My mother's best friend who is now well into her 90s just sent me a copy of Sunset Magazine with a story about Walla Walla, Wa.Mrs. Long--and all these years later I can't bring myself to call her anything but that--frequently subscribed to Sunset and she always shared with my mother. My father grumbled that each time she came over with a pile of the magazines, he knew he was in for work, because my mother always was inspired by some article to undertake a new project.
Walla Walla was my Dad's home town, and where my mother moved when she was about 18. My sister and I were born there, but the family took off for California in the 1950s, because the city of about 25,000 seemed to hold no future. How amused my parents would be that Sunset rates it now as one of the 20 Best (Small) Towns.
The region's wine production has made Walla Walla a mecca for those who like fine things, and the way it has somehow avoided becoming another sprawling center is laudable. The last time I was there--nearly three years ago--I was able to walk around it easily in an hour or so down tree-lined streets. It appears to be an example of a walkable city planned in the days before massive dependence on the automobile, that still shows its pedigree. And now with wine bars and good restaurants!
Photos: Grapes from Amanda Ewoniuk's My Walla Walla, and street scene from Sunset.
2 comments:
Wala Wala of course is also home to a penitentiary. With finely dark humor this is located at 1313 North 13th Street.
--ml
Walla Walla is indeed a penitentiary town, and there's a sad tale connected with it in my family.
My grandfather (born 1876 in Napanee, Ont) took off for the territory at about age 16, and had little contact with his family for years. Eventually he settled down in Walla Walla, becoming a barber who, my other grandfather used to say, had a sort of philosophic salon on Saturday mornings. The presdient of Whitman college, local politicans, profs etc would drop by for a trim and to talk to Dave McGowan, who by all accounts was very intelligent and well read. (My son Lukas, the Ph.D. candidate in philosophy loves this part of the story.)
One of the things Dave did was go once or twice a month to the Penn to cut inmates hair. It seems that on one of these days he was spied by someone from Napanee who was passing through, and took the news back that he was an inmate. There followed even more years of silence: Shame! Dishonour! Dave really did go wrong!
But of course it wasn't true, and when he died in 1948 my mother (his daughter in law) was able to make contact with a sister who was still in Napanee, and assure her that actually he lived a very fine life.
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