A Weiner Roast


About 35 years have passed since the company for which I worked sponsored a kid-friendly expense-paid weekend on the Waldport, Oregon. Our group assembled there on a Saturday morning with the shelter we owned – motorhomes travel trailers, campers, vans, and tents. We fished, we crabbed, and we told stories around our campfire.

A coworker and I stood on a jetty and fished the tide in. We ate lunch during the slack period. Then we fished it back out. Pink-fin sea perch were running that weekend and by the time the run was over my friend and I had caught more than 70 of these hefty critters. And after standing so many hours my legs had turned to jello.

Late afternoon, Saturday, the company furnished all the hotdogs and marshmallows we could eat. I don’t know who had the most fun that weekend, but I do know my twin daughters, Tina and Sonya enjoyed themselves roasted more hotdogs than anyone else.

Someone mentioned they were returning to the fire a bit too quickly and followed them only to discover they were pitching them into the brush. And that was it for them.


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