reporter's notebook
Burley, brandy and broken cars
By KIRK KNIGHTON
Of «T»* Emerald
Christmas. Ah yes, the time of
joy and love, of family gather
ings at home with the traditional
turkey dinner shared by all who
find Christmas to be the most
spiecial time of year. And all that
jazz
My original plans for Christ
mas were something akin to the
traditional scenario.
After having spent the first
hialf of the holidays hiking in the
canyon country of southern
Utah (85 degrees during the
day, 15 at night), my friend and I
were headed back to Oregon. I
was Christmas Eve, and w<
anticipated arriving in Portlan<
for a fete de noel early Christ
mas afternoon.
We stopped briefly in Sal
Lake City to search out a liquo
store. We bought a bottle o
brandy, which we figured woul<
add the finishing touch to ou
Christmas spirits and perhap
make the drive to Portland mor
interesting.
Warm and snug in my ancien
— but always reliable — Volks
wage n Squareback, we sped ol
into the night, full of high spirit
t for the coming of the morrow,
i and all the joy Christmas would
I surely bring us.
Not long after crossing the
Idaho border my brandy-satur
t ated nose thought it detected
r the odor of something burning,
f Moments later my eyes had
1 similar feelings about the sud
r den incandescence of the gen
5 erator warning light. Uh-oh,
i they seemed to say in unison.
Then my brain started working,
t A burned-out generator? How
far can we drive on the battery
f alone?
s We passed a road sign. Bur
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ley, it said. 40 miles. In the name
of conservation I switched off
the headlights and increased
our speed to 75 mph.
“Don’t worry,” I assured my
friend. "I can see just fine with
the parking lights. I’ll switch on
the headlights whenever we
come across another car. In the
meantime let’s have'some more
of that Christmas juice.”
We made it to Burley without
incident, the car coughing and
sputtering, its headlights barely
illuminating the road ahead. The
engine expired as the car rolled
into the parking lot of a Motel 6.
There was no hope, of course,
of finding a new generator for a
German car in a dreary town of
8,000 inhabitants on Christmas
Eve.
While my friend showered
away his misery I stole out into
the night to find some food I
noticed a lone Burger King sign
glowing down the street. It
switched off when I reached it. I
went inside.
“Sorry mister," a girl an
nounced as I came in. "We're
closed.”
“Oh, but what am I to do?” I
countered, somewhat drama
tically. “My car is broken and
I'm stuck here for Christmas,
hundres of miles from home.”
This unexpected oration
roused whimpers of sympathy
from all the little burger-makers.
One of them went over to the
manager and whispered
something in his ear. She then
came over to me. “It’s Christ
mas, so we’re going to give you
all of our leftover Whoppers and
burgers. How’s that sound?”
The burger-makers scurried
about the kitchen assembling
my Christmas present. With a
hearty chorus of "Merry Christ
mas” they presented me with
three bulging sacks.
“Thanks," I sniffled as I left.
My friend, being a devout
vegetarian, did a backflip when I
walked into the room bearing
the sacks of burgers.
My friend refused to eat any of
the burgers, so I gave him all the
onion rings and french fries. We
ate about half our ration, wash
ing it down with brandy. Feeling
deathly ill, we both expired for
the night.
On Christmas Day we walked
from one end of Burley to the
other (which takes about an
hour) in search of a Volkswagen
generator. But no form of busi
ness was open. We couldn't
even find a cup of coffee. We
ended up roaming used car lots,
peering through shop windows
and examining local architec
ture.
Christmas dinner was, of
course, back at the Motel 6. The
menu? Three cheese Whoppers
and brandy for me, and four
bags of onion rings and brandy
for my friend. We watched
Henry Winkler play Scrooge on
cable television.;,We expired,
once again, in a drunken,
greasy sloth.
But the joy of the day after
Christmas. While my friend lay
in bed, lamenting his body’s
reaction to Christmas dinner, I
went out and immediately found
a new generator. An hour later
we left forever the fair town of
Burley.
The maid, coming into our
room just as we were leaving,
had wished us a merry Christ
mas. She then took notice of the
room, strewn as it was with the
gift wrap of all our burger stuff.
“Merry Christmas," we said.
And with that we were off.
f
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