La Grande
In 1861, a man named Benjamin Brown came across a wild and wide valley and thought it the perfect place to lay some lumber and build a settlement. It wasn’t long before a few hearty souls joined Mr. Brown, drawn by the promise of new beginnings, elbow room and the opportunity to live under the law of a great man such as old Benny Brown and so named their settlement: “Brownsville.”
Mr. Benjamin Brown was said to be a kind man, always tipping his hat to the ladies and giving his fellow man what can be referred as “a gentle squeeze on the front side.” It was rumored he had a fetish for beaver hide and had over 50 pairs of beaver pelt underwear to cozy his crotch. But peace was not long in Brownsville. Turned out, a neighboring settlement had also named their colony “Brownsville” after their first settler, Billy Brown. This double-Brownsville situation threw the U.S. Postal Service into total disarray. Letters were getting misrouted, parcels lost, and tempers flared. Eventually, word got all the way to none other than a Mr. Abraham fucking Lincoln, reading:
It hath been brought to mine attention that two towns, both bearing the name Brownsville, do lie in such close proximity as to sow great confusion upon the noble couriers of the United States Post. Verily, the poor beasts of burden, already taxed beyond reason, suffer grievously from the endless to-and-fro wrought by this lamentable disorder. Thus, it is incumbent upon one of you to adopt a new appellation forthwith.
Regrettably, I am unable to personally mediate this affair, being most thoroughly engaged in the twin labors of tending to my whiskers and abolishing fucking slavery by beating some confederate ass.
Godspeed in your deliberations.
Despite the presidential plea, neither Billy nor Benjamin were willing to yield. A heated meeting ensued between the Browns along the dusty road connecting the settlements. Voracious screams sent saliva into each others faces, forehead veins and erections bulged on the verge of rupture, at one point Billy yelled so hard that he shit himself and ejaculated at the same time, yet they continued arguing amidst the smell of shit and seman.
This dry humping disguised as dueling went on far past the point of reason, like two dogs stuck mid-mount with no idea how to finish, but thankfully, as fate would have it, a stranger arrived. A man atop a white stallion trotted up and paused beside the feuding Browns. He wore a white mustache that was bushy enough to sweep a room and carried himself with the calm and reassurance of a true vagabond. “messieurs, comment pouvez-vous vous battre quand vous êtes entouré de beauté ? c'est…La Grande”.
The Brown’s blinked, “wait, what did you say?” uttered Benjamin
“mes amis, comment pouvez-vous ressentir de la colère au milieu d'une telle beauté ? c'est tout simplement La Grand” replied the man
Benjamin ran his redlined his one horse powered stallion back to his colony, gathered the townsfolk in the square and shouted, “From this day forward, our home shall be known as La Grande!”
And so it was.
La Grande’s downtown has kept its integrity over the years, a true small-town-America. A town where dirty pickup trucks and the local sheriff, John J, smith patrol the streets, uphold the law and drink shitty Folgers coffee. It’s strip still had one of those classic cinemas, where it’s awing juts out over the sidewalk in a fat, U-shaped curved. It was lined with other business' such as “Baxter Auto Parts” “Claudson's Sew & Soak” “anderson’s leather goods and shoe repair” and “community Merchants”.
Nestled in the heart of La Grande's historic downtown, we found JaxDog Café & Books. As we stepped inside, we knew right away this was the cozy, homey feeling spot we were looking for. Atop the counter, a display case of fresh baked goods, the day’s soups were handwritten on a chalkboard, bags of locally roasted coffee beans standing tall and proud.
The walls were lined with wooden shelves, loaded artfully with books ranging from sci-fy and travel memoirs to exciting, non-fictionals about the lives of software engineers who never moved out of their parents basements.
Nicole ordered a quiche while I perused the walls, hunting for classics with yellowing pages and tattered edges, perhaps a name written on the first page in beautifully crafted cursive and if im lucky, a few words of wisdom. One’s that you can take in your hands and bend, letting the pages ripple past your thumb like a soft, crackling drumroll of paper, sending that sweet, musty whiff of history straight to your nose. But always in search of The Curse of Lono—a rare, limited-print book by the godfather of gonzo, himself Dr. Thompson, hiding in corners of the world I have yet to explore
It brings me a priceless joy to find places like these, even if their coffee sucks and their pastries are stale. Spots like this can make me feel more at home than home sometimes can. Perhaps it’s the unique cultivation of one’s inner self, expressed and brought to life through the material world in the form of a cafe, so that anyone who walks through the door experiences the unspoken truth of the owner and what they’re about. Or maybe it’s the imperfections: squeaky wooden floorboards, cold nippy drafts sneaking in under the front door and the quiet reassurance that all of it is being shared by everyone inside, whether you talk to them or not.
And that’s what I love most about these places, how they wear themselves and their history like a cozy old hoodie with tattered cuffs and more than a few stains. We climbed back into Ravie, bellies and curiosity full and continued on the road to the Wallowas.
