Pacific Northwest History
Contrary to the title of today’s column, this is not a history of the Pacific Northwest. Instead, it is a skip along the paths of memory. Unless you missed it during the first three months of my writings, I was not raised in the inland Northwest.
Though I don’t remember the exact age, for a few years before I was a teenager, we had a cabin on Mount Index; on the West side. I remember the ride on highway 2 through Snohomish, Monroe, Sultan, Startup and Gold Bar. The reason I remember this ride, Gold Bar specifically, is because of a simple, road-side gas station.
Completely unassuming, this little station was naught but a bunch of peeling-painted wood, a couple gas pumps and a little market. I remember old and slightly gnarled wood sides which looked as if they’d be more appropriate in an old Clint Eastwood Western than at-the-time-modern construction. I remember dust and road-dirt covered wood sculpture. This was the kind of decoration that could have come from Tonto’s yard, had we ever seen Tonto’s house. When we first drove through, I think the gas pump pad was the only paved part of that lot.
I could have been dead asleep at any given time during the lengthy drive to the cabin, but once we pulled into that gas station I would wake with a sense of expectant excitement. I would hear the crunch of tires on gravel. I would feel the rock of the car shift into a soft stop. I would blearily open my eyes and see the dusty cloud drift slowly around the corner of the building.
And I would smell it.
As if banishing the boredom of waiting; as if waving away the fog of a sleepy daze; as if laughing in the face of all things droll and dull, the scent of heaven would gently press its fingers through the half-open window to caress my salivary senses to full awareness. The odiferous emanations drifting, winding and wending their way from the open door of the little market beckoned to lazy summer expectation. I was enraptured by that Golden Ambrosia.
That little gas station in Gold Bar, Washington, just a little pit-stop of a place, a means to an end rather than an end in and of itself, that little bubble of perfection provided more than a kid could ever ask for. Toys. Games. Gold. Diamonds. Money. None of those things had any value or meaning when compared to the gas station in Gold Bar.
The scent of fresh-made waffle cones called to my olfactory senses. The display cases drew my body ever closer with their promises of refreshing, rejuvenating deliciosity. Home-made, hard ice cream in every flavor imaginable rested beneath the pristine, gleaming, glistening glass. Rich, brown chocolate; cool, creamy vanilla; pretty, pink strawberry; delightfully deranged, blue bubblegum; those were the things that made a child’s eyes big with earnest expectation.
It wasn’t just the fact that the ice cream cones were fresh-made. It wasn’t just the fact that there were so many flavors one could ponder choices until the cows came home. It wasn’t just the fact that the scents and sights and sounds of that place were ingredients for a life time of sweet dreams. The thing that really made that particular place special was the soft-ball sized scoop of ice cream that perched atop the cone.
Most ice cream places gave you a golf ball sized scoop of ice cream. Some places were extravagant and gave you a tennis ball sized scoop. But at that oasis on the way to Index, they believed more was better.
I think I can even remember a time when the clerk behind the counter started to hand me my deeply coveted cone but drew it back at the last minute, shaking her head. She then went back to the tub of bubblegum ice cream and packed even MORE ice cream onto that huge waffle cone. I think I wanted her to adopt me.
I’ve had Baskin Robin’s, Ben and Jerry’s, Haagen Dazs, Blue Bunny and a myriad other brands of ice cream in my short-longish life, but nothing truly compares to the mountainous mass of frozen ecstasy from Gold Bar. I would do a lot for a good pint of Haagen Dazs. I love the occasional pint of Ben and Jerry’s. But, no one and nothing can truly compare to my childhood bliss.
Sigh
I bet the cones would be just as huge as I remember them to be! I wonder if I that place is still there.
Until next time…
D. S. Vic
Please include Northwest Journal in the subject line of all correspondence. JD_DSVic at yahoo.com
Copyright © 2010 D. S. Vic
All rights reserved.
Comments
Feedburner
-
