Director of Intent

April 26, 2009

South Newberg Revisited

Baby Boy and I took to the streets of South Newberg yet again, soaking up the weekend's last attempt at the sixty-degree mark. All the meanwhile trying to let dear ol' Mama have some room to vacuum without the two of us getting in the way.

We took a spin toward the Willamette River, only half of a mile away from where we live. I had never been down the route we chose, making for a decent Sunday adventure. Our first stop was looking upon a beautifully forested area behind a few homes and apartment complexes. The creekbed we discovered is an extension of the one running behind our house.

After cruising down the road a touch further, I noticed one of the oddest houses I've seen in these parts. Outside of the primary residence, there was a trifecta of curiosities:
  • The fifteen-foot cross with random crap hanging off of it.

  • The terra cotta steer skull hitched at the gate.

  • The piece de resistance was the twenty-foot "rocket" built out of discarded aluminum chimney vents. Oh, don't forget the explanatory sign nestled in the overgrown grass: "ENGLE'S Rocket Launcher — Move Over Houston! — Love, George."
As I type this, I must confess to still being painfully confused. I may have imagined it, but I swear I saw the Baby Boy mouth the letters W-T-F.

Once we collected ourselves, we turned the bend onto a loosely paved road and began our march closer to the river. After stopping to let the kiddo stretch his legs, we looked up and saw that we were overlooking the water from a quaint little bluff. Down below, we watched a few boats launch from the docks.

Our attention turned toward the field across the road, where an old red barn stood behind a few acres of grass and burgeoning wildflowers. It had definitely seen better years, yet it will undoubtedly be there for a long, long time to come.

The last corner of our trip brough forth a roadside memorial near the road toward the docks. I couldn't help but fictionalize the moments surrounding the creation of the cross. As the burnt letters convey, "RIP Bro."

Baby Boy quickly grew tired of the melancholy scene, so we hoofed it home while carefully making sure not to track in any of the dirt picked up along the way.