Word: rod
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Here in the state where the speed limit is whatever you think is reasonable and prudent, a state that lives in a self-imposed exile from the other 49 while it considers whether to just be its own republic, Rod Lincoln had grown tired of life as a school superintendent and bought a saloon 15 years ago in Clinton, Mont. That's probably more of a lateral move than you might think, because you still have to wake people up occasionally, still have to expel troublemakers and still have to lead and inspire...
...have a signature event," Rod is saying as he serves up drinks at the Rock Creek Lodge, a joint that has billiard tables, slot machines and a 5-ft.-tall wooden bull. It is the kind of place where you might expect to see Harry Dean Stanton in an argument with Marjoe Gortner over an eight-ball combination, a knife fight breaks out, and no one remembers either the assailants or the victims as quiet and normal. "I don't care if it's maggot races," Lincoln says. "You have to have something...
...tremendous boost to the local economy," says Jacque Christofferson. She owns a logging, limousine and liquor company--nobody around here finds that the least bit unusual--and two of the three product lines are in great demand at festival time. "Rod does 40% of his annual liquor sales during the festival." Talk about entrepreneurial genius. Liquor them up, then drive them home...
...Kinkel begged his parents for guns so often that the schoolteacher couple, partial to tennis and not gun people, finally relented. His father "felt that Kip was going to get a gun one way or another," family friend Rod Ruhoff told the Eugene, Ore., Register-Guard, so why not do it under parental supervision? Another friend recommended a single-shot weapon, but Bill Kinkel bought his son a semiautomatic rifle. Later, he surprised Kip with a Glock pistol. Just down the road from the Kinkel home--nestled along a rural road that feels more Ozark than Pacific Northwest--a sign...
...aunt, dying, said, forget that, you're a drunk. The author went through detox, then months in which her shaking hands shook less. And finally--family history, of course--learned to fly-fish properly. Taught, she insists, by a vision, possibly supernatural, of a naked man, fly rod in hand, drifting down a river on a raft. Sure. Anyhow, she is now able to cast a Royal Coachman so that the fly walks on water, "and the circle of fish shatters like beads in a kaleidoscope, bathing me in light...