The quaint town of Mt. Angel, right here in Oregon, has a sausage house. They call it the Sausage Company, but it’s a restaurant. So for me, it’s a sausage house. Since Mt. Angel is noted for its Octoberfest, it is emblazoned with stores and restaurants with names like Glockenspiel and Touch of Bavaria. But the sausage house/company puts out a damn fine meal complete with the festive regional music and the expected kitsch. The accordion-enhanced polka makes the odd appearance over the Lo Fi sound system, proving that it takes lots of beer to embrace that form of music. They have a fireplace which is very much appreciated when I’ve been out on the motorcycle all day in less than perfect weather. They let me dry my wet gear on the hearth and drink coffee under the influence of the flames. Orders are taken on iPads, which seems a little anachronistic, given the old world charm. But they have RC Cola, which forgives many sins.
Speaking of sins, this is an area steeped in Catholicism. Mt. Angel is at the foot of the Mount Angel Abbey, a Catholic institution set atop a hill that rises several hundred feet over the Willamette Valley, a little east of Salem. The Abbey is officially its own little town: St. Benedict, Oregon (97373) is home to a seminary and monastery. It’s been around since 1882 so the campus is quite cultured and the cathedral invokes the awe such buildings do. The Stations of the Cross mark the wooded drive up to the monastery with their uncomfortably graphic dioramas.
I’ve been coming to the Abbey for over 40 years. Though I do not share the faith, my family has a lot of it in its history. My Uncle Paul, after whom I'm named, was a Franciscan friar and had a huge influence on the sense of humor that has delighted and/or horrified all who know me. I worked at the Woodburn Drive-in as a lad. When the field had emptied of cars on those sultry summer nights of my youth, a few of us would pile in a convertible Chevrolet and take a slow drive up to the top of the abbey to view the valley below. A severe addiction I’ve yet to shake is photography. I’d spend hours up there with a view camera. With my head under the drape, I’d focus the ground glass until the upside down scene popped into sharpness. The monks with their deafening vow of silence seemed to find my hobby both fascinating and vexing. They’d hover about, black robes and all, yet never say a word. I’d wait for hours for the light to be the way I wanted it before hitting the shutter release. No one bothered me. My red-on-red 1962 Impala Super Sport lounged in the lot with a trunk big enough to hold my huge camera, a tripod that spread to the size of a teepee, piles of film holders, bags of gear, and a family of four Bavarians—all living.
When I have my most spontaneous explosions of inappropriate humor, I tend to blame the spirit of my Uncle Paul. The guy’s dead, so he won’t argue. I could feel his warm Franciscan presence as I walked up the steps to the campus the other day. At the top of the stairs two older priests stood, like they were waiting for me...at the gates of...something.... When I stepped off the last step, one of the priests asked, “What brings you to the Abbey today?” The spirit of uncle Paul seized me and I responded, “We’re here to buy drugs. We hear Father Joseph has the best stuff in the valley.”
My companion looked at me the way Stewie looks at Brian when Brian is off the rails, tilting his football shaped head a full 90 degrees. The priest, a man obviously cut from the same cloth as Uncle Paul shot back with, “Did you bring the coupon?”
“Got it right here in my phone,” I said.
We all laughed and as the silent priest blessed us, the other said, “Don’t try to out smart-alec an Irish Catholic.” We went our separate ways in peace.
My friend said, “I can’t tell this story to anyone. No one would believe it.” I should note her head is not at all football shaped.
I still dabble in photography. Slow to embrace digital-ism, I can be found peering through an old Canon F or a Yashica 124. If you smell vinegar as I pass you in the lobby, it’s the stop bath I dripped on my clothes because, yes, I still develop my own film. The Abbey library was designed by the Finnish architect Alvar Aalto. I have no idea who that is, but the building is an amazing collection of angles, curves, light, and books. Feeling like I was ignoring library etiquette, I found my iPhone in my hands. I’d move it side to side watching composition and form on the glass screen, sending up a silent prayer for forgiveness from St. Ansel. I wondered how big of a donation it would take to permit me to bring in a film camera and a tripod.
The trip back down the steps was not spiced by the same ecclesiastical wit as our ascension. This time it was not to load into my old Chev, but into my van. Yes, a minivan. But, it has a/c and uses less gas than my rowdy 327. Back when my Chev graced these grounds, I could kill half a large Abby’s Pizza without a care. This day was a day off so I enjoyed my sinful Bratwurst burger tucked into a bun of pretzel dough. The sweet mustard tops off my carb load for the week, but totally worth it. I think I did a good job of not calling it, “Heavenly.” If I had, Father Paul would be heard groaning from heaven above. “The best thing about you is your absence,” he’d say when my powers of annoyance exceeded his priestly patience.
(All photos were shot with my iPhone. I know....)