excerpt from How to Chaperone at the Beach, copyright 1999 THIS TOWN NEEDS A RESTAURANT(Take 1)
    That magical moment has arrived...the beginning of a new chapter! After weeks of anticipation, doubt, and confusion, the chain of events finally brings focus upon the next chapter title which I wrote down several years ago and I realize what I am supposed to write about, or if I have known all along at least I now know how to write about it. Of course, the beginning of a new chapter does not necessarily coincide with the completion of the last chapter, but that is how I expect many writers approach writing, we terminally right brain lot do it that way anyway, and I guess it might be related to fractals, or chaos theory. For me, it's perhaps genetic. On the other hand, my inspiration could be linked to drinking coffee tonight, something I almost never do. And my family has abandoned me to my mania by falling soundly asleep.
 Last night we booked the opening performer for our new coffeehouse-gallery-event space. She is a wonderful folk singer whom we became involved with almost twenty years ago. Syncronistically, today I sat in front of the metaphysical book store in our small community, doing a rain forest art project as part of the jazz and music festival which has replaced the Crazy Days event that used to be the merchants ploy to attract willing victims to consumerism in our town. In the past, Crazy days was highlighted by a parade of logging trucks competing by toting the largest old growth trees cut down in the previous year. This year the chamber of commerce decided to jazz up the event to reflect a more cosmopolitan image, and forego the log trucks, perhaps unwittingly paying homage to the few environmentalists who have lived for some time now in the county.
    I decided to participate only a day before the festival. I had just finished presenting a model city of the future and a futures fair with my elementary students on the last day of the school year, and what with getting out the flyers for my summer art classes, my spirit was reeling. It is only now, in these quiet late night hours that mom and I love, that I can reflect upon the significance of where I was sitting today. I told the story several times to friends passing by my little table about how, almost twenty years ago, I stood very close to this very spot, across from the Security State bank drive-up window and watched Linda Allen start the Sunnyside Folk Art Center with an open mic, right there in the drive through! I remember weeping with relief that music was coming to this town, tears streaming down my face. It didn't matter that we didn't have electricity in our meager abode located in a less than gregarious town. There was music here now.  Somehow Linda and I got together and I decided to do the restaurant part of the Sunnyside Folk Art Center, calling myself Sunnyside Over. Linda, the perennial optimist had suggested that I call it Sunnyside Up, but I was feeling cynical that day, somewhat discouraged about the lack of volunteer help that was supposed to participate in the transformation of the old 24 flavors building into a music hall and kitchen. In the end, it was primarily old Mr. Flory and I who accomplished the task, working steadily for hours every day. Two-year-old Moon padded about the place, "helping" whereever he could. Our perseverance was rewarded one day by discovering a huge old metal Coca-Cola sign face down under the flooring we were replacing. It hangs on the well house now.
    While it lasted, the Folk Center, thanks to Linda and to Larry Hanks who later replaced her as director provided exactly what Linda has always promoted--community.  Malvina Reynolds(who gave the world many wonderful songs) played at the Sunnyside, complimenting my quiche, by the way. On the afternoon of her performance, Malvina walked into the Center and, seeing that I was obviously disgruntled while cleaning the rug with a carpet sweeper because the vacuum had broken, she offered to take over the job so that I could get back to baking bread. I accepted her offer.
    Elizabeth Cotton (the legendary African-American songwriter who wrote the song Freight Train) came to play when she was in her nineties. There were many great performers like Larry Hanks, Linda Waterfall, Brian Bower, Utah Phillips and local open-micers like Steve Wahl who introduced us to the song Acres of Clams; a local piano teacher and her friend who always sang Danny Boy with such sweetness, only occasionally off key. And there was the man with the cowboy hat, who, playing chords we may not have recognized and singing with words we couldn't understand, was a regular open micer.  Linda made it clear from the very start that music was for everyone, and anyone who wanted to sing was always welcome at open mic. Music, the muse.
    A young woman named Kathy Hamilton did Tole art next door, and I focused on the culinary arts--creating a truly wonderful carob cake one night from scratch after unsuccessfully attempting to do so for young Moon's birthdays on numerous occasions. I baked homemade bread every Saturday for weekly reserved dinners. I used many of Mom's best recipes for the menus, which were published in the Folk Center newsletter. For a while lots of people came and enjoyed the relaxed, homey atmosphere we were able to create. We launched the Sunnyside Over Restaurant venture using a couple thousand dollars that Rick earned at the chicken ranch. I bought dishes from Salvation Army, decorated each table differently with different materials for tablecloths and served family style meals, which were passed around the table in ample containers. Hallie, a folk center volunteer made good on her promise to provide handmade patchwork cloth napkins. People seemed to like the communal atmosphere, with coffeepots at each table. And there was no waitperson, no dishwasher, no other help except our friend Stan, who spent much of the time trying to convince me to use the steady supply of vegomatics and other exotic widgets he was accumulating from yard sales.   I passed every health inspection only losing a point or two, but there are stories almost too preposterous to tell from those days. I recall my turquoise green Ford truck running out of gas twice in one day. The day before opening, I sprained my ankle and so delivered the plates of food with the help of a crutch. That night I forevermore banned the use of whole-wheat spaghetti, because I had left the calculations of how much water to use to Stan and Rick, because of my ankle. After they put 20 pounds of whole-wheat spaghetti into a canner size pot of boiling water we had a good amount of glue, and had to run down to the store to buy regular spaghetti to cook while bemused patrons awaited their meal and the start of the show. Fortunately, there was always a wealth of local talent to hop on stage and keep things rolling.
    The next week I lost my voice and interacted with my customers in whispers. They must have thought we were pretty amusing if not crazy but they tolerated us every week-- perhaps because we would sing along, and Linda was a warm and gracious impresario. The Sunnyside Folk Arts Center only lasted a couple of years, as it became more and more difficult to lure people away from their TV sets.
THIS TOWN NEEDS A COFFEEHOUSE(Take 2)
    I didn't go to my thirtieth high school reunion so that I would be forced to finish this book and send out a copy to everyone in the class.  That's a moment's revelation which may never manifest, but the truth is I didn't go because I couldn't make the decision three weeks in advance, which is what a cheap ticket from the airlines requires. How can anyone do that?  I can barely think an hour ahead, much to the disgruntlement of friends and acquaintances. McKenna was surprised when I was thinking about staying to do a six week work study at Esalen Institute at Big Sur, CA. "You've got such freedom," he said as he was scurrying by me to meet an interviewer from Rolling Stone magazine. "It's freedom of the mind," I said, as I remembered the beginning of the school year was in two weeks, and I probably should get back to teach.
    On Thursday I thought about going to my reunion on the Green Tortoise--a counter culture  bus line, but I was sick that day. Besides I had to be here, I thought, to be hostess for the many people who were coming to our work party for the REAL restaurant, the Matrix Coffeehouse.
    No one showed up for the work party and the next week Rick and I found ourselves shoveling a literal ton of concrete for the bathrooms the building inspectors had in mind. The real work, of course, came the week before when the concrete people delivered an extra yard so Rick and tile maker friend John had to shovel it into the truck and take it down to the land to became part of the driveway before it forever turned hard.  Meanwhile, I am sailing through the yards of the people of my county getting cups, spoons, old chairs and tables, kitchen widgets and material for the building. At yard sales, I have found many glass plate sets, the ones with a place to hold small coffee cups--the kind of dishes one would use to entertain their most cherished guests. 'Why do I find so many of these sets at yard sales? Is it because people are no longer having people come into their homes?' I have thought. 'If that is the case then I shall invite many people to the coffeehouse which will be like a home for everybody.'
    Let me tell you about the warehouse we found. The building that Don Burbee bought has 5000sq.ft, red brick walls and brand new skylights. Soon it will have bathrooms with three women's stalls and two men's stalls, a dubious tribute to the women's movement. Remember, every time anybody bitches about something it gives some bureaucrat a license to put it into the regulations. I guess we'll go ahead and build the bathrooms, and a "platform"(can't call it a stage or we have to put in sprinklers) and see if anybody comes."Who's going to be your target audience?" everyone keeps saying. Target-- I hate the way that sounds. As if I am taking aim with capitalistic zeal just looking for weakened members of the consumer herd straggling on the edges of post modernity, looking for a place to go.  When people ask who's your target audience now I just say, shaking my finger at them but with a smile on my face, "Everyone, and I'm gonna make 'em get along". Most people seem to understand what I mean right away and for a moment they and I are lifted out of the oppressive shells we build around ourselves as we narrow our associations because of competition, belief system or just plain paranoia.  Who's my target? I consider more deeply rushing from place to place with my flyers, accumulating speeding tickets in this frenzied pre-opening state. I guess it's just everybody I meet and interact with as usual, the building inspector whose gruff exterior put me off at first but later sat down to have a glass of juice with us, and with a wistful eye talked about his brother from Montana who likes to sing. And also young people who are tired of having nowhere to go in the evening to be together; old friends-- I'll see more of them by being in town. And my friend Diana Pomeroy--the greatest potato print artist on the planet could sell her cards and art here. But the real target is perhaps myself, and I'm aiming for the chip on my own shoulder.