Sunday, February 25, 2007

Walking down memory lane

I spent my birthday with a special someone, walking through the misty Henry Cowell redwoods, revisiting my childhood. Not a mile from the house where my mother and I spent our childhood summers is a place called Roaring Camp. All summer long they run old trains on narrow gauge tracks up to Bear Mountain and back, and down into downtown Santa Cruz. Hearing that train whistle brought back a flood of memories. As did that scent of oak and redwood and humus that filled the air. It was fun to feel the decomposed granite of the pathway crunching underfoot, my legs longer and my feet larger than when I walked it last, but each step rolling back the years. I managed to will back the rain long enough to enjoy the 1880's village there, to toast the marshmallows that MR bought, and to walk the mile circle through the redwoods. I missed the sounds of birds, but it is winter still, despite the fact that the plum trees are blooming. I know I was suddenly childlike in my enthusiasm for being there, in that place, but MR was great about it. He even offered to let me drive his Z3. Pity I didn't have my license with me.

I'll be off to the airport soon, returning to the life I left behind in Portland 10 days ago. CW and Cyn and the others have missed me and I've missed them. And my bed.

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1 Comments:

Blogger kujmous said...

You reminded me of a walk I took alone through the forest by my grandparents' home. This walk was not meandering; a purpose was set. It was time to lay our always beloved cat, Buddy, to rest.

I had just heard Seal's song, "Love's Devine" for the first time and my eyes had welled up from the sentiment and the moment together.

There is more to the story than just the burial, but for the sake of brevity and correlation, it will have to stay unwritten.

With the box in one hand and the shovel in the other, I had made my way back far enough into the trees that none of the children would find it. I found a young tree, probably a year old, and dug the appropriate hole for the box. When complete, all I had remaining was he ID tag. I fastened it snuggly onto a branch.

Then I went home.

...a year later...

The family was gathered at my grandparents' house for Thanksgiving when my aging uncle spoke of "the most extraordinary thing he had ever seen." He knew we had buried our Buddy back in the trees, but he then proceeded to speak of the tree that grew straight up and took his collar from him and left it on display.

Being the rational, skeptical, realist, my step-dad quickly dismissed him with the truth that it was placed there intentionally. I remained silent, but I did learn a remarkable truth.

There is absolutely no shame to live with a heart of sentiment over logic. As untrue as it was, my uncle had professed the most touching story, I had ever heard.

As much as I had to learn, I would have never guessed that my uncle, farmhand since birth, would be the mentor he has yet to be credited as being. I think I owe him a card :)

2:59 PM, February 25, 2007  

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