Rumor has it there was a small town brothel located somewhere in the Oregon Territory with a need. Business was growing and they wanted a place for visitors to sit while they waited in the parlor. Some kind of deal was made and a few sections of chairs from the church were relocated. As times and hypocrisies changed these easily recognizable seats became a bit of gossip around town. Apparently the folding furniture was the same as that used by the funeral parlor and often shared back and forth to accommodate larger crowds, rendering it unclear exactly where to place the blame.
When the town died all of the seats were acquired by a man on the board of directors for an insane asylum and a prison. The seats typically sat in an auditorium where doctors and scientists smoked and discussed the abnormal and treatments for those afflicted – on the occasion of executions, sections were loaned to the prison for the witness room spectators.
As times changed again the asylum closed and these seats made their way to Seattle to be used in a theatre.
All of these institutions and the characters involved are long gone; no one can confirm any of this story.
Is any of it true?
How did this section of garish seats end up in an eclectic household?
Does anyone even care?
Born December 8, 1965 in Jamestown, North Dakota the only child of Esther and Stan Goffe. Raised in Enumclaw, Washington by schoolteacher parents gave a solid start – blending mid-west values with small town growth.
Being a bit of a traveller and seeker it was often easier to question than accept.
Surviving a taste for adrenaline and gravitational pull from the wilder side, eventually settling down in the Seattle area.
Learning about the gifts of life from daughter Heather and her journey.
Sharing eclectic experiences with several great friends, many special acquaintances and a few wild characters.
Enjoying the path with a special dog proved to be life changing.
Life was rich.
I liked the idea of becoming a kind of Renaissance Man.
Hopefully I achieved this on some level, before I left.
The lines have cut deeper into my face,
I have a few more fights left in me,
Maybe one more Crash.
Yet I still don’t have some answers, the answers, those that make me talk to myself.
“If you want a cool Tombstone, pick it out yourself.”
We were off to explore a college.
Jeff and I acquired the correct paperwork, our parents approved it.
Being seniors in high school this accepted right of passage allowed for a few additional days of absence.
All of our individual teachers initialed the forms and counselors filed them with praises.
It was the best ski trip of the season!
In the summer as the sun-sets, bats return to eat their share of mosquitoes and scare the squeamish. The speed and erratic flight of these creatures is part of what I have come to call “Caveman TV”. One evening while sitting in wooden Adirondack chairs next to Sarrah snoozing in the sand by a crackling fire, my childhood friend Andy said “Caveman TV”.
While staring into the fire I replied, “What?”
“Caveman TV is what we are watching” and he went on share this primal-based theory of what is the attraction of sitting around a fire and possibly “the real reason people go camping.”
“Then this is ‘The Remote,’” I concluded while using the fire-scarred chunk of rebar to stoke our TV.
I embraced the expression and have since shared this primal wisdom with all fellow fire enthusiasts.