In 1861, a man named Benjamin Brown decided to lay some lumber and set roots in what is now called La Grande.   Back then, the valley was wild and wide open, just the kind of place to start fresh and it wasn’t long before a few more hearty souls joined Mr. Brown, drawn by the promise of new beginnings and elbow room. As the settlement grew, they put their heads together and put ole Mr. Brown on a pedestal, naming their settlement: “Brownsville.”

Mr. Benjamin Brown was said to be a kind man, always tipping his hat to the ladies and giving his fellow man what can be referred as “a gentle squeeze on the front side.”  It was rumored he had a fetish for beaver hide and had over 50 pairs of beaver pelt underwear to cozy his crotch.  But peace was not long in Brownsville.  Turned out, a neighboring settlement had also named their colony “Brownsville” after their first settler, Billy Brown.  This double-Brownsville situation threw the U.S. Postal Service into total disarray. Letters were getting misrouted, parcels lost, and tempers flared.   Eventually, word got all the way to none other than Mr. Abraham fucking Lincoln reading:

It hath been brought to mine attention that two towns, both bearing the name Brownsville, do lie in such close proximity as to sow great confusion upon the noble couriers of the United States Post. Verily, the poor beasts of burden, already taxed beyond reason, suffer grievously from the endless to-and-fro wrought by this lamentable disorder. Thus, it is incumbent upon one of you to adopt a new appellation forthwith.

Regrettably, I am unable to personally mediate this affair, being most thoroughly engaged in the twin labors of tending to my whiskers and abolishing fucking slavery by beating some confederate ass.

Godspeed in your deliberations.

Despite the presidential plea, neither Billy nor Benjamin were willing to yield.  A heated meeting ensued between the Brown’s along the dusty road connecting the settlements.  Voracious screams sent saliva into each others faces, forehead veins and erections bulged on the verge of rupture, at one point Billy yelled so hard that he shit himself and came at the same time, yet they continued arguing amidst the smell of shit.  

And then, as fate would have it, a stranger arrived.  A man atop a white stallion trotted up and paused beside the feuding Browns.  He wore a white mustache that was bushy enough to sweep a room and carried himself with the calm and reassurance of a true vagabond. “messieurs, comment pouvez-vous vous battre quand vous êtes entouré de beauté ? c'est…La Grande”.

The Brown’s blinked, “wait, what did you say?” uttered Benjamin 

“mes amis, comment pouvez-vous ressentir de la colère au milieu d'une telle beauté ?  c'est tout simplement La Grand” replied the man 

Benjamin ran his redlined his one horse powered stallion back to his colony, gathered the townsfolk in the square and shouted, “From this day forward, our home shall be known as La Grande!”

And so it was.

La Grande’s downtown strip has kept its integrity over the years, remaining true, despite the juicy, low hanging fruit, big corporations use to seduce and abolish small towns, ripping out its soul and replacing it with just another place to live.  The strip had one of those movie cinemas where the awing juts out over the sidewalk in a fat, V-shaped fashion and was filled with business' such as “Baxter Auto Parts” “Claudson's Sew & Soak” “anderson’s leather goods and shoe repair” and “community Merchants”.   La Grande is a town where dirty pickup trucks and the local sheriff, John J, smith patrol the streets and take care of business, uphold the law and drink shitty Folgers coffee.