This is the official Rubbery Shrubbery (RS) blog where you can learn about how the Oregon seacoast town of Yachats (YAH-hots) and its inhabitants—called Yachatians (yah-HAY-shuns), or occasionally Yahotties (yah-HOT-tees)—get themselves a Major League Baseball team. Each episode tells a little more about this page in the town’s history. To learn about Yachats, the Paris of the Pacific Northwest, please go to this page or go to GoYachats.
Various writers have taken on the task of writing this blog. Today’s entry is written again by Harrison Grutch. By now, you all know Harrison. And you know that the Yachats baseball team will be nicknamed the Smelt. The announcement of that name brought on a huge celebration throughout Yachats. Here, Harrison describes the morning after.
The Realization That We Are Smelt
by Harrison Grutch
On the morning in question Diego McHuguenot awoke nurturing the reverse hangover that comes from having not used up all the reason for celebrating. As the first golden drops of sunlight sprinkled his eyelids he recalled kicking up his heels the day before. He smiled as he struggled out of bed and raised himself to a full bipedal stance.
Then he recalled that on the previous evening he had asked Big Forbes Crossbowe, one of the Magnificent Trinity who had thought up the idea of major league baseball in Yachats, if he, Diego, could be on the Smelt Board of Directors. In fact, as long as he was asking, could he be chairperson?
Now Forbes, despite his rough-hewn appearance and demeanor—with his burlap complexion, drowned-cat beard, and kettledrum voice—was a retired school teacher and didn’t have the heart to damp Diego’s ambitions. His teacher’s knee-jerk reaction was to heap encouragement on Diego. So he said yes, of course, but it would have to be co-chairperson—Diego wasn’t the first person to ask.
To be accurate we would have to say that Forbes had given the co-chairperson position to all who had applied the same this-is-the-only-chance-I-will-ever-have-of-making-something-of-my-life facial expression that Diego had used. Thus, Forbes had given the co-chairperson position to about three dozen Yachatians, plus a Bulgarian and one especially symmetrical lady from the Solomon Islands. So far.
Co-anything was okay with Diego. He always set his sights low and was rarely disappointed. Well…there was the time he wore the chicken suit, but we needn’t get into that.
But back to the morning in question. Diego pulled himself together and wandered into the bathroom. There, he stared into the vanity mirror above the sink, as was his habit. He smiled at the broad shoulders, narrow waist, and carnelian silk corduroy pajamas he saw there. His hair began to tousle itself.
And then breakfast occurred to him. At the Green Salmon Café, perhaps where many of the other revelers from yesterday would be gathered for reminiscing. He tore himself away from the mirror, and after proper rearrangement, burst forth out his front door and into his quaint neighborhood, where the jays were singing and a fragrant breeze was blowing off the estuary.
The shortest route to the Green Salmon took Diego nowhere near the Yachats Post Office, but rather, led him through the percussion section of town (see Figure 1). This area should have been strewn with djembes, bodhráns, and klabbersnappers from yesterday’s jubilation. But it wasn’t. Only the faint aroma of scorched drumheads still hung in the morning air to hint at the whirlwind of percussive activity that had taken place there.
As Diego continued to the Green Salmon he took a close look at other celebratory streets. All clean as a hound’s tooth. Nary a broken zoowonka, nary a tattered tartooka in sight. Draft horses, llamas (see Figure 2), and elephants all, gathered up and taken to pasture. Banners and pennants neatly rolled up. Confetti and glitter were swept away.
“The Yachatian cooperation contagion,” Diego thought to himself (since no one else was available for him to think to). “A city of volunteers and cleaner than three and a half whistles after a huge celebration.”
But as Diego drew near his destination some mysterious force beckoned to him, luring him from the anticipated cinnamon roles and calendula stew of his intended. Then, as Diego hesitated, the inscrutable force, growing impatient, jerked him toward, of all places, the Post Office (which doesn’t even serve breakfast).
Next time: Why is Diego being deterred from his breakfast? What unholy fate awaits him at the Temple of Junk Mail? Will the Green Salmon be sold out of calendula stew by the time Diego manages to free himself? Find out!
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NOTE AGAIN: Eric Sallee and Dave Baldwin are proud to state that this is the Rubbery Shrubbery blog. They refuse to go beyond that, however, realizing that pride goeth before a fall.