June 6: Off-ramp to the make believe

Patty Perrin

Everything else seems to have slowed down, but I still have an overactive imagination. I developed it as a kid. I needed it. We often lived in isolated areas where I had no playmates or even a radio. To amuse myself, I made up games and created imaginary companions.

This joy of fantasy has never left me. It makes life much more interesting. And I meet such unusual people.

Take Henley Hornbrook, for instance. The name may sound familiar to residents of Southern Oregon and Northern California. It probably is slightly recognizable to anyone who has driven Interstate 5 just south of the Oregon border.

Henley Hornbrook is not a person but a freeway off-ramp leading to two little communities in the area, Henley and Hornbrook.

"Henley Hornbrook." I read the sign out loud. "What a great name for a writer." We are driving on the interstate when I mention the sign's possibilities to my husband, Al. We both feel that an author's name can determine whether a buyer will pick up a book or not. Would F. Scott Fitzgerald have been as famous if he had been Scott Smaltz? Never. Fitzgerald, whose whole name was Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald, was obviously aware of the importance of a name, and molded his into a writer's name. I think one reason Hemingway was so famous is because his first name was Ernest. You have to trust someone with that name.

And now as we drive by the Henley Hornbrook off-ramp, I realize that by combing the two names I can create a new writer with a byline no reader could resist. The name is exciting. It's an authoritative, formal, serious name and you know that not even his little brother ever called him Hen.

Once I have given birth to Mr. Hornbrook, I begin to flesh him out. "He's tall," I suggest. "Stands very straight, and he's slim. Never has put on any weight." I can almost hear him. "And he has a slight accent."

A few miles pass before Al adds:

"I see a heavy head of hair, a little touch of gray. He wears it rather long but neatly trimmed."

After 55 years together, Al and I are used to going along with each other's fantasies.

"And he wears a herringbone tweed jacket," I suggest. Al continues embroidering our man. "With sued patches on the sleeves. And chinos."

We change lanes to pass a truck. Once we are safely back in our lane, I ask, "Does he smoke a pipe?"

"Oh yeah, he still smokes," Al answers. "He's the picture of old time cool."

"And he writes adventure stories," I add. "His book covers have snow-topped mountains on them and the stories take place in the West."

Without taking his eyes off the road, Al slaps the steering wheel with the flat of his hand. "That's it. It's a series of mountain men books."

After some discussion, we decide to leave Henley single.

A solitary man.

He has love affairs, of course, but none work out. His one great love was a married woman who, like Ingrid Bergman in "Casablanca," was loyal to her husband. I almost cry for Henley's loneliness.

We travel silently for a few miles as I consider our creation. I like him. I am sure he is a good writer. I hate it when bad writers get published and good writers don't. It happens all the time. And since Henley is mine, I want him to be a very good writer and a successful one.

By now we had traveled another 50 miles. We've passed other possibilities, Grenada, Gazelle, Montague, names with promise but none with the style, panache and raw talent of my Henley.

Since our original meeting, I always call out to Henley when we drive past. I try to encourage him. "I love your work," or "You're dong great." Something to let him know I care. I know how lonely a writer's life can be.

But I haven't been on the interstate lately. And today I found myself wondering how Henley is doing.

So if you are traveling by his off-ramp, do me a favor and call out "Hello" and ask how he is.

After all, Henley isn't as young as he once was. And I worry about him because he knows he shouldn't but he's still smoking.

Patty Perrin lives in Ashland and writes a monthly column for the Tidings.