"Oh yeah,... we yoosta run Weinhard's down 'round Saragossa!"
Is Saragossa "real"?
Well, yes,... and no. We escaped (temporarily) the growing congestion and pressing influx of ill-mannered aliens in the San Francisco South Bay area in 1983, by moving to Oregon. The hidden beauty of the Rogue Valley had eluded us several times as we passed through on our way to vacation destinations farther north. A friend responded to our broadcast of a desire to relocate in the Northwest, telling us of a pair, mind you, of programming jobs at the same small company. We stored our furniture at a new friend's house, moved into a small motel suite with our cat and spent four months searching for that special place we hoped would be the last we would own, in this life...
Bumping along a mountain road in the back seat of our agents' car one Sunday, Rob spied an interesting un-illustrated house description in the multiple listing book, so she said "Let's stop in!" A custom cedar cabin on a dozen wooded acres, it was literally our dream come true. We moved in early that November.
Christmas came and went. While we visited her family for the holiday, I couldn't help noticing her father's gleeful reaction to the old geezer in the Henry Weinhard's commercial, proclaiming wistfully, " Oh, yeah..., we yoosta run Weinhard's down 'round Saragossa!"
Near the end of the following May, when her family came up, Dad could barely get out of the car, he was laughing so hard. I had posted a weathered wooden sign on our driveway gate, proclaiming our hillside retreat to be "Saragossa!" - that once mythical, far-away place, existing until now only in the clouded memories of a dottering old cowpoke.
OK, so... our place in the universe is named after a beer ad;
Rest in peace, Bob.