Mayville Today
The Stinchfield Farm view from Carter Hill
Kitchen
Bedroom
Bathroom
2009 The Log Cabin is restored.
Around town, an old saddle rest eloquently on a fence.
The house had two stairways.
One stairway entered from the kitchen
Yellow Roses bloom every summer in Mayville for over a hundred years.
Mayville looking West from Carter Hill
This poem was published
in the Condon, Oregon
Times-Journal Newspaper
2009
Mayville is a forgotten town that has slipped peacefully into history.
It uses a Fossil Zip Code. it uses a Condon phone number
and no one goes there on vacation.
You can find Mayville listed in a book titled“Ghost Towns in Oregon”.
If you are old enough, you might find a picture of an abandon house, in shambles, that you lived in when you were growing up; it will be there on a shinny page, and in color.
There are no mountains in sight; no railroads that whistle, no saw millls with steam whistle that blow.loud enough to wake the dead, three times a day, no freeway, and no emergency vehicles
with high-pitched sirens echoing through town
twenty four hours a day.
Nevertheless, once in awhile a motor vehicle will pass,
on highway 19, through town so quickly, they almost go un-noticed.
Sitting in the shadows of tall trees, that sad ,old abandon house rest gently in the shade with its long forgotten momories.
Fearless was a friend of mine,
We spent some time together.
The miles we put behind us,
I'll remember them forever.
Wilbur had and old Chevy car,
His driving was pretty poor.
Going too fast on a right hand curve,
And Wilbur fell out the door
The driver's door would not stay shut,
So he tied it with a wire.
The radiator was always hot,
And it didn't have a spare tire.
We didn't worry about such things,
We had others on our mind.
The thing we hadn't done yet,
Is what we had to find.
A hamburger when we could get it,
A case of beer in between'
A dollar or two worth of gas.
Then the country we hadn't seen.
Wilbur would leave for several months,
No one knew where he went;
And his reply, if you ask him,
"Was I supposed to get your consent?"
If you were looking for a fight,
And picked on Wilbur Alford:
He seemed to always be prepared,
To give you what you're after.
The time he borrowed my riggin,
To use on a bareback horse;
I never saw him for three months,
Then he told me with remorse.
I got into a little trouble,
Up there where the rodeo was;
And I had to sell your riggin,
To settle it with the fuzz.
It was one of those time I was angry,
And I began to give him a clue.
He said, "Why are you mad at me?
I'm not mad at you."
I can't help it if I miss him,
My heart will never mend;
I'll never ever forget him,
He'll always be my friend
Fearless
by Frank Bettencourt
