, getting to know the waitresses and busboys by name. Through the window, one could see the Good Samaritan emergency entrance. Attempting to determine the sex of the person sitting next to you is an interesting pasttime, and of course there are hundreds of ways to fall asleep over one’s food. Yet I sometimes felt these activities were not enough. Something was missing, something indefinable. Here I was, turning 37, remarkably lithe and youthful to be sure, but with my last real adventure years behind me. Oh, I had the color slides and would bring them out once or twice a week at the insistence of friends. But you can’t live forever on the recollections of a ten-year-old bus ride to Chehalis, no matter how novel or exciting. Something had to change. Thus it was that my friends, twin sisters Murky and Memo and a drifter known only as Crimson, met me in the parking lot of the Uptown Shopping Center one Saturday morning at 5:30. Memo and Murky, dressed in matching parkas, wool gloves, dance slippers and triple layers of nylon panty hose, were perhaps the best prepared for the challenge to come. They had enormous sleeping bags with colorful plaid flannel linings, extra water, seven or eight cartons of cigarettes, eggs, reading material, a package of dehydrated clam dip and a case of Chase and Sanbourne coffee. I was dressed in an enormous snow suit with a well- stocked day pack and a Radio Flyer wagon brimming over with clean underwear. Crimson, who regarded himself as self-sufficient, wore only a loin-cloth with a large hunting knife in a decorated leather sheath attached to the waist strap. We carefully re-checked out list of supplies to make sure that we hadn’t forgotten anything, and the day about to break began climbing the hill behind Elephant’s Deli to watch the sun rise over the city. The hill is a treacherous one, littered with broken glass, weeds, chunks of cement and the occasional remains of a bird or puppy, dead from carbon monoxide poisoning. About twenty feet up the hill I heard a shriek behind me. I turned to see Memo, her footing disrupted by a Diet-Rite Cola bottle, tumbling head over heels down the hill, her helpless and twisted body disappearing in the distance between a mound of dirt and a parked Toyota station wagon. We searched for her for perhaps two hours, but it was the last we were to see of her. Eventual ly Memo’s remains were found and identified through dental records. Thus, as on Mt. Everest, the hill behind Elephant’s Deli claimed its own. Following a brief memorial service in which Murky wept uncontrollably and had to be cheered up with a hand shadow show of dog’s faces and duck beaks, we abandoned the hill. After a hearty ham and egg breakfast at the 23rd & Burnside Sambo’s, we packed up and continued our journey, arriving at the West Burnside Fred Meyer just before 11 a.m. We circled the store twice, making notes to ourselves on the best way to enter. Murky and Crimson argued convincingly for entering through the doors on the west side near the blood pressure machine and the rug shampooers, while I advocated the longer but more interesting south route — down past Eve’s Buffet and Bar, through the underground parking lot and up the escalator, bringing us into the store near the Hallmark greeting cards. After years of waiting for this moment, I wasn’t about to have my experience watered down by a couple of pansy asses. Ultimately, however, the spirit of compromise prevailed and we agreed to enter the store from the southwest, through the covered car shelter, past the charcoal briquets and peat moss, and into the grocery department through the doors where the old people sit. It was a route that offered the best of both worlds. As the three of us stood on the sidewalk outside Rose’s Bakery, readying our equipment and munching on pieces of a large discounted birthday cake inscribed “To Tammi with Love,’’ I couldn’t help thinking about the times I had dreamed of this moment. “Well,” I said, taking a deep breath, “let's go.” I stepped off the curb and made my way toward the entrance. Murky and Crimson followed closely behind. In a moment we would enter the store to begin two weeks of adventure. To be continued Next week: Setting up camp near the prophylactics; Murky meets a grizzly bear in the frozen foods department and kills it with her ice axe; a run-in with a surly night watchman; tall tales by firelight; Crimson discovers an abandoned mineshaft in the shoe department; nude swimming in the paint section and Murky catches a fish! 100% BANK INTEREST ON HOME LOANS? “We couldn’t believe It either," say Mr. and Mrs. Oswald Rabbit, their daughter Jane and their son Spike. Hard to believe, but true! 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