The way I remember it.
The state tourism department had a contest and these folks won and I was supposed to report on their joy about experiencing Oregon.
The middle of it. Think everybody had a great time. From July 11, 1990. 
It’s about half past dusk. The Fourth of July. I watch the lights of the The Dalles Dam twinkle behind Robert Ford’s head, as fireworks seem to rocket out of his right ear. I surreally was in The Dalles.
“Many of your readers think nothing of jumping into the car and driving one and a half to two and a half hours for a weekend at the coast.” The sales pitch is punctuated by a distant explosion. “They think nothing of it.”
Ford is the guy in charge of attracting visitors to this town which ever-so-modestly refers to itself as THE HUB OF THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST.
“What we’re trying to show is that people can jump in their car, drive one and a half to two and a half hours in the other direction and have a completely different experience.”
Ford has picked a darn strange way of showing it. Actually, the five sparsely populated counties of Gilliam, Grant, Sherman, Wasco and Wheeler, which form the North Central Oregon Tourism Promotion Committee, must bear the blame. And the credit.
Looking for a unique hook to get their message out, they put together THE VACATION THAT CANNOT BE BELIEVED. Held a contest in Independence, Missouri, which – as we all know – is the starting point of the Oregon Trail.
Picked a family of six who sang an original composition to tune from The Wizard Of Oz that included the line “we’ve packed our bags and loaded the kids and started up the car.”
They flew the whole passel of Midwesterners out to Oregon and gave them a twelve-day experience they’ll never forget.
I’ll always remember the two days I tagged along. I arrived at “beautiful” Sorosis Park for the Jaycees’ annual picnic. For some reason, I thought I’d just walk up to a few people who looked like they were from out of town. I think I expected Mr. Parks to be the spitting image of Harry S. Truman. Certainly, I’d be able to spot some slick Public Relations types who’d necessarily be involved. Or a bunch of local bureaucrats and regional politicians.
Walked around that small-town celebration and all I could see was American families enjoying the holiday together. Little USA flags decorating chilled watermelon. Sack races. One booth where high-school boys threw balls at a target that – when hit – plunged a teenage girl into a big tub of water. Dunk A Cheerleader, the sign said.
Figured at the very least I’d figured I’d look like a lost writer from the big city, and somehow I’d stick out in the crowd.
But, no, I seemed not to stand out at all. I was one of them.
Just another citizen appreciating what this special occasion really means – a day off from work.
I finally found the Parks family just in time for dinner. Those who know me personally are not surprised.
A Columbia River salmon barbecue was underway at the Ft. Dalles Museum. The Better Gravy String Band was harmonizing.
Little guy walks over and introduces himself. He’s the Mayor, he says, and gave me his home phone number. “Just in case.”
Your basic Get Out Of Jail Free card.
Seems his Honor took one look at me and decided I was Trouble From Out Of Town.
Later, the curator read a history of the fort, established to protect settlers from the natives. Who were standing in the way of progress.
They must’ve done a great job. You hardly ever hear so much as a war whoop on I-84.
Randy Parks is a tool and dye engineer with a degree in agriculture. Carol is a homemaker and a registered part-time dietitian.
Alicia, 10, Brian, 9, Carrie,8, and Jennifer, 4. are full-time kids.
Randy directs the church orchestra and Carol works with the children’s choir. They’ve been married fifteen years.
One of those families they take a picture of to put in a frame they’re trying to sell.
The Parks family has never spent two weeks like this.
The second day , we visited a co-op elevator, so the kids could taste raw grain.
Stopped at a wheat ranch, so the youngsters could ride a one hundred and sixty thousand dollar combine.
Lunched on fried chicken and cheese puffs on the lawn of the Sherman County Museum. So the pups could ride the pulley-chair at the door next door.
Drove to the John Day River, so the kids could skip rocks and go wading. I’m beginning to understand who’s really in charge.
Actually, we were there for a covered wagon ride right across the water.
I know now why in pictures you always see pioneers walking alongside, not inside, the Conestoga.
The gold in them thar’ stream beds probably shook out of the settlers’ teeth.
You can’t do this stuff on the coast.