From Cameron Geographic (1993)Cover | 1 | 2 | 3
For the intrepid traveler heading from Portland to the Pacific coast, Newberg is a must stop (due mostly to the stoplights, all illogically timed). The alert driver is able to use his confinement at the traffic lights to peruse this little jewel of Americana. “A Great Place to Grow” proclaims the welcoming sign to Newberg and the locals take their town greeting seriously. Town ordinances require a fast-food, no-frills barred restaurant at least every 2 blocks. The ingestion of lard in some form obviously occupies a great deal of the local populace’s time. This would normally not be a major problem as long as it was washed down with sufficient quantities of healthy red wine. But having its origins amongst the Quakers and now ruled by god-fearing Fundamentalists, the community of Newberg, is sadly lacking in wine. So, while the LDL’s grow menacingly large in the arteries of Newbergundians, the red wine being produced in the local vineyards gets shipped elsewhere.
Proceeding down Main Street, now mostly deserted after the city council approved 2 shopping centers on the outskirts of town, one passes the old movie theatre. The marquis proclaims “101 Dalmatians” but the doors are boarded up. Bon bons and Black Cows gave way to Jo Jos and Gummy Bears, Rin Tin Tin fell to the Ninja Turtles and then Jimmy Henderson got head lice and Mrs. Henderson wouldn’t let him go to the theatre anymore. It was the Eisenhower Domino Effect but it wasn’t happening in Southeast Asia; it was happening right here in the heart of America, stores being taken over by head lice and forced to close. At last report they had moved on to the Koin-Op Wash N Dry.
On the other side of Newberg, things pick up again with the local DQ and Skeeter’s Semi-Automatic Weapons. Skeeter usually has a special going so it pays to read his plastic sign with the changeable mylar letters (even if his spelling isn’t always exactly correct). It has a small parking lot but there is always ample parking.
A mile or so past the Newberg City limits one comes to a new winery—Duck Pond Cellars. There aren’t any ducks and there isn’t a pond. The winery is built on a cement pad so it hasn’t got a cellar. We glance back at Newberg where Skeeter’s plastic sign with the changeable mylar letters can only be imagined now. We find ourselves wondering whether what lies ahead is more bizarre than what we have just passed through.
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