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Old House and School
A kind of counter-top collusion, arcane geometries of grinder and espresso maker keep me from my morning coffee aspiration and portend the robot overlords to come. I’ve slept late. My mom has already left for work and I find I’m helpless to make coffee without her. My daughter Laura remains at Washington State University orienting herself to college life so I’m on my own today. I think I’ll go visit Troy, the North Idaho farming and logging town of less than a thousand people where I, and my parents before me, grew up. I’m interested to see what’s changed and what hasn’t. Grey clouds hang low above Highway 8, black from morning rain, as I head the eleven miles east from Moscow between rolling fields. I haven’t had a traffic ticket for many years but on this stretch of road I feel like I’m fourteen again, glancing down every few minutes to check my speed. By the time I roll down the grade into Troy I’m eager for morning coffee and brunch. So when I see the empty gravel lot in front of the White Pine Café, a homey log cabin styled restaurant, and grass growing tall around the door, I’m pretty disappointed. I guess the gas station will have to do. “Some of those,” I point to the Jo Jos, “and these chicken things.” The high school kid running the Sunset Mart register seems grouchy today. He claws my food together with bare hands then reaches impatiently to press the button for me when I pause to identify the proper “Is this amount correct?” answer (Enter, OK?) on the card reader. I set my helmet and jacket at one of the orange and yellow laminate booths that haven’t changed since the place was built, since the adjoining laundromat was an arcade. I remember sitting here with my high school friend and neighbor, Brett, and early morning weight lifting partner, Casey. I glance up from the heat lamp hors d’oeuvres whenever the door jangles open, expecting I might recognize a face. A few are vaguely familiar but I make no positive identifications. It feels ironic to realize that for the kids here I’m just a random passer-by, some stranger.
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