Context: It’s 1967 and Rory Adams is pulling into her final stop aboard the Union Pacific’s “City of Portland” Domeliner. Another quaint little town along the Oregon Trail, another historic bell tower to photograph–this time, in a place called Dane’s Creek.
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“It’s a shame, really.” The conductor handed Rory her sole suitcase from the overhead rack. “Can’t remember when I heard that bell ringing last. I wonder if the ’62 storm—you heard about that, didn’t you? In all the news. Famous Columbus Day storm. Hard to believe it’s been five years this month. Ripped right up the Pacific Northwest coast—hit us hard here in Oregon specially. Yep, it’s a cryin’ shame. Just makes you wonder if the bell got a dent or something when the tower went down. Took the townspeople nearly three years to get it back up.”
“I’ll bet that was expensive, too. How wonderful that they restored it.” Rory nodded encouragingly.
“Yep, did a good job.” He nodded back, beaming. “Except for the bell not ringing, of course.”
Her fingers itched to whip out her camera and capture the conductor’s proud expression. You’d think he’d hung that bell himself. She refrained, though. She’d learned the hard way during this trip that the minute she brought the camera out, questions followed. And telling this sweet old walking encyclopedia she was photographing the Oregon Trail bell towers would no doubt trigger a stampede of free advice and, she smiled ruefully, dire warnings.
Her latest strategy, which was working like a charm so far, was to ask about local landmarks, implying she was just a tourist interested in old buildings and such. The conversation inevitably got around to some civic pride-style bragging about the bell tower. Railroad conductors and porters were often one-man chambers of commerce for the little towns along their routes.
“Well, Miss Adams, enjoy your vacation in Dane’s Creek. It’s a right nice little town. And don’t forget to visit the Dane’s Creek Diner. Tell ‘em Earl says hello. And oh, you’re gonna want to order the meatloaf–it’s the world’s best!”
“Oh, I will,” Rory said, glancing at his name plate. “Mr. Tanner, what’s the best way to get to the hotel?”
“Name’s Earl. I figure since we’ve been on this train together since Idaho, we’re practically related!”
“Okay, Earl.” Chuckling, Rory tucked her tourist map and sunglasses into her shoulder bag.
“Only motel or hotel in town is the Cedar Inn. It’s not so far. You could probably leg it. Everything’s pretty much within walking distance. But Frank’s almost always hanging around the depot with his truck. That’s as good as they go here for a taxi. You won’t have to lug that suitcase so far.” He grinned. “Not that it’s that heavy. You’re a light packer, aren’t you?”
Rory nodded. “Only as much as I can easily carry, because I don’t always meet such nice gentlemen as yourself.” She stood up, looped her bag strap over her shoulder, then grabbed the headrest to keep from tipping into the aisle. “Cedar Inn. Got it.”
The conductor placed a protective hand on her elbow, and guided her to the car door, expertly compensating for the train’s erratic motion. The train lurched to a howling, grinding stop. Rory reached for her luggage, but Earl shook his head, and stepped off with her tote in hand. “My job’s not done till you’re settled alright.”
“Thank you, Earl,” she conceded with a smile. She knew fussing about being able to carry her own suitcase would be considered downright rude.
“Hey, Frank!” Earl shouted over the noise of the train. “Gotta customer for you!”
The front legs of a chair banged onto the station porch, and a very wrinkled face peered over a lowered newspaper. “What’s up, Earl?”
“Take this little gal down to the Cedar, will ya? Name’s Miss Adams.”
Frank unfolded from the chair, and shuffled toward the bench, taking Rory’s luggage from Earl. “Miss Adams. Here you go, little lady.” He motioned toward the cracked blacktopped area alongside the station that functioned as a parking lot. “Right over here.”
Rory pressed her lips together to keep from laughing outright. This scenario had been replayed at stops along the Union Pacific line. Despite her considerable height, Rory was inevitably referred to as “little” by every man west of the Mississippi. She’d forgotten how polite and protective Western men were. A little gal like me could get used to that, she inwardly laughed.
“Thank you, Earl. You made my trip fascinating. You’ve got more information than the World Book! Thanks for everything.” Rory held out a dollar, but he waved it away, frowning comically.
“Keep it for Frank. He might just take money from a woman.” He grunted out a laugh, snatched up the metal step, climbed back into the train, and signaled to the engineer. “Happy trails,” he hollered over the screeching and groaning of the train as it pulled away.
Rory waved, then turned to see Frank flinging her suitcase into the flatbed of a rusty pickup. She winced, glad she’d tucked her camera into her big shoulder bag.
Frank opened the passenger door for her, shoved a coil of rope off the seat to the floor, and motioned her in, grinning sheepishly. “Well, shoot. Sorry, Miss Adams. I shoulda cleaned that up yesterday. Climb on in. You can crack the window a bit if you want. Not sure what that smell is, but it’s better now than last week, so you picked the right day to come to Dane’s Creek.”
She smiled at Frank, cranked down the window as advised, and happily settled onto her lumpy seat.
Oh, if Mother could only see her now.
***