On the Back Roads by Bill Graves Page B

wooden stairs to the attic, which had a floor of rock-wool insulation. Filling one of the eight windows was a rain-stained piece of plywood. “Window got blown out by the wind,” Fred said. He seemed in no hurry to replace it.
    More steep stairs. I used the handrail.
    The next level had floor-to-ceiling windows that were open to the wind and framed with ornate iron bars.
    â€œSomeone told me the jail was up here,” I remarked. “Now I know why people would say that.”
    â€œYa, people think it. Even still, some believe it. If they would come up here and look, they would know better. But people believe what they want to believe. How do ya change that?” The higher we climbed in the tower, the wiser and more philosophical Fred be came.
    We climbed the last flight of stairs. “This is where flies come to die, because it’s warm.” Fred observed. “In the summer when I sweep, I can get a whole bucketful.”
    It appeared to me more like a giant fly trap, but Fred knows best.
    This was the top. A three-story clock tower atop a three-story courthouse. The clock ticked away on a platform in the center of the room. Some rather simple gears turned four shafts that turned the hands on four giant clock faces, the four translucent walls of the room.
    In the corner rest a wooden box with “The E. Howard Clock Co., Boston” printed on the side.
    â€œThat’s what the clock came in,” Fred explained. “I suppose it’s out of warranty now. Maybe we can throw the box away.”
    Using both hands, he turned a crank on the clock. Up came a wooden box of dusty rocks through a hole in the floor. “It runs like a cuckoo clock. The rocks are the weight that keeps this town on time.
    â€œWhen I bring schoolkids up here, some are surprised to see that the clock has four sides. It makes you wonder. They must look at the clock from different places around town, but in their heads, they think of it as having just one face. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Does me!”

21
The Driftwood Capital
Bandon, Oregon
    T here are more trees than anything else in Oregon. Since they line the state’s 350-mile coastline, it is no surprise that some end up in the ocean. But why do so many pile up on the beaches near Bandon? So many, in fact, they have made this little coastal town the driftwood capital of Oregon, perhaps the world.
    Driven by furious winter storms, the logs pile up beyond the high-water line. This is not casual driftwood of which lamps and clock faces are made, but gigantic timbers and stumps measuring ten feet in diameter and weighing tons. These are the tailings of lumbering operations in the mountains east of here, along with those nature has cast into the Coquille River, which empties into the ocean at Bandon. I am told that there is a lot of exotic wood in there too: mahogany, yew, teak, redwood, and bamboo. Driftwood collect ors here won’t guess—and don’t want to know—where it comes from. They say the beauty of driftwood lies in the mystery of its origin: “Nobody knows from where or whence it came.”
    Tossed by enormous energy, the timber collects in colossal, haphazard heaps. Giant trees balance crosswise on the rock jetties that form Bandon’s small-boat harbor. Tourists on scavengerhunts rummage through the piles, looking for something to take home. Local kids dig and crawl, routing out secret hideaways. They gather on summer afternoons to eat peanut-butter sandwiches deep in the twisted timbers.
    To be driftwood, a sun-bleached, gnarled log is not enough. It must first wash ashore. This qualifying process can be spectacular, even terrifying.
    From miles around, in their rubber boots and yellow slickers, the dedicated come to watch. They have formed a group called the Storm Watchers.
    Ruth Ball is one. “Gale winds at high tide make for some awesome weather,” Ruth said. “The water has such force and power, yet