Years ago I hitchhiked into Oly from Seattle. The last driver who transported me suggested that The Spar was ideal for my next endeavor, I agreed and was dropped off at the door.

Lots of strong coffee, a huge cinnamon roll dripping with butter, a local newspaper, and a pencil were my tools. Eventually I had narrowed down rental apartment possibilities to my most likely list, I hit the phone, and soon had an appointment to see the manager of my first choice.

That time at The Spar gave me my Oly legs, so to speak, I could tell that I was still in the Pacific N.W., which was and is a good thing.

Many years later a bright colored notice hangs on the front door to The Spar, notice of application for a liquor license. For McMenamins. A friend and I enjoyed a nostalgic breakfast-all-day meal at The Spar recently, right at twilight, to note this transition.

We were seated at a window booth. To my right, outside, ghosted into view an older gentleman in a nice suit and lovely lemon yellow silk tie. That tie was nattily knotted and properly dimpled. I'm talkin' old school here. He was engaged in silently gazing through the window, not seeking anyone in particular, simply watching.

I realized that this man was remembering. I made sure to not stare at him and I felt reverent of his experience, hushed and even a touch protective. Eventually he walked in, slowly through the room, looking all around as if for the first and last time. His walk took him to the far end of the counter, there he shook hands with a staff person. His walk back on out was equally slow, purposeful, and solemn.

Many of us have Spar stories and memories. In this time of quick transition and change, may we all take a moment to remember The Spar.