Washoe House

The Washoe House proclaims to be “the oldest roadhouse in the state.” This could possibly be disputed, but by whom? The place has been around since 1859, so by now it’s at least earned the right not to be argued with. I came across the place just after moving up north to Petaluma to attend Sonoma State. With a pony-tail that reached the middle of my back, I headed for the bar, never knowing what might happen next, expect the worst, prepare for trouble, but survey the odds before reacting…Page three in my ‘rules of engagement’ state – never back down, but don’t be stupid either, live to fight another day…

It was mid-afternoon and there were few inside. A couple truckers, and a couple old farmers at the bar rolling dice. I sat on a barstool next to the fat one wearing a Ford cap, old t-shirt, suspenders, slight stink, and ordered myself a draft. Fat Ray, apparently tired of losing at dice to his buddy Marshall, started talking to me, possibly in an attempt to break his bad streak. From this farmer’s view, the county was growing too fast. In particular, the city of Petaluma had sprouted up on the north side of the river faster than corn in August, and Santa Rosa was getting too big for Ray to drive into. Having heard that, I envisioned Ray driving his Catepillar with the backhoe up at about 10 mph, and wasn’t yet aware of that the State had cut a path 75 feet wide, filled it with cement and named it Highway 101. Ray passed me the cup and sure as shit passed me his bad luck as well. Marshall beat me five straight throws and to show good sportsmanship I bought beers for the two, before heading home.