Tuesday, February 06, 2007

urban myth

I'm sure Portland has a bunch. The Rogue Valley has a couple: the Gold Hill Cemetery is haunted by a female ghost, and this: We were trying to figure out the name of a little hamburger joint in the Rogue Valley that was around 30 years ago. It was on Riverside and Edwards, and I can't remember the name. But I do remember the name of Dell's. Dell's Hamburgers made cheap, greasy little burgers with chopped lettuce and onions, mustard and dill pickles. The buns were shiny with grease. They used to be ten for a dollar, then 5, then 4, then 2 for a buck. The story, the urban myth, goes that the cook had a heart attack and died on the grill. I have no idea if it is true, but it could be.

I'm not sure why I felt compelled to share that, but now that I'm gone from the valley, it concerns me that no body is going to tell the tales anymore. Nobody is going to care that the fat old lady who flipped burger at Dell's died doing it. I guess I imbue (is that a word?) myself with the abilty to immortalize via this verbal vehicle (alliteration ain't for sissies). How much wood would a wood chuck chuck? Or would I be imbuing them with immortality. Who cares? Not me.

We had a dance today on the unit. It was spontaneous, as things must be without benefit of memory. There was nothing going on so the girls put on some oldies and they just started groovin'. Since there are almost all women, and finally, women wihtout egos, they danced like women will when faced with a world without men: tapping their little white shoes to "Wait. Oh yes wait a minute Mr. Postman. Mr. Postman look and see oh yeah if there's a letter a letter for me e e" And when one of them, we'll call her Dolores, looked up and said, "Me too," it was so surprising to see her want to join in. She had a ball. We all had a ball. Egos be damned. I danced with them, three little women and me, dancing in a circle, Tiger Lil' with her head back, eyes closed, rockin' and rollin' hips remembering just what to do.

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