Thoughts about the world I live in.

by Ellen Davidson Levine, September 18, 2010

Many readers of Looking for Karma at the Eden Cafe have asked if the Eden actually exists. They want a slice of that delicious pie, they say, and a good, cheap meal to go with it. Others say the Eden Cafe reminds them of a restaurant in Bozeman, Montana, or in Oxnard, California, or even a neighborhood place in Brooklyn, N.Y.

One reader questioned the very idea of the Eden Cafe. "Unbelievable," she said. "So many people standing on line to get into the cafe? No way. And would paying customers allow Riva or Karma to seat them with people they don't like? Absolutely not."

There was such a cafe. I used to eat there three or four nights out of seven. This was years ago when Rick and I were dirt poor and  living in Talent, Oregon. We'd rented a dismal little house, a half-block from the railroad tracks. Every night, the midnight train rumbled past, rattling doors and windows and shaking the walls. The best part about the sleep-deprived year we lived in Talent was dinnertime. We were two of the loyal  patrons who nightly lined the sidewalk outside the cafe, waiting for the doors to open at 5:00 PM.

Sometimes, the line outside the cafe extended down the block. We'd cross our fingers, hoping we'd get in, hoping there'd still be a slice of pie left for us. When we got to the front of the line we didn't dare argue about where the old woman directed us to sit. We sat at tables with actors from the Shakespeare Festival in Ashland, we sat with farmers and loggers and teachers and bankers. We sat with tourists and with families who were descended from the early pioneers. We sat with folks from Talent, Medford, Ashland and Grants Pass, as well as people who regularly drove north from Dunsmuir and Shasta, over the Siskiyou Mountains, to eat at the old Talent Cafe.

There was no menu,  just one waitress who announced  the menu of the day (chicken fried steak, meatloaf  or  pork chops and always fried chicken on Sundays) , asked  for our choice of salad dressing (ranch, blue cheese, Italian), bread (whole wheat or white) and drink (water, soda, tea or coffee). There were rules too and if you didn't know them, the old woman, perched on her stool behind the counter, would be sure to embarrass you with a public reprimand. No elbows on the table. No swearing. No hard liquor. No pie unless you ate everything on your plate, especially the vegetables.

As I recall, the old woman's name was Marie and the waitress was Wanda. I never learned the name of the third woman, who was the cook.  Years after the cafe shut its doors and I moved miles away, I remained nostalgic about the cafe and curious about those strong, competent women.  A story began to take form. It became Looking for Karma at the Eden Cafe.

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by Ellen Davidson Levine, June 11, 2010

Like the adventurers who came before us, Rick and I arrived in Oregon with few possessions and plenty of dreams. It was 1969 and we were ready for something new, something better than breathing smog, working in offices, traveling freeways, being uptight.

To the dismay of our parents, we quit our jobs, packed the car and headed to Ashland, drawn by the rain, the smell of pine and fir and green things growing, fresh salmon, corn and blueberry pie. We found work running the Pillars Coffeehouse on Water Street, below the bridge. Our business plan was based on a vague notion that college students, actors and play goers would like drinking latte and listening to music. And maybe, someday, Bob Dylan would wander in the door.

In those days, when the summer season ended Ashland became a sleepy little town and people went to Medford for their fun. By winter, only a few folks wandered in the door each night, some of them hitchhikers we treated to a hot meal. Dylan never did show up. The coffeehouse closed. About this time, we joined with others to start a food cooperative. We paid five dollars a week and took turns collecting donated produce, day-old bread, turkey eggs from a poultry farm, cheese ends and curds from the creamery. Food was distributed in big cardboard boxes at the abandoned Peerless Hotel. That was the beginning of the successful Ashland Food Coop.

By this time we had a child, Joshua. Pursuing a dream of back-to-the-land, we found cheap acreage in the Applegate Valley, with stunning views of Grayback Mountain and the Siskiyous. We bought some goats, a rooster and hens. We planted a garden and later, a vineyard. We studied a few books, asked lots of questions, got help from friends, and built the house we still live in today.

Our city friends think we're like Lewis and Clark, surviving in the wilds of rural Oregon. Not quite. But we have blazed some Oregon trails. We were part of Oregon's early community college movement and like to think we made positive contributions over our years of service. We learned the importance of community and how to work with other citizens to make things better, from planting the seeds for the food co-op and our Applegate Valley fire department to a successful campaign for a Southern Oregon toll-free calling area, land-use planning and more. Our son is a UO graduate and an avid Duck fan whose family wears green and yellow on game days. Recently, my husband Rick declared his candidacy for the Oregon House, District 4. And, with the publication of my contemporary fiction, I have a goal to be known as an Oregon writer.

Our original Oregon dream was romantic. The reality is so much better.

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