Presto Change-O

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I first experienced it with birthdays: the anticipation, the to-do and ta-da, all to lead to a big change. “How does it feel to be 8?”, someone would ask. “Um, the same?” I experienced it at the start of each new school year. “Oh boy! You’re in 5th grade this year!” A different class, slightly different subjects, new teacher, a whole grade level older, evidently a Big Deal, but, really, I still felt the same. There was my life before 9 and my life after 9; my life before 6th grade, my life after 6th grade. My life after high school became college, which really felt the same except for more choice over classes. Milestones didn’t seem very important.

Some changes did feel measurable. Getting my driver’s license produced more freedom and independence behind the wheel of our ’63 Mercury Comet. Having those first jobs, earning my money for spending, and *sigh* saving, did give a feeling of empowerment. Choosing to partner with my spouse, ‘forsaking all others’ as it were, produced a lot of actual change. New houses, new towns, tandem economics, and all the adjustments of melding two selves together while still maintaining those selves, that was different.

The biggest, most felt change, however, was when I became a mom. Night and Day. Hot and Cold. On and Off. Yesterday I was minding my own business, today I’m responsible for the health, well-being, physical, emotional, and intellectual growth of another human being.

Those initial changes, brought about by seeming wave of magic wand, had me home instead of in an office; had me intensely keen to the power of napping; had me upchucked on while in a rocking chair; had me watching the clock for Spouse’s evening return home; had me unable to multi-task any activities, even making dinner.

In time I grew into the routine of feeding, changing, napping, holding, dancing, connecting, comforting, bathing, laughing with this little human. I took him to my office, had co-workers interact with him while I accomplished a few things. A backpack enabled me to continue many of my previous activities. Just when I would grow comfortable with the way things were, Junior would need things to change. His sleep patterns would change, his food tastes would change, his needs for human closeness would change. I would scramble to readjust, lamenting the ‘good old days’ of 2 naps or whatever.

With this little human now attached to me for his life’s sake, I began to have questions, deep questions about who I was. What things did I like, really? What things were fulfilling for me? What did I do to expand myself? What did I want to be when I grew up? Mothering this child was showing me I hadn’t really been living before he moved into my life. I had been coasting, or riding along, being carried by a wave perhaps, but in an unconscious way. The newness of him, the newness of everything he experienced began to prod at me, gnaw at me, lead me into the uncomfortable space that, gratefully, became awareness.

Spouse and I began to rethink many things, and starting with parenting, moved away, more slowly for me than I’d like to admit, from the authoritarian ways of our parents. We began to take our son seriously. Regardless of his young age, he deserved the respect of any housemate. He deserved, as a human, to have his questions answered with sincerity, to have his preferences attended to, to be treated with the same basic kindness that would be given any adult acquaintance.  We rethought the why of parenting. We realized we had brought him to a party, a party we were hosting, and it was our job to make him feel welcome.

The task of helping this person grow into a happy, well-adjusted, hopefully aware, human adult, brought my short comings into clear view. I have worked to change damaging attitudes, broaden limiting perspectives, respond to myself when it says jump, dig, dance, read, or focus.  I have worked to forgive myself, telling myself often, “I did the best I could for who I was at the time.” Lifelong beliefs about self, family, faith, relationships of all stripes, have sifted, edited, been strengthened or let go. I began to take my physical health and well-being seriously. As an older parent, I needed strength, stamina, good lung capacity to keep up with my child. I began to work on being an interesting person, a person who has passions, hobbies, abilities. I know stuff. I read. I’m learning something every day.

All of this is helping me be a ‘better’ parent, spouse, sister, friend, human. I want to grow & improve, ripen & be made full, for my sake, but even more for the sake of my son. He didn’t choose us. We willfully, willingly, eagerly, and earnestly sought him out. We wanted this change. We couldn’t anticipate what the breadth of change would be, but presto change-o indeed.

Magic Number

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We became housemates when he was 9 months old. The sturdy, happy, inquisitive, not-yet-walking human moved in 1 week before Christmas. This, we hoped, would be the culmination of 2 years of planning, training, workshops & surveys, coupled with over 10 years of longing. Another 10 months would pass before the judge said we were to be a family. The jargon of family court entered our lexicon, unnatural language that no one should have to speak or hear. Unnatural & unorganic juxtaposed with hope & joy.

After 2 years of marriage, the kid questions began. We had started trying as people do. ‘Desires Pregnancy’ became a permanent note on my doctor’s file. I had always thought I would be a mom, always wanted to be a mom. I loved the idea of making funny looking babies with Spouse. I loved the idea of adoption: why bring more babies into the world when so many here already need a family, but I did want to make one. Year after year my doctor gently broached the subject, but I didn’t want to engage in tests & labels & stigma. Instead, we stayed busy and when circumstances remained unchanged, I pushed the disappointment and sadness down, which will only ever lead to dysfunction and anger.

Never one to win at poker, I worked hard to be breezy in answering the invasive questions of relatives and fellow church-goers. I hadn’t any boundary skills enabling me to answer: It’s none of your fucking business, though I sorely wish I had. Each time a lucky friend won the fertility lotto, I couldn’t help but feel knife-in-heart. Aghast at my own defined selfishness, I pushed the unacceptable feelings further down. I didn’t want anyone’s pity. I most certainly didn’t want their judgement.

Meanwhile, life trudged on. Spouse and I continued to grow up, continued becoming our adult selves. We continued learning how to communicate, how to problem solve, how to love each other.   We took trips, explored islands, played in oceans. I fell in love with cooking, took classes, worked in restaurants, dreamed of starting my own. I still wanted to be a mom but I knew I needed to be healthy. I started to work on me. If a child was to be, it would be. And, we started to look into adoption.

The costs surrounding adoption are enormous. Foreign adoptions, while including fees paid to the country of origin, require expensive travel. Domestic adoptions, those of infants at birth, can easily cost $30,000 to $60,000, depending on the ethnicity and sex of the baby. Through a serendipitous series of events, we found an adoption agency that worked for free. This agency was a church-based organization, and while we understood this culture, it was not easy conforming to their version of our beliefs. The agency worked with mothers/couples who had decided not to keep their unborn babies, but their primary goal was to place kids from the foster system into families. The agency supplied all the state-required training for prospective parents. They provided connection to the agency with whom we were foster-licensed. They networked with state social workers, much like a dating service, finding kids that might be a match for parents. Of many suggestions offered to and declined by us, we did choose to meet a pair of sisters, but, however it is you can tell, it didn’t feel like a fit. We supplied respite care on several occasions for a brother & sister, a duo that we did indeed fall in love with, but who were ultimately adopted by their grandmother.

It was after this event that I was spent. I was 39 and had decided if I wasn’t a mom by the time 40 passed, I was letting go. In October of my 40th year an email arrived in our inboxes. A photo of a boy, laying on a blanketed sofa, looking like Spouse’s nephew, shining eyes, mouth smiling that toothless young baby smile, that took my breath away. I didn’t dare hope or think any thoughts of maybe. But, as I tell my son when ever he asks me, I knew that he was my son. That was the beginning of an arduous, often uncomfortable, unnatural process of becoming someone’s parent. We read binders full of background information. We entertained social workers who wanted to see us in our habitat. We visited the family, the people forever an auntie & uncle with whom our son lived since birth, meeting him in person for the first time. So awkward, so fumbling; not knowing how to act or what to say.

I only recently have been given language for the awkward that I felt through the entire adoption process. While often viewed, rightly so, as a happy event, adoption is also an event to be grieved: this child has lost the woman who gestated and gave birth to him, while this prospective mother was not able to give birth to the boy who is to become hers.

I still can’t fathom the blessing, the gift that we were given the day that committee in Pierce County chose us. The gift we and our son were given by Uncle Rick & Aunt Debbie, who loved him, helped him attach and thrive for 9 months. They held him like their own, and endured their own grief when he moved to our house. The gift of Grandma Diane’s prayers for a healthy gestation despite environmental factors that could have proven otherwise. The very real gift of becoming parents after growing up & living so much life.

A man and a woman had a little baby,
Yes, they did.
They had three in the family,
And that’s a magic number.

Oh, Christmas Tree

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How lovely are your branches

Winter: cold, more dark than light, feet of snow hindering the simplest of chores, bodies laden with fabric and furs, vigilantly keeping the fire, source of light and heat. Hours free for whittling, quilting, mending, storytelling, singing, and, when the days came bearing the most darkness, breaking at Solstice when the sun gained a tiny foothold, celebrating.

Perhaps it was the hours cooped up in a small space, too much time spent staring at fires, an ancient version of Seasonal Affective Disorder, but the origins of winter holidays don’t necessarily show humans at their best. Our modern celebrations of light, family, undying trees, public singing, Jesus’ birth have their beginnings in lawlessness, rape, murder & human sacrifice, superstition, oppression, institutional proselytization, and, with time, gross antisemitism. Yay! It’s Christmas!

Growing up in a Christian religious family, we celebrated Jesus’ birthday, with just a hint of Santa Claus. Over time I learned that Jesus was not born in December, most likely being born in late spring, if one believes the bits about shepherds and flocks. The distance traveled would have had the Wise Men showing up at the manger 3 years after the birth-a very long time to stay in a barn. The first Christians didn’t celebrate Jesus’ birth at all. It was leaders of approximately the 3rd century church co-opting Saturnalia to entice a broader membership, a practice continued with all indigenous groups throughout the Holy Roman Empire. Explained as a symbol of the wise men bearing gifts, gift-giving also has dubious origins. Perhaps we deserve the debt-saddling, materialistic, corporate mind control that it has become. My parents didn’t really have any answers to my questions regarding our Christmas tree when I explored its ancient origin. Even so, I’ve always loved Christmas trees.

As a child, my favorite Christmas trees were the ones we cut down on our own 5-acres. These trees were part of the woods-always evergreen, but lopsided, branches wide-spaced, tall and gangly, sometimes not able to support heavier ornaments. My mother hated these less-than-perfect specimens, but I loved them! These trees could breathe in our living room. Upright in the water-filled red metal tree stand, their graceful arms languidly reached out, waiting to be adorned with baubles, necklaces of light, snowflakes of paper, shiny strands of metallic tinsel, plenty of space among the branches for layers of wonder. These trees were soon replaced by trained, domestic trees, branches tight together, conical shape perfect from pruning since birth.

As with so many things in a happy partnership, Spouse shares my love of unconventional Christmas everything. From day 1, our trees have been scraggy, weak-branched, sometimes lanky, and always lean. Living at Trail’s End, we purchased living trees to decorate, then, after acclimating outdoors, worked our own reforestation program. Our current residence has provided our best Christmas trees ever. The son of the previous owner worked in the Forest Service and evidently sought to plant a forest on this 1/4-acre suburban lot. Trees overgrown, planted in the wrong places, planted too close together, were subsequently thinned each year, providing us with laughable pleasure. Large trees were taken down, the tops used in the house. The trunks of spindly, scrawny trees had to be engineered to be used in the conventional tree stand. Unsprayed and au natural, our trees would leak sap and harbor other forms of life. One year, we had tiny spider webs all over the place when the dormant creatures wintering in our tree came to in our warm house. Our collection of ornaments: porcelain chickens with moveable wings, glass sea creatures, wooden colorful fish, sheep, birds, simple red or silver balls, a head of garlic, a glittery apple, and a tiny pickle has to rotate given the strength of branches any given year. There should be a contest for a Charlie Brown Christmas Tree. We’d be a contender.

Christmas is a mixed bag for me. The origins of Saint Nicolas/Santa Claus aren’t great when seen through the eyes of 2012 tolerance. The seeming manipulation of local customs by a huge religious organization for its own gain is revolting to someone who values diversity and self-determination. The creation and perpetuation of a religious holiday that was not celebrated by the people who actually knew the protagonist seems pandering and confusing. The aggressive consumerism is appalling to someone who thinks an economy based on spending is a dead-end. Still, we put up our tree, we listen to Christmas carols, especially those crooned by Bing, we give each other presents. We think and talk about the customs, the season, the year, each other, and Jesus. Spouse & I answer our son’s questions the best we can, as honestly and appropriately as we can. Facing winter, looking forward to extended light, embracing the hope that Christmas can symbolize, celebrating with awareness and intention, all weave themselves together into a blanket of joy. Humans celebrate. I want to celebrate, snuggle even, deeply.

A Thanksgiving Quickie

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Growing up, Thanksgiving was a day to gather with the usual relatives, watch my mom wind tighter as mealtime approached, consume my favorite meat & potatoes, fail to understand the allure of televised football. Dinner was in the afternoon, with leftovers pulled out again around 7, only after my dad felt the ‘vultures circling’ to which my mom clucked minor disapproval, actually pleased at what she had to offer. Before eating the star meal, we would have to each state a word or phrase of thanks, followed by one of Dad’s customary dinner prayers. We danced this funny routine every year.

Not uncommon, my recognition and celebration of this holiday has changed throughout the years. During the last 10, I have hosted more often than not, continually working toward a more thoughtful day, respecting the food and its producers by choosing with care. I have grown to honor the season of sturdy squashes, root vegetables, hearty greens like kale, foregoing warm season foods shipped from far away. Being an omnivore, the turkey we eat needs to be raised on pasture where it was able to move around, pecking at grasses and bugs and tiny rocks, not bred to be all breast, unable to stand even if it had space to move about.

More over, Thanksgiving has become a day to culminate another year of thanks giving. At our house, we practice being thankful to each other: Thanks for dinner! Thank you so much for going to work every day. Thanks for the clean socks. Thanks for turning that light off. Would you feed puppy? Thank you! We also use thanks giving to change perspectives and attitudes. Can’t sleep? Relax, close your eyes and start listing all the things to be thankful for. Don’t think you can complete the workout? With each step, give thanks for legs, arms, muscles, lungs, breath, a body moving. Feeling down? Stand outside with open eyes, then whisper thanks for the trees, the sky, the clouds, the rain, the green, the brown, whatever it is in view.

In order to give thanks, I must notice. Noticing is living with eyes, heart, mind open. It is breathing deeply, lungs filled, then emptied slowly. It is giving room to feel pain completely, making space for all the harder emotions: fear, disappointment, discouragement, sadness; feeling these deeply, validating their existence, then watching them step back, satisfied at their turn to dance, ready to be wallflowers again. I want to live with open eyes, eyes that see the bad, the ugly, the cynic-producing, but focus on the lovely, the wonder, the mystery all around me. I am thankful.

Market

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Perched above Ballard, seconds before descent, the panorama spread before me: low-laying clouds bursting with rain, almost leafless trees bracing themselves in the cold, drabby browns, tired greens, buildings and streets, everything, mostly gray. On this early Sunday morning drive, alone, a split second thought flew past, ‘Look for color’.

As my eyes left the broader view, the stop light punched through my consciousness with a brilliant red. Almost as quickly, the yellow of a few remaining leaves quivered their luminescence as I drove past. The trees lining Ballard Avenue kept cozy with lichen sweaters of the faintest green, a mere sheen of a shade, but still standing out among the unkempt warehouse spaces they accompanied. My own very red umbrella now bobbing as I walked, brought color to shop window reflections. Ahead of me, the familiar orange, red, and purple flags signaled the entrance to the market, a wonderland of greens, reds, purples, whites, browns, oranges, and more. I took my place in line, waiting in the rain for the market to open.

The tall umbrella’d man behind me was there for a turkey and some eggs. He and his petite purple-booted wife tag teamed, keeping their rain-slickered child, bright with yellow, busy if he wanted to be. The woman in front of me, maybe half my age, slightly embarrassed at the enormity of her black and white golf umbrella, introduced herself to me. Caught off guard at her out stretched hand ready to shake my gloved one, more than slightly embarrassed to not remember her name, I will call her Julie.

Julie and I talked about hosting holiday dinners, hosting brunches to test out new holiday recipes, what meats we buy from Eiko. She asked me where I worked. I replied from some cobwebby nook in my frontal lobe, ‘I’m just a mom’. A split second later I corrected my statement, at the very same moment Julie was beginning to correct me as well. My line companion had a kindness about her. My un-effaced stumble led to a chat about mothering. I told her about my 9-year-old son, and about how he was happy. That our goal was to raise a happy human who would hopefully grow up and make other people happy. Julie said she and her boyfriend had recently discussed someday having kids. She expressed dismay that no voices in her generation spoke of raising children as a viable lifestyle for a woman. I took a small leap and told her about The Continuum Concept, a book I’ve recently read, and a book I wish I had read 25 years ago. The Continuum Concept tells of Jean Liedloff‘s study of the Yequana Indians of South America during the late 60s, early 70s, a people who still lived within the evolutionary continuum set in motion by the earliest humans. The focus of her study was to discover why these people seemed happy, happy in the face of little technology, few material goods, and days of seemingly unending physical labor. Her conclusions speak clearly on the vital role of mothering and caregiving, and suggest adaption for our current non-continuum culture.

The line moved quickly after that. Julie held my space while I got my burger, and she pulled bacon for me while I held her spot. We parted ways, she repeating the book’s title, me off to find carrots and kale. I don’t know if she’ll find the book, or if she’ll read it. It doesn’t matter. What does matter? We connected. We had a little conversation that ended up touching something important to her, reflecting something important to me that I, a feminist mom, chose to speak to from my experience. I hope the best for Julie and her dreams. Even though I most likely will never see her again, Julie’s handshake, her lovely face while speaking, her kindness toward me were a gift. A morning made richer by that fleeting thought of color, that tiny reminder to awareness.

Life Among the Stumps

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The tiny house stood finished. Tula and Suzie were enjoying the barn and pasture. Clarence and the Silver Spangled Hamburgs carried on in their ample coop and fenced yard. Fred wandered off constantly, his fine-tuned nose offering temptations too great to ignore. Mercy, our only surviving kitty was good company. The solar panels dumped electricity into our enormous battery bank daily, the gauges and meters monitoring our usage. The Barbie-sized 12 volt television got fairly good reception from the loft and our telephone with answering machine worked great. Once the cookstove was hot, baking cookies or bread or lasagna was exponentially satisfying. Water from the well heated instantly with our Paloma, affording luxurious baths in the giant cast iron tub. We were playing house in the woods, backed up to an undeveloped 20 acres.

I had summers off. Alone for the day, I worked my garden, tending the roses and perennials, weeding and watering the vegetables. I planted new areas, developing a rock garden with drought tolerant plants just below the house. I did any baking first thing in the day, the afternoons warm from the sun didn’t need any assistance from a wood fire. When need be, I loaded the van with laundry and spent time at the small town laundry mat. Being so alone in what seemed such a remote location was creepy to me at first. I had never done much completely by myself. I hiked Hurricane Ridge with friends. I had camped directly on Second Beach with friends. I had spent summers away, but always with new friends to be made. Living in the woods, days with spouse at work, this was a first for me. There was a renewed sense that I could handle life.

Our driveway hugged the south line of the property and at about halfway, it rounded a curve, coming into view from the house. We could see approaching vehicles at quite a distance. We didn’t get many unannounced visitors. We hosted birthdays and dinners, our families crowding around the table, our entire house the size of an ordinary dining room. They were game and supportive. They laughed jovially at my storage system, assorted baskets loaded with kitchen towels or implements or magazines hanging from the loft support beams. To this day, they still talk of the gallon jars filled with dried beans, pasta, rice, flour, and sugar lining the shelves. They felt the cozy, the adventure, but always went home, happy for their easy electricity and conventional bathrooms.

One evening, our friend Ed and a very new female acquaintance came for dinner. The weather had been stormy, another Pineapple Express pouring rain, elevating the snow level, but we were cozy, warm, wined, dined, our electricity not flickering once. We said our goodbyes, watched their tail lights disappear, then found our way to the futon in the loft. We lived on a hill. The river valley below was a flood plain, home to cattle, crops, and farm houses with 6 foot high foundations. Just as we were dozing off, sated and sleepy, we saw lights approaching. It was well after midnight and we did that startled awake freak out thing. Who on earth would be coming to our house at this time? We readied ourselves for interception, but as the car moved closer, we recognized it as Ed’s. The valley was flooded. Our entire small town was an island, entirely lake front property. We had overnight guests. No sofa, no guest room, a

toutes les toilettes naturel

but they were game with the hardwood floor, throw pillows, and our sleeping bags. In the morning, we enjoyed a lake front breakfast in town, by the end of which the water had receded enough to allow escape via an alternate, longer route to civilization. Our house was clean, simple, and small. This experience, helped by Ed’s own congeniality, was my first true epiphany that it’s the people who make the home, the attitudes that form comfort, not the number of rooms, the square footage, nor any physical amenity that can create welcome or conviviality.

This life wasn’t always easy. Arriving home late, outside temperatures in the low 30s, inside temps close to the same, the small firebox of the cookstove inadequate to hold a fire unaided for more than an hour, I got tired of being cold, of climbing into a very cold bed. It would be wearying at times to maintain awareness of what light was left on, how much electricity I could use. I grew very tired of the unconventional personal facilities. There were people I wasn’t going to invite over, ever, as I knew they’d never understand. Being an oddity, a conversation piece had grown old. Avoidance became easier than hearing the same quips, answering the same questions, bristling from the ‘I could never do this’ as if we were asking them to. On stormy nights when others had lost power, during summer mornings while baking chocolate chip cookies, retrieving Freddie again from Jake’s house because Jake’s 10-times-the-size-of-Fred Newfoundland was in heat, enjoying clammy afternoons visiting with roving clouds, these were the priceless moments.

These treasures, though, weren’t enough to sustain. We wanted to make the house a little bigger. We wanted to think of adding a child. We wanted to go back through the correct channels, add an approved drain field. All this required, essentially, starting over. We were okay with that. At the last minute when the bank financing fell through, we felt devastated. Not crippling devastation, we were young and still flexible, but the end of any dream hurts. Our ability to flow with the change, our willingness to dream again after a short period of mourning, made us stronger. We had done it. At a time when you didn’t get tax credits for alternative energy additions to a home, when the nearest solar panel dealer was a state away, we had lived off the grid. At a young adult age we had known independence and self-reliance. We had done the research, learned the skills, picked up hammers and shovels, and carved out a niche. Our spot in the woods, the actual carving of earth is now gone, but the effect on ourselves, on both Spouse and me, will always be.

Outside the Box?

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Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale…

Gilligan’s Island. I can name that tune in 4 notes. Much of our experience at Trail’s End felt very much like being castaways on a remote deserted island.

No phone, no lights no motor cars,
Not a single luxury,
Like Robinson Crusoe,
As primitive as can be.

We had found a water source. One of the paradoxes of my childhood, was my ancient maternal Grandfather: a no-nonsense, strict, conservative, religious hard-working Swedish immigrant. While he wouldn’t prune an apple tree on Sunday, he could find water through divining. Grandpa came to our property and witched for water. Using a fresh-cut vine maple branch, he located the spot that would indeed produce water for our home. I found this funny and ironic. Growing up with strong direction away from magic and sorcerery, here was my Granddad using ‘magic’ to find water. But, I digress.

The first seemingly insurmountable hurdle we met was that of electricity. Our driveway now installed, the 60 foot required easement producing an Interstate 90-ish kind of access, brought the distance from power poll at street to that of home site to 1/2 mile. We were to pay for electricity installation by the foot. I don’t remember the exact numbers, but for us, getting electricity to the home site would be in excess of $30,000. Ouch. The other residents on the shared part of our driveway had opted for alternative means of powering their homes, either due to prohibitive cost or wanting to live outside the system. We had very limited funds so began to look into alternatives. Six 2-volt retired phone company deep cell batteries, 4 solar panels, a roof mounting rack, lots of 12 to 14 gauge wire, a control panel, and 1 Honda generator later, we were set. We became part of a very small group of subscribers to Home Power Magazine, a resource for alternative electricity advocates, launched in 1987. Spouse, always interested in things electrical, became an expert in amps, volts, ohms, usage, and trickle charge. Our system would run a well-pump, but we couldn’t afford enough panels to power a Sun Frost refrigerator, so we opted for self-hauled propane for heating water and storing food. We would be cooking on a wood-fueled cookstove. We had unwittingly established ourselves as family conversation pieces.

Limited finances pushed our decision regarding shelter as well. A structure deemed safe to occupy by county officials must be built on a poured cement foundation. We didn’t have funds for both a poured foundation AND a structure to set on it, so we opted for the structure. Our plan was small, smaller than the former milk shed we had been living in, and it would rest on a post and pier foundation. By making this choice, we were choosing to operate outside of the system, choosing to live in an unauthorized building. We would build a safe, sound, strong structure, working with our builder-friend-turned-mortgage-holder, Jay. Under normal development scenarios, workers install the septic system before house construction begins. Here I was adamant: if we are going to live in an illegal house, I’m not going to add insult to injury by also installing an illegal drain field. While there are now several alternatives to conventional plumbing, we had the option of outhouse. So, yes indeed. We dug a large hole, built a little house over that hole, and all my years of camping experience paid off. We had now, however, become full on oddities among our family and friends.

 Sometimes things  don’t make sense, can’t or won’t make sense to anyone who lives outside of my shoes. I grew up in a conventional 1960’s rambler, on 5 acres just outside a small town on the edge of Seattle. I had fallen in love with the Third World, the idea of living simply, and with a man who wasn’t afraid. Sitting on the little porch of my tiny house, listening to the wind in the treetops, watching as the clouds which blanketed the valley far below wandered by, slightly cold, a little clammy, sliding past me, my only company; I can’t say it even made sense to me. I knew I was connected though; connected to those clouds, to the structure which held me, to the rich forest loam on which I walked. There was no hurry, no plan, just this place all around me. It was enough.

Warmly lit oasis

Honey, It’s a Bear

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Jay was kind to us. He evidently liked the idea of selling his 10-acre parcel of undeveloped stump land to us, and made the terms very accessible. Our commitment to purchase required paying even less on our current housing so we moved from The Little House With Blue Trim to an even smaller home, a former milk shed on a former dairy farm. The new residence, its white paint and tidy appearance in sync with the 2 gigantic no-longer-used-for-hay barns, and a third, inbetween-sized building, looked out across Cherry Creek and all of Cherry Valley, providing communion with Kingfishers and Great Blue Herons. The footprint was about 12 x 24 feet and we accessed the upper level, where we slept, by pull-down ladder stairs. It was our headquarters, our place of triage where we drew maps, made plans, discussed dreams.

Soil quality was an early concern. Soil must ‘perk’ to determine what kind of design is necessary for septic systems. The better the soil, the simpler and less expensive the drainfield design would be. Water availability was another basic concern. If water was not available, if a potable well could not be produced, the land would be deemed uninhabitable. Another aspect of our early research was the availability of, or access to, electricity. Spouse made calls and connections about soil and septic. Meetings were set up and fulfilled. We walked the property again and again, looking for geographical markers which might indicate the presence of underground water, the ideal location of a house site with gravity flow in mind, how access to such a house site would be designed and engineered. We made more connections with D8 operators, the public utility, our soon-to-be neighbors.

On one of our property walks, we ventured further east to the far corner of the piece. Spouse was a few steps ahead of me, pushing his way through vine maple, feet snared by blackberry and salal. As he looked ahead toward another large stump, a stump hosting a vibrant huckleberry bush, he noticed a large black furry animal enjoying the huckleberry and perhaps some of the insects residing in the decaying hulk. His first thought was ‘Who would have a big dog out here?’ His next thought came out loud to me, ‘Honey, it’s a bear.’ Taking only seconds for the words to penetrate my already hyper vigilant imagination, I turned and retraced my steps at a faster pace. What had spouse dragged me into? What on earth were we doing here? We were going to live here? With bears? I took comfort in that Spouse’s vocalization had the same effect on the bear as it had on me-the bear took off, away from us.

As with many frightening experiences, when I knew I was safe, I could laugh at our experience. I also had the profound feeling of being more alive. We had experienced a bear. We were going to live in a place where nature was still a little bit wild, and while we were making plans to subdue parts of this acreage, most of it would remain untouched by us. I was admittedly conflicted about living with wild animals. I was not Jane Goodall nor Joan Embery, but the peace and challenge of this place had taken root. Spouse and I were taking on a task that few we knew had attempted. I believe this task, while not epic in the way of prairie farmers or other early pioneers, was formative glue, drawing us together as a unit, giving an added dimension of meaning to our relationship. This was the real beginning of our lives together.

Trail’s End: The Beginning

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The 2-lane state highway, bordered by Big Leaf maples, Douglas fir, and Thuja plicata, the non-cedar western red cedar, tightly hugged the edge of the hill, resisting, perhaps, the urge to let go, to give into the pull of the fertile river valley running parallel. We had driven this road many times, the green bubble of our 1970 VW Beetle scooting purposefully along. Today Spouse had something to show me.

Just after passing through the small town neighboring our own, the Beetle veered right, overtaking another 2-lane road, and while not as important as a State Route, it would take on a personal significance. More maples, firs, cedars, and alders, a dairy farm, and numerous small holdings stood at attention while we zipped past. Another turn, this time a left, some winding switch backs, a tiny volunteer fire station, and several home sites in varying degrees of development later, we drove on gravel past Alice’s mobile, through Frank and Lee’s front yard, and passed the sign at the entrance to Oscar and Linea’s place, the words routered into wood:

We Don’t

Buy

Sell

Give

Believe

So Stay The Hell Out

We had driven 15 minutes outside of Small Town No. 2, a gradual ascent from the valley floor to the top of the tree-covered hills that skirted the cow pastures and cornfields. Spouse was driving me into the woods, into the midst of white trash, anti social, rednecks? My anxiety meter was close to pegging.

The Beetle stopped at the end of the driveway, outside a postage stamp sized house. The rough-hewn lumber, carefully angled windows, the hips and valleys engineered into the tiny roof, all perched with a western view of the valley far below, spoke of care, artistry, and a very minimal footprint. Jay, a soft-spoken, gentle house building artisan, had 20 acres, subdivided into 2 parcels and was looking to sell one. Spouse had visited and was smitten, bitten, bewitched.

Jay had his driveway, his cabin, his fine crafted outhouse, and the outdoor tub which he built a fire under to heat before bathing. The remaining acreage, logged some time ago, lay undeveloped, completely raw. Spouse is a visionary. He is visual. He can draw pictures, scenarios, write music, hear completed scores all within his mind. I, on the other hand, need drawings, color photos, photoshopped if necessary, ability to fly over an area while studying a carefully drawn schematic of what I’m looking at. While easy for me to become a 2-legged female version of Eeyore, I tried my best to keep mouth shut and eyes open.  Spouse had walked this property with Jay and he really, really wanted me to love it as much as he did.

Jay’s driveway cut right along the western border of his property. His small encampment situated on the northwest corner. There was access to the remaining acreage only via foot, access  benefitted by a pair of sturdy boots. We began our trek on the remains of an old railroad grade, a mark left on the earth married to the enormous stumps which dotted the acreage. We hiked through tangled vine maples, skunk cabbage marshes, over downed rotting Alders, clothing tagged by unfettered blackberry brambles, to some mysterious point roughly 660 feet in where Jay knew the first plot ended and ‘ours’ began.

While completely overgrown, the railroad grade offered a level walking surface. Away from the grade, the topography would swell, depress, then rise again, the northern edge offering the highest point in elevation. Standing at this mild summit, we  could command a sweeping view of Alders, scrawny pre-teen evergreens, blackberry riots, and the stumps, nurturing new growth, a memorial to the trees taken 100 years before. The view gave way to the sound of  breeze moving branches, of birds, of squirrels looking for food. Even more than what we could see or hear, we could feel the place: deep, primal, ancient creation, ourselves springing from the Old Growth remnants. Lungs filled, imaginations ignited, hope kindling, the magic took hold.