Author: ferylfiles

I live in a country that was built on an idea. That’s pretty incredible. But that idea was imperfectly implemented and has played out in devastating ways. Slavery and taking lands away from people already here are two of the biggest examples. And yet, I love this country because I love the promise of that democratic ideal and think it’s worth fighting for and making more perfect.

This country is imbued with contradictions. In the Declaration of Independence, Jefferson writes of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Yet, we have people mowed down by guns in the most horrific way unlike any other developed nation on the planet. Children in school, folks dancing, people listening to a concert denied their most fundamental right. And I also grew up in the home of a Hermiston farm boy who fished and hunted his whole life. He collected antique rifles. I ate rare venison tenderloin from animals he hunted, cleaned, and prepared–the best meat I’ve ever eaten in my life. He taught me how to shoot a bench rifle .22 and we discovered I was really good at it. Southeastern Ohio bench rifle competitions turned into my method of earning grocery money during my French graduate program.

I live in a region, town, home where people with names like Cayuse, Walla Walla, Umatilla, Nez Perce (even this name is French for “pierced nose”) lived here first. Driving by the Columbia River, I always feel like I’m home, but I know this flooded/dammed (damned?) version is not what was home prior to those constructions and plans. The Gorge means “the throat” in French–probably narrow areas of the river that we don’t see quite in the same way anymore, but the name continues. I consider the Pacific Northwest my home. My ancestors have lived here for generations. I’m proud of the drive and spirit and work ethic that moved them across oceans and continents to strive for something better. I am proud of the lives and loving and building of these people. And I also know that it is in a place that was someone else’s home first.

I live in a home that has had many lives and memories. It was built in 1911. There was a fire here we think some time in the 1940s. There’s a pulley system that was for coal that got shoveled into the basement and then carried up into what is now the kitchen. Bryan installed a second oven for me, his baker wife. In that process we saw so many layers of linoleum/vinyl. Bryan and Sara bought this house. They raised Mary in this house until she was eight and then Bryan continued to raise her here on his nights and weekends. Gil and Dot visited this home long before I ever knew their names. This home holds the memories of the first dinner Bryan ever cooked for me–chicken pesto pasta with pasta he made from scratch (that was kind of a big damn deal for this woman!) I met Mary for the first time in this house. We planted in the spring, grilled in the summer, carved pumpkins in the fall, and decorated for Christmas and rearranged furniture and painted and fed so many friends and loved ones. And this is the home where Bryan got sick. And this is the home where I was terrified of his falling. And this is the home where my beloved died. And this is the home I have to figure out how to live in a new way.

I know the only way to walk through this world is to hold a multitude of joys and sorrows simultaneously, but more importantly to hold them and look at them with clear eyes. And it’s so hard.

This is the second year I’ve gone to Washougal to a mini art retreat with my sister. I drove down in “Dave” the blue Camry we inherited from Gil. Dave doesn’t have air-conditioning that works; instead, I used the sun-roof and driver’s side front window method. The drive was loud and hot and gorgeous. There are a lot of things that can get missed with the windows up. Stands of locust trees in full blossom peppered my route. The warm, heady fragrance is the kind of thing that would persuade Zeus to turn himself into a bumblebee just to seduce the blossom nymphs. Every part of the trip down had my senses on high. Mt. Hood, the clouds, the river, the sun fingers, as I liked to call them when I was little, were marvels.

Getting to paint in a place without the million and one chores staring at me was a gift. I ended up doing nine 6″x4″ watercolor painting postcards that I’ll be sending out in the mail to various folks. That’s one of the things I love best about art. I make it. And the more I make, the more I can make. It is its own furnace. I used to tie myself up in knots thinking I had to be good until I realized I just had to enjoy it. Does this bring me joy? Yes. Yes it does. And by some remarkable stroke of luck, it brings other people joy too. The best part of the art retreat was seeing my sister get the far off look and inability to speak when in flow. I recognized it and was so pleased she was there in that headspace too. There is nothing quite like the joy in creating when things come together.

Sadly, it was a short trip and I had to turn back homeward today. I’d gotten a little more savvy to the hot car situation so I doused my head and shirt with water, using the pseudo-swamp-cooler method. Much better. Today, it was bright and sunny–fewer interesting cloudscapes and the air getting hotter and drier as I moved eastward. The drive did give me a lot of time to think. There I go thinking again. Dang it.

Bryan and I would often take trips to Portland from our earliest dating days to visit friends or dear cousins of mine. There was always something fun to look forward to at the end of each trip. Heck, we even got married in Portland. And we always looked forward to coming home, too. But the drives themselves were so interesting. We could talk, and did, of any and everything. Bryan had an insatiable curiosity, but he also had a delightful sense of adventure and play. I never knew someone who was so healthy 99% of the time to like gas station corndogs so much. He drove. I made sure to apply the mustard. We laughed about the names of towns. We’d lament what had happened with the dams to affect Native American fishing at Celilo Falls. We would sometimes stop in Hood River for lunch and a beer or go to Multnomah Falls and do a hike. I’d often tuck my left hand under his right thigh as he drove. We were easy travel companions.

Coming back home, I stopped off for a brief visit in Hermiston to see my Auntie Lila who is 91 years old. She took care of me when my parents were divorcing. I always felt like I had someone solidly in MY corner when she was at our house. She’s getting frail. So little. But those sparkly blue eyes did light up when I told her my newest, naughty joke. I didn’t stay long because I needed to get home to my kitties and the million and one chores that are currently staring me in the face.

I will be making a full trip to Portland soon. It will be my first since he passed. Another milestone to tick off the list…

Certain things have me feeling paralyzed with dread. One of them was getting the outside water turned on. My neighbor, Ted, got in the crawl space, changed the lightbulb and turned the water on. Ben helped me get the hoses connected and he and his wife, Kate, helped me plant the remaining raised bed with flowers after tilling in some compost and feather meal. Kate brought over a ton of plants she had propagated in their green house. The garden is starting to look more like it should. I am overwhelmed with the kindness and generosity of spirit from my neighbors. The Thonney’s grandson, Carson, mowed again yesterday. I know Bryan would be so thankful to all these kind people taking care of me. I sure am. It’s humbling to see all of this grace in action.

And I stood in my backyard and sobbed. He should be here, too. He should be doing this with me. This was part of us. It hurts like red hot pokers in my heart. It is the most extraordinarily beautiful spring day…again. We’ve had a number of them in a row and it’s really incomparable how beautiful Walla Walla can be in the spring. Flowers everywhere. Blooming trees. So.Much.Beauty. AND HE’S NOT HERE!

I’m lucky beyond measure to be surrounded by so much love. And I see the acts of love from Bryan in the raised beds, the trees he planted, all of the work we did to get this home to this place. I feel it. But I want him HERE.

The heat and the work and the tears tell me I probably need more water too. That’s what my Mom would say in this moment as I’m overcome with grief. “Drink some water, Becci.”

Okay, Mom.

Walla Walla gave us one of her finest spring days yesterday. The balance of fluffy white clouds to blue sky was perfect. The dogwoods and lilacs have exploded in riotous color and fragrance. I had errands to run in town and opted to go by foot and enjoy the Whitman campus and all the lovely changes to Main Street. On my way to the bank, a bird decided that my gray shirt matched the sidewalk enough to make a deposit. Nothing like the universe to humble me right when I start getting a little high in the instep.

Immediately, I knew I could rage against the bird, the sky, the universe, God, or laugh. I chose laughter. And a quick trip to the bank’s restroom to clean up. There’s nothing quite like a half-soaked shirt and hair while trying to do banking business. Humor was the ticket through.

Of course, I thought of a funny scene in a favorite movie. Bryan and I watched Under the Tuscan Sun a few times and really enjoyed it. The scene is when Frances is making an offer on the villa in Tuscany when the owner, an older woman, says no, the offer is too low. At that precise moment, a bird “blesses” her at which point the elderly lady exclaims that this is “un segno di Dio” a sign from God that Frances should be the new owner. Instead of being something embarrassing and horrible, it is good luck and a blessing from the heavens. I choose to believe the latter for me, too.

Bryan would look at me and quote or paraphrase a favorite line from that movie more than occasionally: “Unthinkably good things can happen, even late in the game. It’s such a surprise.”

Good things can still happen. Even late in the game.

The last several days have been full, beautiful, hard, important and so so good.

Yesterday, I hosted the annual porch pop-up that we’ve done for a few years now. It’s an opportunity to raise funds for our mom’s memorial nursing scholarship, have friends bring their wares as well, and spend time with friends and neighbors over cookies. In year’s past, Bryan would be in the back yard grilling hotdogs and hamburgers, offering beers and good conversation for folks who wanted to stay and visit a little longer. He and I didn’t see much of each other over the course of these days, but we worked hand in glove to make it uniquely us and so rich and full. There was a moment of considering not to do it this year, but I asked my friends if they were still interested and they were. Do it anyway. So we did. My sister helped me with the art, set-up and take-down, visiting with folks. We had a good, if very cold day. I opted not to have anyone grill in the back. I couldn’t this year. Hopefully next year…

Today, I, with my sister, got to help my kid with a dump run, getting dirt, and loading the three raised beds she and her mom built Saturday and then planting tomatoes and peppers. Her dad and I talked a lot about the possibilities she could have with raised beds. We had fun imagining with her. It was so great to see those imaginings come to fruition. So many of these spring gardening things we would do together as a family–first, flower pots on the front stoop and eventually a back garden with five raised beds. This was part of who we were together. And Mary and I got to continue being that today. It’s simultaneously heartbreaking and heartfilling and so beautiful. I am lucky beyond measure to have her want me to help. These things without him, hurt a little, but we do it anyway because it’s also really good.

There’s so much I don’t want to do without him. And I also know it’s really important to do it anyway. Do it anyway…