The Day the Glen Breathed Back

Mary and I drove into the Klamath Glen on what I called a “sightseeing tour,” but she would later describe it as a white-knuckle expedition sponsored by yours truly. Now, if you’ve ever driven over the old levee, you know it rises just enough to give you a sense that gravity has gone on holiday, and then it drops off the other side like the chute on a carnival ride.

Mary does not do carnival rides. The rise alone had her pressing her hands flat on the dashboard like she was about to hold the car together through sheer willpower.

But when we crested and started our descent, she sucked in a breath so hard it came out as a squeak. Not a scream, not a gasp, but a squeak.

Imagine a mouse caught in a church pew, trying not to be noticed. That was Mary.

I laughed, which, judging by the glare I received, was not the correct response.

“Don’t laugh,” she scolded, which only made me laugh harder, which made her squeak again, which set us both off like a pair of mismatched accordions.

Once gravity returned to its regularly scheduled duties and Mary unclenched her fingers from the dashboard, I confessed the purpose of my little detour. I wanted to show her the Gingerbread House, or what folks sometimes called the Swiss Chalet.

A storybook kind of place, with gingerbread trim and more charm than a Hallmark movie marathon. Only, as it turned out, I couldn’t find it.

We cruised slowly down the narrow roads, scanning for that little chalet, but it was nowhere in sight. It may be gone, swallowed up by time, weather, or the bulldozer—none of which ask permission before taking what they want.

That thought hit me harder than I expected. A place once so full of character, now possibly vanished without a trace.

But then came the oddest sight. Andy McBeth’s barn, big as life, still standing tall, looking as though it had just shrugged off the years like a stubborn mule. Ageless, defiant, and refusing to sag even an inch.

And right across the way, Crivelli’s Bar told the opposite story. The roof slumped like a tired man resting his head in his hands. And yet—the lights in the windows were still on.

Someone, it seemed, was inside keeping vigil, while the building, broken in its bones, still whispered, “I’m here, don’t count me out.”

Mary and I drove by quietly, taking it in. We didn’t speak, because some sights don’t call for words.

Driving away, I thought about how some things endure long past their expected time, while others disappear suddenly, without explanation. A barn can outlast a business.

A sagging roof can still glow with life. And sometimes, the best you can do is notice, remember, and keep telling the story.

Mary finally broke the silence. “Next time,” she said, “you can just show me pictures.”

I chuckled as she continued, “And if we do go sightseeing again, no more roller-coaster levees. I can only squeak so many times in one afternoon.”

Fair enough. Marriage is, after all, a long ride across many dikes—some up, some down—and the trick is to laugh together when gravity gets playful.

We may never find the Gingerbread House again, but we’ll always remember our half hour in the Glen—barns, sagging roofs, squeaks and all.