BY CATHERINE DOOK


“Nineteen miles to Tillamook. Just look at all those black-and-white cows. Tey


have such nice faces.” “I wonder why you’re not supposed to get leather wet,” John said. “Cows stand in


the rain all the time and it doesn’t bother them.” “I bet around here they stand in the rain a lot,” I said. Past Beaver and the Tillamook Air Museum, we spotted a span of blue sky over the


mountains ahead of us and John accelerated. Ten the sun burst through the clouds just as we got to the Tillamook Cheese Factory turnoff. “Right!” I yelled. “Hard leſt! Right!” I waved my arms and pointed past two young women off to one side of the


entranceway wearing blue aprons and talking to the driver of a car. “Park here!” We climbed out of the Execuvan with our joints creaking and slammed the doors


Tillamook Cheese Factory


We ALMOST Saw the


John leaned over the steering wheel of our 1979 Execuvan and peered through the rain. Te wiper blades squeaked incessantly, like a family of mice, and the shag carpet interior of our van smelled faintly of porta- pottie, but we were headed north to the Tillamook Cheese Factory, pride of the State of Oregon. “All this rain,” I told John, “grows the


kind of grass that dairy cows love. It explains why our cheese sandwiches have been so delicious this trip. I’ve never seen a cheese factory before,” I continued. “You’re pretty sweet, taking me to one.” “Nothing but the best for you,” John


said. “I wish this rain would stop.” “We are forced to take our holidays


when the school board decides to set Spring Break,” I said. “Te plan was to go to California


where it doesn’t rain,” John grumbled. “But you made me stop at every thriſt store on the Oregon Coast.” “And I had a wonderful time, too,”


I said. “Tank you, my little muffle- wumpie.” I sighed luxuriously and thought of all the treasures I’d scored – secondhand books and mugs and an LP or two. Cassette tapes and a portable radio.


18 RVT 151• JANUARY/FEBRUARY 2013


shut. A small piece of rust fell off the rear of the van and landed on the asphalt parking lot. Luckily, nobody noticed. Te parking lot was nearly deserted. We walked through a light drizzle past an impressive stand of flags to the entranceway of a large building where I pulled on one of the handles of a pair of floor-to-ceiling dark-tinted glass doors, and was brought up short when the door did not open. “Closed,” I said blankly. “Isn’t this Saturday?” One of the blue-aproned ladies hurried over to where we stood. “I’m sorry I didn’t


catch you when you drove in,” she said, “But the factory has closed for the day. Te water system flooded north of us in Bay City and there was a backup, so they closed the factory as a precaution. We’ll reopen tomorrow for sure.” “Tank you,” John said warmly. “We wondered.” As he spoke, the heavens gathered overhead in one sodden mass and poured rain


upon all three of us like a wringing sponge. Tere was no dramatic flux of wind or roar of thunder, but an inexhorable and steady deluge, as if the business of God that day was to pour as much water on the Tillamook Cheese Factory as He could. “It rains a lot here, doesn’t it?” I said. She smiled. “At this time of year, yes,” she replied. Ten she hurried back to talk to


the driver of the next car nosing his way cautiously into the parking lot. He looked as confused by the empty parking lot as we had. John and I raced back to the Execuvan, which was shiny with water streaming


down the windows and sides, and slammed the doors shut. “Now what?” he asked me. “I say we drive north and dive into the nearest RV Park and then depending on


how far we have to go, make a decision whether or not to come back tomorrow.” “Good plan,” he said, and turned the ignition key. “I am amazed,” I said to my husband, “at the openness of Americans. A Canadian


would never had hinted at ‘sewage’ even if he was up to his ankles in it and his hand was on a stack of Bibles.” I paused and gazed thoughtfully past the squeaking windshield wipers to the buckets of rain pouring on the road ahead of us. “I think it’s because of the Canadian reliance on Royal Commissions to get to the heart of any matter. Te truth isn’t really out there at all. In our country, it’s lost in a mush-headed bureaucratic deluge of paper, not unlike this rainstorm.” “Are you done?” John asked. “RV Park!” I yelled. “Turn right!” Obediently John swung the wheel and the next thing we knew we were parked on


a small patch of gravel in the pouring rain and $28.50 poorer. “Twenty-eight dollars and fiſty cents!” I complained. “And we can hardly see


through this rain!” “Te system’s passing over us,” John said placatingly. I’d had a cheese factory tour snatched from my open hands, and the RV Park had


signs up advising us to not drink the water. I was cranky. “Twenty-eight dollars and fiſty cents!” I said again. “Tis is a rip-off!” “America is full of merchants and skilled salespeople,” John said. “Te lady at the


counter was pleasant as could be. Tis rain looks like it’s letting up. Do you want to cook the steaks, or shall I?”


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