Walking Through an Oregon Neighborhood While Listening To Sly and the Family Stone
Spring
reboots once again and I’m never ready for it.
Years of no transition between dry winters and deathly humid summers
dulled my senses; I was color-blind. I try to start with the smells that drift
in an out like waiters in a restaurant, each carrying their own aromas of
blossoms, pine needles and the faint background of a farmer’s manure. There are
too many to sort.
I follow one to a tree with tiny
buds and the beginnings of red leaves. I
curse myself every year for not know the names of trees. I don’t know why it makes a difference, they
are all still here every year, names or not, but I want to know all the
same. The tree stands near the street,
shading a patch of grass that is surely a popular spot for dog walkers to stop
and let their little guys mark some territory.
Up ahead there are a dozen trees of different varieties (Damn, it would
be so cool if I knew what to call them!) The pines reach up the farthest, and
the candy-corn shaped flat-leaved fellahs, some with rusty yellow, some with
burgundy, and some with a deep plum shade keep them company.
The sky cannot be ignored. It is what my wife and I call “an Oregony
day”. The weather is cool, not cold and
the sky is overcast. When it lasts a
week, it’s a bummer, but when it sneaks in and interrupts the sun, I welcome
it. To me it’s a giant blanket, tucking
me in and loosening my shoulders. These
days are in balance with the sun, each one trying not to stay too long at the
party.
I see a blue cardboard sign for a
garage sale pinned to a telephone pole. “BABIES FOR SALE”. Looking closer, they have intentionally made
the rest of the print smaller. What it
actually reads is: “BABIES’ clothing FOR SALE”.
I appreciate the hell out of the writer and wish I had a few bucks on me
to buy some of their crap. I see a lot
of that here. Intentional dips into a
creative pool, all for the collective enjoyment of the rest of the
community. I hear the nearby dogs bark
and I move on.
It seems that everyone here owns a
dog. I see my fair share of kitties and
a handful of horses and pigs as well, but the dog is number one. I am a dog person, as in I own one and the
majority of dogdom just flat-out loves me.
Even these two yipping assholes that spend their lives in a backyard,
who have barked at me 20 times a month for the last eight years, would love me
if I hopped their fence and played with them.
Dogs live and breathe for love.
They pass the time with food and sniffing butts, but it is love they
give and love they want in return. It is
an inescapably comfy energy.
Oregon has changed me. It changed me two or three times over. I have seen my darkest lows and my sweetest
highs in the same place, surrounded by all these gorgeous trees I can’t
name. We look for that sense of
belonging in people our entire live, but we also try to find it on earth. Many of us are not born or raised in the
place that suits us. There is no
substitute for it. You either feel it or
you don’t. I feel thankful to this
place. I want to thank you for letting
me be myself.
(Again.)