7 – The Realization That We Are Smelt

Posted on July 30, 2012 by Dave Baldwin


RUBBERY SHRUBBERY Post 7

This is the official Rubbery Shrubbery (RS) blog where you can learn about how the Oregon seacoast town of Yachats (YAH-hots) and its inhabitants—called Yachatians (yah-HAY-shuns), or occasionally Yahotties (yah-HOT-tees)—get themselves a Major League Baseball team. Each episode tells a little more about this page in the town’s history. To learn about Yachats, the Paris of the Pacific Northwest, please go to this page or go to GoYachats.

Various writers have taken on the task of writing this blog. Today’s entry is written again by Harrison Grutch. By now, you all know Harrison. And you know that the Yachats baseball team will be nicknamed the Smelt. The announcement of that name brought on a huge celebration throughout Yachats. Here, Harrison describes the morning after.

The Realization That We Are Smelt
by Harrison Grutch

On the morning in question Diego McHuguenot awoke nurturing the reverse hangover that comes from having not used up all the reason for celebrating. As the first golden drops of sunlight sprinkled his eyelids he recalled kicking up his heels the day before. He smiled as he struggled out of bed and raised himself to a full bipedal stance.

Then he recalled that on the previous evening he had asked Big Forbes Crossbowe, one of the Magnificent Trinity who had thought up the idea of major league baseball in Yachats, if he, Diego, could be on the Smelt Board of Directors. In fact, as long as he was asking, could he be chairperson?

Now Forbes, despite his rough-hewn appearance and demeanor—with his burlap complexion, drowned-cat beard, and kettledrum voice—was a retired school teacher and didn’t have the heart to damp Diego’s ambitions. His teacher’s knee-jerk reaction was to heap encouragement on Diego. So he said yes, of course, but it would have to be co-chairperson—Diego wasn’t the first person to ask.

To be accurate we would have to say that Forbes had given the co-chairperson position to all who had applied the same this-is-the-only-chance-I-will-ever-have-of-making-something-of-my-life facial expression that Diego had used. Thus, Forbes had given the co-chairperson position to about three dozen Yachatians, plus a Bulgarian and one especially symmetrical lady from the Solomon Islands. So far.

Co-anything was okay with Diego. He always set his sights low and was rarely disappointed. Well…there was the time he wore the chicken suit, but we needn’t get into that.

But back to the morning in question. Diego pulled himself together and wandered into the bathroom. There, he stared into the vanity mirror above the sink, as was his habit. He smiled at the broad shoulders, narrow waist, and carnelian silk corduroy pajamas he saw there. His hair began to tousle itself.

And then breakfast occurred to him. At the Green Salmon Café, perhaps where many of the other revelers from yesterday would be gathered for reminiscing. He tore himself away from the mirror, and after proper rearrangement, burst forth out his front door and into his quaint neighborhood, where the jays were singing and a fragrant breeze was blowing off the estuary.

The shortest route to the Green Salmon took Diego nowhere near the Yachats Post Office, but rather, led him through the percussion section of town (see Figure 1). This area should have been strewn with djembes, bodhráns, and klabbersnappers from yesterday’s jubilation. But it wasn’t. Only the faint aroma of scorched drumheads still hung in the morning air to hint at the whirlwind of percussive activity that had taken place there.

Figure 1. Yachats drummers celebrating the Smelt. (Photo by Heather Taylor.)

As Diego continued to the Green Salmon he took a close look at other celebratory streets. All clean as a hound’s tooth. Nary a broken zoowonka, nary a tattered tartooka in sight. Draft horses, llamas (see Figure 2), and elephants all, gathered up and taken to pasture. Banners and pennants neatly rolled up. Confetti and glitter were swept away.

Figure 2. Yachats llama celebrating the Smelt. (Photo by Heather Taylor.)

“The Yachatian cooperation contagion,” Diego thought to himself (since no one else was available for him to think to). “A city of volunteers and cleaner than three and a half whistles after a huge celebration.”

But as Diego drew near his destination some mysterious force beckoned to him, luring him from the anticipated cinnamon roles and calendula stew of his intended. Then, as Diego hesitated, the inscrutable force, growing impatient, jerked him toward, of all places, the Post Office (which doesn’t even serve breakfast).

Next time: Why is Diego being deterred from his breakfast? What unholy fate awaits him at the Temple of Junk Mail? Will the Green Salmon be sold out of calendula stew by the time Diego manages to free himself? Find out!

NOTE: Please go to “Leave a Reply” at the bottom of this page if you have anything to get off your chest regarding RS. The blog’s management team looks forward to hearing from you and discussing your contributions to our files.

NOTE AGAIN: Eric Sallee and Dave Baldwin are proud to state that this is the Rubbery Shrubbery blog. They refuse to go beyond that, however, realizing that pride goeth before a fall.

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6 – Smelt It Is

Posted on July 26, 2012 by Dave Baldwin

RUBBERY SHRUBBERY Post 6

Welcome to the official Rubbery Shrubbery (RS) blog. Here we describe the efforts of the Oregon seacoast town of Yachats (YAH-hots) and its inhabitants—called Yachatians (yah-HAY-shuns), or sometimes Yahotties (yah-HOT-tees)—to lure a Major League Baseball franchise hither. Each episode will inch you closer to the full story. To learn about Yachats, please go to this page or go to GoYachats.

Today’s entry in the RS blog is written again by Harrison Grutch. By now, Harrison needs no introduction. He will describe the excitement resulting from the decision to nickname the Yachats baseball team the Smelt.

Smelt It Is
by Harrison Grutch

Bud and Bonnie Klondike had been wedded merely eighteen hours. They had barely time to get settled in their seaside rental cottage when a hubbub from the streets disrupted their afternoon. “What the…?” exclaimed Bud, “Oh, my!” countered his bride, and they both rushed to the windowsill to peer over. And what to their wondering eyes should appear but a whole village celebrating.

Bud and Bonnie exchanged grins. Neither was a Yachatian nor a baseball fan, but upon hearing chants of “We are Smelt!” they realized a baseball team must have been christened. And the rhythm of the crowd drew them to join in the chorus: “Smelt forever!” They couldn’t help themselves.

Bonnie and Bud rushed out to the street, and there, amidst the hoopla, they saw a small, patchwork boy carrying a sign that was nearly as big as he was. It read “This is Smelt Country!” Truer words were never scrawled with crayon on cardboard. This was, indeed, Smelt Country.

The Klondikes swirled through the throngs. The human currents tossed them to and fro like empty plastic bottles in the Pacific. Imaginary fireworks (the real stuff being illegal) exploded in make-believe ker-bangs everywhere they listened. They both giggled (Bud in a manly way, of course) as they lost themselves in the magical moment. What a way to top off a honeymoon!

At the head of the conga line snaking through downtown with cadence and kicks were the heroic trio—Forbes, Bebe, and Phyllicida—who had first thought of bringing major league baseball to Yachats. And leading the conga, twirling her baton with the grace she had flourished decades earlier, was former high school star majorette Eudora Bixby. Yes, the very same Eudora Bixby who had first brought the smelt to the notice of the Name-Our-Team judge, Abigail Bosonella. The very same Abigail who, her head full of bouquets of red, yellow, and blue compliments, now marched along behind Eudora, waving a placard reading “Let’s hear it for the Smelt!”

Of course, music was needed to make everything fall into place. Nearly half of Yachatians are musicians (usually the upper half), so making music was no problem. At the first sniff of a celebration, musicians came out of nowhere to blow their zoowonkas and bang their tartookas. The Ladies’ Didgeridoo Marching Band was in fine form, and the Fidgety Drummers’ Union improvised.

And as the saying goes, when the body dances, the mind must follow, and vice versa. Yachatians jitterbugged and bunny hugged and shampoo-the-rugged beyond comprehension.

Presently falling into step was the Yachats Umbrella Drill Team followed by the Yachats Belly Dance Troupe and the Shady Grove Rest Home Walkercade shuffling along in rhythm on tennis-ball feet. (The Yachats Umbrella Drill Team is shown in Figure 1).

Figure 1. The Yachats Umbrella Drill Team. (Photo by Dona Nixon.)

Our recently coupled couple, Mr. and Mrs. Klondike, danced and pranced for about an hour, then exchanged facial expressions and disappeared. They had stored memories for a lifetime. Big surprises stick in the mind.

The rest of the celebration continued without them, on into the wee hours of the afternoon. But with all this intoxicating joy, little did the multitude realize what lay ahead of it.

Next Time: We’ll explore further the psychological whirligig that Yachatians are experiencing as they adjust to the idea of having a baseball team called the Smelt. And we’ll see how resourceful Yachatians can be when the first problem arises.

NOTE: Please go to “Leave a Reply” at the bottom of this page to let us know how much you value RS or how absolutely not. We’ll publish all your responses on the day the Yachats Smelt win their first major league game.

NOTE AGAIN: Dave Baldwin and Eric Sallee have been repeatedly accused of having something to do with this blog. They’ve denied it to the utmost.

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5 – A Nickname in the Making!

Posted on July 23, 2012 by Dave Baldwin

RUBBERY SHRUBBERY Post 5

Here we go again—another whirl with the Rubbery Shrubbery (RS) blog as it follows Yachats (YAH-hots), Oregon, and its inhabitants—generally called Yachatians (yah-HAY-shuns), or in many cases, Yahotties (yah-HOT-tees)—as they acquire a Major League Baseball franchise. They’re making great progress, as you will see. To learn about Yachats, “Baseball Capital of the World,” please go to this page or go to GoYachats.

Many Yachatians are yearning to contribute posts to the RS blog. Today’s lucky author again will be Harrison Grutch, who will continue from the previous post, describing the NAME-OUR-TEAM Contest. In case you’ve forgotten, the winner will be given at least a handful of season tickets to our team’s first season.

A Nickname in the Making!
by Harrison Grutch

Some fish stories are happier than others. Eudora Bixby, smiling and garbed in her finest beige housecoat and pink slippers, bustled across town to the Yachats Post Office where she found Phyllicida, Bebe, and Forbes slumped on their customary bench. The whole world was bright and cheerful but for this miserable trio. They had failed to find an acceptable nickname for the Yachats team.

Eudora stood before their wretchedness and couldn’t help but smirk. Without uttering a word, she held out her pulsating fist and unfolded to reveal her surprise…a mishmash of scales, fins, tail, and beady eyes.

“SMELT!” exclaimed Forbes. Phyllicida and Bebe were speechless beyond words. How often had each of them enjoyed a daily smelt sandwich with no inkling it held the answer to their quest? For that matter, each had trodden the 804 Trail north of Yachats to the Smelt Sands State Park without suspicion that right there on that beachy smelt habitat resided the appellation our team would carry to its destiny. (Figure 1 shows two smelt fisherpeople at the Smelt Sands State Park.)

Figure 1. Smelt fisherpeople at Smelt Sands State Park. (Photo by Elizabeth Gates.)

Eudora glowed with hard-earned pride. At last, she was emerging from the shadow of her eminent husband, Horace. At last, she would be a celebrity in her own right. Her brown eyes sparkled, and her gray-streaked auburn hair began to curl itself gently on the nape of her neck.

Wasting no time, Bebe, Phyllicida, and Forbes leaped to their feet and led Eudora, still clutching her epiphany, skipping the yellow brick road a few blocks north to the home of Abigail Bosonella, the interim NAME-OUR-TEAM judge who had replaced the missing Judge Crater. The oddly attractive Abigail had been swamped with undesirable nickname suggestions since the contest began. Upon hearing urgent rapping on her knocker, she waded across the living room and flung open the door to her surprise.

There, in the brilliant sunshine, stood the beaming beige and pink Eudora and her three beaming friends. Without a word Eudora thrust out her fist revealing the rearranged seafood. Upon seeing Eudora’s hodgepodge, Abigail’s first impulse was “ICK!” But then she realized she was viewing Yachats’s future, and her complexion turned a different color. And the more she thought about it, the more her toes uncurled and the more the world looked like chocolate. Abigail slowly took on an air of abandon.

“Oh, what the heck. Smelt it is,” she announced at last to the cheers of the trio plus one. There comes a time in the life of each red-blooded American village when destiny soars. Realizing this was Yachats’s time, Bebe suggested they all hold hands and sing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” A look from Phyllicida suggested they not. “Kumbaya, maybe?” received an even sterner look.

Still, Phyllicida was partially giddy, and although music-restrained, she managed to bubble with non-melodious excitement. As did Forbes, though bubbling manfully. Thus unable to contain themselves, the quartet plus one took to the streets of Yachats to announce to all, in town crier fashion, that the Yachats baseball team had a nickname at long last. And a nickname both fans and players could be proud of. GO SMELT!

Next time: We’ll find out how Yachatians reacted to the news that their village had become the baseball capital of the world. Did everyone take to being Smelt immediately?

NOTE: Please go to “Leave a Reply” at the bottom of this page if you have special feelings for RS. We’ll save your feelings and publish them all on the day the Yachats Smelt play their first game in the majors.

NOTE AGAIN: Eric Sallee and Dave Baldwin have been repeatedly accused of having something to do with this blog. They have denied it again and again.

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4 – The Contest Rages!

Posted on July 19, 2012 by Dave Baldwin


RUBBERY SHRUBBERY Post 4
Welcome back to the official Rubbery Shrubbery (RS) blog. Here, you can catch up on the news of Yachats (YAH-hots), Oregon, and its citizens—called Yachatians (yah-HAY-shuns), or Yahotties (yah-HOT-tees)—as they try to get a Major League Baseball franchise. Each episode will leave you breathless (however, please see NOTE below). To learn about Yachats, please go to this page or go to GoYachats.

Several Yachatians are collaborating to write the RS blog, but today’s entry is written again by Mr. Harrison Grutch. He continues from the previous post, describing the NAME-OUR-BASEBALL-TEAM Contest. In case you’ve forgotten, the winner will be given two season tickets to the Yachats team’s first season.

The Contest Rages!
by Harrison Grutch

Like three soggy mop heads, Bebe Broadbent, Phyllicida Thronk, and Big Forbes Crossbowe slumped on their favorite bench in front of the Yachats Post Office. (Figure 1 shows the Yachats estuary covered with live seagulls. The Yachats Post Office is just to the left of the left edge of the photo.) Usually this friendly venue lifted the spirits of our trio, but this day hearts were heavy. The NAME-OUR-TEAM Contest had worn on interminably like a genealogy recitation, and still no fearsome nickname had burst forth to claim the prize.

Figure 1. City of Yachats, just to the right of the Post Office. (Photo by Jerry Kimmel.)

Oh, plenty of entries there had been, right enough, but they just weren’t…well, here’s a few examples:
“Lovers” (why women shouldn’t be allowed to vote),
“Banana Slugs” (why men shouldn’t be allowed to vote),
“Fiddlers” (not at all fearsome).

On the other hand, the “Sasquatches” was fearsome in spades. Unfortunately, Sasquatch lawyers demanded outrageous compensation for use of their name.

On yet another hand, the “Woolly Mammunks” is a name more fearsome than tigers. Many are unfamiliar, though, with the mammoth chipmunk so well known in these parts. Native to the imaginations of Yachats and southernmost Waldport (the city eight miles north of Yachats), the woolly mammunk is said to be a shy critter, never seen in the light of day and partially extinct. But paleontologists insist the woolly mammunk isn’t one bit extinct, and what’s more, it never was.

Perhaps you’ve read Professor Rafferty McDaff’s recent best seller Tracking the Wily Woolly Mammunk. In his sensational money maker, McDaff claims the woolly mammunk does so exist, preying primarily on antelope, elk, and cougars. The professor, often cited for misusing and abusing metaphors, has appeared on many talk shows and has been featured at half-time ceremonies and coronations, where you might hear claims that the woolly mammunk’s massive wooliness is retaining heat, thus causing global warming. Some people will believe anything that isn’t nailed down.

So, you can see why our contest organizers were whimpering despite Yachats being abuzz with chatter about its new team, despite nickname suggestions avalanching upon the contest judge, Kennesaw Crater. (That is, they were avalanching upon Judge Crater during the first few days of the contest, but then a strange thing happened. Consequently, Abigail Bosonella replaced him.)

But at that very moment on the other side of town at 666 West Smelt Circle, Eudora Bixby was preparing lunch for her snoring husband, Horace. She had been happy once, but we won’t go into that now.

As she laid out sandwich fixings on her sandwich board, she sighed, thinking back to those days that we won’t go into now. She stared wistfully at the mayonnaise and perky relish. She contemplated bread.

And then she noticed, for the first time, the smelt. Dead smelt, in this case, waiting patiently to be included in the incipient sandwich. Eudora studied the sleek body and majestic profile. It stirred her heart and reminded her not one bit of Horace.

Like any other housewife, Eudora wasn’t an ordinary housewife. She had ideas. She had lived a life of inflated hopes, though, as have we all. She had garbled expectations. But as she stared at the magnificent dead lunch, it occurred to her that fearsomeness was a matter of relative size. The smelt that lay before her would be seen as ferocious by any organism of appropriate mass—say, a paramecium or a nematode. The smelt, then, qualified for the nicknaming contest.

In a wink Eudora grabbed her housecoat, slipped on her favorite fluffy pink slippers, scooped up the expired fish, and headed out the door.

NEXT TIME: Will Eudora, corpse in hand, put an end to our exciting contest? Will Horace, upon awakening, notice that What’s-Her-Name is gone? We know you’ll titter with delight when you find out. Feel free to twitter, as well, if the mood strikes you, and you should have no qualms about tittering as you twitter. Few people have.

NOTE: Please go to “Leave a Reply” at the bottom of this page to send us attaboys for RS, or if you were not adequately breathless, please send a short note describing how short of breathless you were. We’ll save all attaboys and so forth and publish them on the day the Yachats team opens its first season in the majors.

NOTE AGAIN: Dave Baldwin and Eric Sallee are absolutely not to blame for what happens here, although many letters to the “RS Editors” have been addressed to these unfortunate souls.

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3 – “I Love You, Bebe Broadbent”

Posted on July 16, 2012 by Dave Baldwin

RUBBERY SHRUBBERY Post 3

Welcome to the official Rubbery Shrubbery (RS) blog. It describes the efforts of Yachats (YAH-hots), Oregon, and its citizens—called Yachatians (yah-HAY-shuns), or in some cases, Yahotties (yah-HOT-tees)—to acquire a Major League Baseball franchise. To learn about Yachats, please go to this page or go to GoYachats.

In this posting, Harrison Grutch continues to tell how Yachats began its quest for a baseball team. Now we have a team-naming contest in the making.

“I Love You, Bebe Broadbent”
by Harrison Grutch

If you’ve been following my postings on RS, you know a lucky series of events at the Drift Inn Café has convinced three Yachatians (Forbes Crossbowe, Bebe Broadbent, and Phyllicida Thronk) that Yachats is ripe for Major League Baseball. Ripe enough, in fact, to hold a YACHATS BASEBALL TEAM NAMING CONTEST. When Forbes suggested this idea over and around a smoked salmon omelette, Bebe and Phyllicida couldn’t have been more enthusiastic. Bebe’s delightful squeals sent shivers of testosterone coursing through Forbes’s unaccustomed body.

In his excitement Forbes inadvertently blurted out, “I love you, Bebe Broadbent!” Whereupon Bebe, keen to go with the flow, cried out, “Oh, yes, Forbes! Me too! I love everyone in Yachats!” Which left Forbes critically taken aback. He choked on his last bite of omelette.

Meanwhile Phyllicida, always one to get right down to business, ignored the give-and-take of her two companions and began turning the contest details over in her head. “Are we giving the team a first name as well as a second name? Like, say, the Oregon Scridgehoppers?”

Now, that question isn’t as silly as one might think. Many teams take an all-inclusive place name—like the Colorado Rockies or the Minnesota Twins or the California Los Angeles Anaheim Santa Ana Fullerton Bakersfield Angels—in an effort to attract fans from distant localities. A team called the Oregon Thingamapuppies might draw fans from the far corners of the state, like Cannibal Mountain and Naughty Lady Meadow and Snap Jaw Junction. [Note: I made up that last one. I had time to kill, what with Bebe pounding Forbes on the back and all.]

Before her comrades could respond, Phyllicida charged ahead, “But wait! Why not go for the biggest possible fan base—maybe the North American Superheroes or the Western Hemisphere Spheroids?” Visions of North Americans and/or Western Hemispherians danced in her head…throngs of fans with their Western Hemisphere maps unfolded and stretched upon tables, trying to find Yachats. She dreamily etched the outline of the Western Hemisphere into her raspberry crepe with her fork (see Fig. 1).

Figure 1. Raspberry creped outline of the Western Hemisphere, Earth.

But Bebe, finished pounding what with Forbes breathing again, quickly ratcheted down from her euphoric high and thought better of Phyllicida’s radical ideas. She carefully wrinkled her nose as if to say, “Oh, come on now. We would never have fans coming from those places. Not with the cost of steamers these days. This reminds me of some of your other peanut-butter-and-jelly schemes, such as the dragonfly petting zoo (see Fig. 2) or the Yachats International Yacht Races.”

Figure 2. Cardinal meadowhawk dragonfly in what would have been a dragonfly petting zoo if Bebe wasn't so lacking in imagination.*

And, can you believe it? That subtle, graceful nasal rumpling squished Phyllicida’s magnificent concept in the bud.

So, it looks like the team’s first name is going to be just plain old, everyday “Yachats.” How unoriginal! It’s a shame they couldn’t have thought up something out-of-the-ordinary and catchy.

But onward they marched, trying to find a fearsome nickname. Their first task in that regard was to post announcements on every bulletin board in town, saying that the winner of the contest will get two season tickets free for our team’s first major league season.

Soon folks began calling in their most fearsome nickname suggestions. At times the queue at the phone booth in front of the C & K Market was three deep.

The number of responses was impressive, but all the really fearsome nicknames seemed to have been taken—Dodgers, Brewers, White Sox. What was left? Only namby-pamby junk. Bebe began to despair and Phyllicida likewise. Forbes panicked (but in a manly way).

An indigo funk descended on our trio for they realized a nick-nameless team is unacceptable—the Baseball Deities just wouldn’t stand for it. Somehow, a fearsome nickname must be found.

* Photo by Kathleen Sand.

Next Time: Harrison returns to tell us whether the funk was lifted by a glorious nickname or would Yachats be forced to try to sneak one past the Deities?

NOTE: Please go to “Leave a Reply” at the bottom of this page to send us expressions of love and admiration for RS or less so. We’ll save and publish them on the day the Yachats team opens its first season in the majors.

NOTE AGAIN: Perhaps, in some obtuse way, Eric Sallee and Dave Baldwin might have a slight, oblique association with the writers of this blog.

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2 – Some More About the Beginning

Posted on July 11, 2012 by Dave Baldwin

RUBBERY SHRUBBERY Post 2
   
Welcome to the official Rubbery Shrubbery (RS) blog. It describes the efforts of Yachats (YAH-hots), Oregon, and its citizens—called Yachatians (yah-HAY-shuns), or in some cases, Yahotties (yah-HOT-tees)—to acquire a Major League Baseball franchise. To learn about Yachats (Where Nature Happens Every Day), please go to this page or go to GoYachats.
   
Several faithful chroniclers are writing this blog. Today’s entry again is written by hard-bitten, ex-sportswriter Harrison Grutch. Now a retired Yachatian, he devotes all his time to reporting on Major League Baseball on the central Oregon coast.
   
Some More About the Beginning
by Harrison Grutch
   
The Yachatian sun was shining brightly last Tuesday morning as Big Forbes Crossbowe entered the Drift Inn Café (see Fig. 1) with smoked salmon omelette on his mind. Little did he realize he was about to make baseball history.
   

Figure 1. Drift Inn Café in downtown Yachats.

When Bebe Broadbent (the secret object of Forbes’s wistful musings) and Phyllicida Thronk saw Forbes they waved for him to join them at their booth. No sooner had Forbes gotten himself comfortably seated than Bebe leaned toward him and whispered, “You’re a guy, so you must know a lot about baseball, right?”
   
Forbes was temporarily at a loss, but after an awkward moment of grappling with his internal sprinkler system, he gathered his wits, and blurted out, “Oh, sure! All us guys know about baseball.” His right eye began to twitch.
   
Phyllicida shushed him and whispered, “Hush! Keep your voice down. We don’t want those people in the next booth to hear us.” And she pointed discretely toward “those people.”
   
“Why?” Forbes asked hushedly.
   
“We’ve overheard them say that Yachats might get a major league baseball team,” confided Phyllicida, nodding a firm reassurance in response to Forbes’s stunned look.
   
Bebe giggled quietly, “Pretty cool, huh?”
   
For a moment Forbes was bewitched by Bebe’s fetching chime-like titter. But then, realizing the topic was still baseball and he was supposed to have knowledge of that sport in conjunction with the potential for rampant baldness, Forbes tried to mirror the ladies’ enthusiasm by sputtering, “Wow, that is cool.”
   
From that point everything was spaghetti pudding. Forbes could do little but smile sagely and add, “yep,” or “sounds great,” as Phyllicida surmised which celebrity they could get to throw out the first pitch, and Bebe shared baseball trivia she had picked up from Martha Stewart.
   
At last, Forbes (trying to stay in the conversation) asked about the team’s nickname.
   
Bebe: “Well, the team we’ll get, probably, is called the Nationals. But I’m not fond of that—it reminds me of silly stuff like National Lampoon and the National Debt. Can we rename the team?”
   
Forbes: “Oh, I’m sure we can. We could have a team naming contest!”
   
Suddenly the folks in the next booth were forgotten, and Forbes’s suggestion was greeted with positive yips and screeches. He soared in his heroic moment. And he couldn’t help but try to stay aloft. “…with thousands of dollars in prizes,” he cried out. “And…and…I love you, Bebe Broadbent!”
   
Next Time: Did Forbes blow his credibility with that misblurt about thousands of dollars? Did Bebe ravel or unravel at the declaration of love spouted at her? You’ll find out next time, assuming you’ve added this affable site to your list of favorites. Do that right now.
   
NOTE: Please go to “Leave a Reply” at the bottom of this page to send us expressions of love and admiration for RS or the opposite. We’ll publish all of them on the day the Yachats [insert nickname here] open their initial season in the National or American League, whichever comes first.
   
NOTE AGAIN: Although there is only circumstantial evidence to support this accusation, Dave Baldwin and Eric Sallee are strongly suspected of having close ties with the writers of this blog.
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1 – The Germ of an Idea

Posted on July 8, 2012 by Dave Baldwin

RUBBERY SHRUBBERY Post 1
   
Welcome to the official Rubbery Shrubbery (RS) blog, which describes the efforts of Yachats (YAH-hots), Oregon, and its citizens—called Yachatians (yah-HAY-shuns), or in some cases, Yahotties (yah-HOT-tees)—to acquire a Major League Baseball franchise and stand as a beacon of hope for people-deficient cities everywhere. To learn about Yachats, please go to this page or go to GoYachats.
   
Today’s entry in the RS blog is written by grizzled journalist Harrison Grutch. Once a sportswriter at an honorable newspaper, Harrison is now a retired curmudgeon devoting all his time to covering the Yachatian sports scene.
   
The Germ of an Idea
by Harrison Grutch
   
Nobody expects a baseball innovation, especially not two matronly ladies casually enjoying breakfast in the Drift Inn Café in the heart of Yachats, Oregon.
   
Once the toughest biker bar on the Oregon Coast, the Drift Inn (Figure 1) now is maximally civilized with brightly colored Italian umbrellas hanging from the ceiling and Japanese cast iron teapots decorating its tables. In the summer the café is a tourist favorite; in the winter it’s a warm sanctuary for viewing storms sweeping across the Pacific.
   
Figure 1. Drift Inn interior. (Photo by Gretchen Hetzler.)
The baseball brainstorm in question occurred last Tuesday morning as the ladies sat in a booth at the café, watching seagulls punctuate the Yachats River estuary (Figure 2). Our diners exchanged local news items over huevos rancheros.
   
Figure 2. Yachats River estuary. (Photo by Jerry Kimmel.)
   
If one of our ladies twinkled, that would be Bebe Broadbent. Renowned for her pert eyes, sparkling nose, and flossy red hair (tinted by maturity), she was the kind of person who could cherish thumbtacks and adore banana slugs (see Fig. 3).

Figure 3. Banana slugs.

   
Seated across the table from Bebe was the substantial Phyllicida Thronk. She was grander than Bebe but in the most pleasant way possible. With sturdy infrastructure and blue-gray locks, she was a feat of nature. She knew the proper place for tacks and slugs.
   
By 10:05 they had finished their morning glory muffins and were digesting the news when to their delight a couple of couples—visitors in town—sat at the very next booth. By turning up their hearing aids full bore, Bebe and Phyllicida could accidentally hear everything said by the newcomers.
   
The conversation in the next booth went like this:
Gentleman #1, voice like a baboon: “I tell you, sports teams just keep on making billions even as the rest of the country goes to ruin. Look at the Washington Nationals. The worst team in baseball, and they still make money by the barrelfuls.”
   
Lady (unnumbered, but probably #1), piglet-voiced: “Why don’t we invest in a baseball team, then, Sweetheart?”
   
Gentleman #1: “Aw, it’s not that easy, Sugarplum. Not like buying into the stock market. You’ve got to know somebody to invest in a team.”
   
Gentleman #2, probably a grizzly: “That’s right, Toots. That is, unless you join some consortium that buys a team. Why, I bet even Yachats could get rich if it could get itself a baseball team. Say, maybe they’d like to buy the Nationals.”
   
With that idea launched from the next booth, the Yahotties (missing the distant guffaws) went into a twitter. Phyllicida leaned across the table. “Did you hear that, Beeb? Can you imagine a baseball team right here in Yachats? And it sounds like this Nationals team is available, too.”
   
Bebe could hardly contain herself. “Oh, this is exciting! We could go out to the ballpark and root for the Yachats team every afternoon. I think baseball teams play every day in the summertime.”
   
Then the ladies considered what they knew about baseball. Bebe recalled that baseball players marry famous actresses. “Joe DiMaggio married Marilyn Monroe, remember?” Phyllicida added, “Yes, and Ted Turner married Jane Fonda. We’ll have lots of celebrities here once we have a team.” Each enjoyed a pleasant moment with her reverie.
   
But then the Yahotties’ baseball facts dwindled. Bebe had visions of being head cheerleader, but Phyllicida was sure baseball fans cheered autonomously. Do baseball teams have mascots? Break dancers? Marching bands performing at halftime?
   
Just as Bebe and Phyllicida felt they were swimming in molasses, Big Forbes Crossbowe came into the restaurant. Not long out of the wilderness—having just hiked over the western edge of the continent—he sauntered through the door with twigs and salmonberries (see Fig. 4) still clinging to his western exterior. Forbes, an unfinished gentleman of rugged chin, squinting eye, and thick boots, was blessed with local esteem nearly equal to that of the ladies. What’s more, for many months he had nurtured a vague, unrequited yearning for Bebe. Thus, he moseyed over to their booth.
   

Figure 4. Salmonberry decorating the western edge of the continent.

You can imagine his surprise when they quickly invited him to have a seat. Before he could say a word Bebe shushed him and whispered, “Keep your voice down. We don’t want anyone to hear us.” And the two excited ladies and one puzzled Forbes crouched as low as they could in their booth.
   
Suddenly, out of the blue, came the moment of truth for Forbes. “You’re a guy,” Bebe hinted softly to him, “so you must know a lot about baseball, right?”
   
There comes a time in every man’s life when he finds himself face to face with such a heavily loaded question, its answer destined to define his character forever. Sweat trickled and knuckles whitened.
   
Next Time: Tune in next episode to find out whether Forbes blew this one, even after being dealt the hot Y chromosome card.
   
NOTE: Please go to “Leave a Reply” at the bottom of this page to send expressions of adoration for RS or (gasp!) otherwise. We’ll save them and publish them on the day the Yachats team opens its first season in the majors.
   
NOTE AGAIN: Although they will deny it hard, Eric Sallee and Dave Baldwin are strongly suspected of being closely associated with the writers of this blog.
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0 – Rubbery Shrubbery (RS) Begins

Posted on June 29, 2012 by Dave Baldwin

Each post of the Rubbery Shrubbery blog will inch you closer to the full story of the Yachatian baseball enterprise.  Our thanks to the chroniclers who agreed to take part in this undertaking, risking nightmares and eating disorders to report to you a crispy chunk of history in the making.

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