For many Northwest residents who were old enough to remember it, May 18, 1980, invokes powerful, visual memories of the destructive eruption of Mount St. Helens.
Those too close to the mountain died. Other who were close enough to the mountain could actually see the eruption, and for those east of the blast, they can remember the massive ash cloud turning the sky dark and raining ash and pumice hundreds of miles away. Our house was in the path of the ash, but like most of the rest of the nation, my family watched the events on the TV news and read about it in the newspapers.
We weren't at home when the mountain blew.
We were visiting family in Nebraska. I was 14 at the time. Why were were in Nebraska at that time of year, I can't remember. My parents couldn't remember either. As dad remembers it, we heard of the eruption when we landed in Rock Springs, Wyo., for fuel. He thinks we were headed to Nebraska when we learned the news. But given that it was a Sunday, I wonder if maybe we were heading back to Oregon, and that news of the eruption turned us back.
To this day, I have bad memories of the Rock Springs airport. We seemed to have a helluva time getting past Rock Springs on our family flights to and from Nebraska. If we were ever to have heater problems or other mechanical issues, it required landing in Rock Springs. And there was absolutely nothing for a kid to do at the Rock Spring airport, which is way the hell-and-gone away from town.
I don't remember learning about the St. Helens eruption in Rock Springs, but I remember spending extra days in Nebraska, stressing about the school I was missing as a nerdy 8th-grader who wanted to get back home and not really understanding why this mountain, thousands of miles away from where we were then, and hundreds of miles from where we were trying to go, was stopping us from getting home.
Once we did get home, days later, it was a little easier to understand. There was still ash residue at our house in Eastern Oregon. Some friends had collected some of it into jars and told stories of what had happened there the day of the eruption.
I could empathize with all those European travelers earlier this spring who were unable to travel because of the volcano erupting in Iceland. I had been there too, 30 years ago. Although we were traveling by a small private plane, life and plans had to be put on hold until the air cleared.
Until Sept. 11, 2001, there had really only been 2 dates etched indelibly in my mind as major events of my lifetime. One was the day my daughter was born. The other was the day Mount St. Helens erupted.
In the years since, particularly after my daughter moved to Portland, I've gotten a bit nervous when St. Helens goes in to her more active periods. She has a might long reach when she's angry
For my family, we suffered a little inconvenience due to the mountain's wrath. Others suffered far worse. The scar left on the mountain itself is a very visible and permanent reminder of the awesome power Mother Nature can unleash when she's so inclined. Some of the Northwest's most scenic locations are a tribute to that power -- Crater Lake, all the volcanoes of the Ring of Fire in the Cascades, massive basalt flows, the Columbia Gorge. Perhaps it's knowing there is potential fire hidden beneath the icy caps of those mountains that adds to their beauty, majesty and mystique.
Showing posts with label childhood memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label childhood memories. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Thursday, December 17, 2009
The man with the long beard makes an unlikely Santa Claus
I haven't written a post here in about two and a half months and that post was about a trip my dad and I made to Nebraska for his brother's funeral, and in the time since that post was made two of the people we saw on that trip have also died.
The latest call came today. My dad called me while I was at work. He never does that. My parents rarely call, but when they do it's almost always bad news.
When I got the call in early November about my Dad's brother in-law Doug dying, that was not too much of a shock. He was not in good shape when we saw him in September. He was 86 and in failing health. It was sad, but not a stunning development.
One of the reasons I felt it was important to make that trip was to see and spend some time with family because I knew some members of the family might not be there the next time I was able to get back there. My dad is the youngest of his siblings and my parents are now both in their early 70s. I think I've only been back to Nebraska four times in the last 27 years. All four of those trips were for funerals. There have been funerals I've missed too, like my grandmother's. I'm not a big fan of funerals. I'd skip my own if I could, but missing Grandma's was hard, even though I had said a tearful goodbye to her when she left Oregon for Nebraska not long before her passing. I didn't go back for my Uncle Doug's funeral either, but was glad I got to sit and talk with him and hear him my dad share stories just a few weeks before he died.
The call today threw me for a bit of loop though in a very different way. Dad was calling to tell me that my cousin, Mike, had died. I have a lot of cousins that are quite a bit older than me, but Mike is not one of them. He's actually younger. It's also upsetting because a member of my family is gone and I didn't really know him that well, and now I never will. Sadly, there are far too many members of my family that I don't know very well. Too may years and too many miles separate our time spent together.
The amazing thing I experienced on the last couple of trips to see family is that the years and the miles didn't seem to matter. The family bonds are still there.
My cousin Mike served as host on the last trip my dad and I made to Nebraska together. Mike gave up his bed during our stay and he made sure we felt at home. He also helped us catch up on the happenings within the family and took us out on the town one evening.
I was quite impressed with Mike. His mother has been quite ill, recovering from a stroke, and Mike has been taking care of her. He had become her full-time caregiver. I remember asking myself: "Could I do that?"
I didn't know the answer, if push really came to shove. The best I could come up with was maybe. And then again, maybe not.
Mike had also cultivated a distinctive look for himself with an amazingly long beard. He looked like he was auditioning for a spot in the ZZ Top lineup. I kept expecting him to flip it over his shoulder, or swoosh the hairs back and forth in dramatic fashion like Pai Mei in Kill Bill Vol. 2. How did he manage to ignore that thing dangling from his chin?
I know Mike had a keen interest in music and played guitar, but I never heard him play. There is much I don't know about him. Over the years I've been much closer to some of his siblings. His sister Tammy was my babysitter when I was young. Mike's brother Bill was a little older than me, but I always looked up to him, almost like a big brother. I always wanted to hang out with Billy. I wanted to be like Billy. He just seemed so cool to me. Mike's brother Randy was older still, and I didn't know him as well when I was young, but we have got to know either other quite well in more recent years. Randy moved in with me for a while when I was living and working in Hermiston about 20 years ago. He is funny and can always make me laugh. Because he was older, and had maintained his ties to Nebraska, even over years of working in Oregon, he knew more about the older generations of the family. He was my connection to the family. Their oldest brothers, Steve and Keith, were already out of the house by the time of my earliest memories. They were more like uncles than cousins.
When we were children, I didn't spend much time with Mike. He was the same age as my brother Ron and I felt too old, too mature to hang out with the younger kids. Ironically, I did every thing I could to hang out with Bill, who was about as many years older than me as I was older than Mike. Bill was much more magnanimous with his time than I was with mine.
I regret that now. The regrets are piling up with age. I used to arrogantly tell a former girlfriend that I had no regrets. It may have been true then, back in my college days, but then there wasn't much life lived to realize the mistakes that would haunt me. Now the haunting spirits of regret emerge with frightening regularity.
I got an e-mail from Mike a few days ago. It included a whole bunch of pictures of a guy who builds scale model airplanes out of metal. I thought about writing back just to see how things were going. But I was annoyed too because all the photos attached to the message were clogging up my e-mail program and it was taking forever to see the text of the message and the photos. In frustration I just tossed the message into the trash and never hit the reply button. Hindsight, being what it is, I certainly regret that now.
If I could go back a few days, I would write to Mike and say something, anything. And if I could go back to those college days I would not be so boastful about lack of regret with a certain young woman. Isn't that how it goes? Once so proud of a lack of regrets, now here I am facing regrets about things said and things left unsaid.
It's easy to forget that I come from a big family. I'm glad I got to go back to Nebraska in September to spend some time with Mike and Uncle Doug and so many other members of both sides of my family who I now so rarely see. We don't get all the time we want to do all the things we want with all the people we want. I'm thankful for the time I got and for the chance to learn how strong family ties can remain, in spite of time and distance.
Grieving can be a lonely experience, but it's mitigated when it's shared with others close to you. I'm so sorry for the loss Mike's death will mean to family and friends, particularly to his mother who has been able to live in her own home with Mike's help.
I really haven't been looking forward to Christmas this year for a very pathetic reason. Finances are tight and I am not going to be able to buy gifts for as many people as I would like to and won't be able to spend as much on the gifts that are given. I was even thinking about not going to see my parents and brothers to avoid any awkwardness over gifts or the lack thereof. Silly. And sad that it takes the loss of a cousin to remind me of what I should already know. Certainly there will be a some grieving over this holiday season, but I shall attempt to make this also a season for celebrating life and family -- those I will be fortunate enough to see for Christmas, those far away, and those gone but not forgotten.
Mike, Steve and Keith West at graveside services for Clyde West in September 2009 at the Mitchell, Neb., cemetery.
The latest call came today. My dad called me while I was at work. He never does that. My parents rarely call, but when they do it's almost always bad news.
When I got the call in early November about my Dad's brother in-law Doug dying, that was not too much of a shock. He was not in good shape when we saw him in September. He was 86 and in failing health. It was sad, but not a stunning development.
One of the reasons I felt it was important to make that trip was to see and spend some time with family because I knew some members of the family might not be there the next time I was able to get back there. My dad is the youngest of his siblings and my parents are now both in their early 70s. I think I've only been back to Nebraska four times in the last 27 years. All four of those trips were for funerals. There have been funerals I've missed too, like my grandmother's. I'm not a big fan of funerals. I'd skip my own if I could, but missing Grandma's was hard, even though I had said a tearful goodbye to her when she left Oregon for Nebraska not long before her passing. I didn't go back for my Uncle Doug's funeral either, but was glad I got to sit and talk with him and hear him my dad share stories just a few weeks before he died.
The call today threw me for a bit of loop though in a very different way. Dad was calling to tell me that my cousin, Mike, had died. I have a lot of cousins that are quite a bit older than me, but Mike is not one of them. He's actually younger. It's also upsetting because a member of my family is gone and I didn't really know him that well, and now I never will. Sadly, there are far too many members of my family that I don't know very well. Too may years and too many miles separate our time spent together.
The amazing thing I experienced on the last couple of trips to see family is that the years and the miles didn't seem to matter. The family bonds are still there.
My cousin Mike served as host on the last trip my dad and I made to Nebraska together. Mike gave up his bed during our stay and he made sure we felt at home. He also helped us catch up on the happenings within the family and took us out on the town one evening.
I was quite impressed with Mike. His mother has been quite ill, recovering from a stroke, and Mike has been taking care of her. He had become her full-time caregiver. I remember asking myself: "Could I do that?"
I didn't know the answer, if push really came to shove. The best I could come up with was maybe. And then again, maybe not.
Mike had also cultivated a distinctive look for himself with an amazingly long beard. He looked like he was auditioning for a spot in the ZZ Top lineup. I kept expecting him to flip it over his shoulder, or swoosh the hairs back and forth in dramatic fashion like Pai Mei in Kill Bill Vol. 2. How did he manage to ignore that thing dangling from his chin?
I know Mike had a keen interest in music and played guitar, but I never heard him play. There is much I don't know about him. Over the years I've been much closer to some of his siblings. His sister Tammy was my babysitter when I was young. Mike's brother Bill was a little older than me, but I always looked up to him, almost like a big brother. I always wanted to hang out with Billy. I wanted to be like Billy. He just seemed so cool to me. Mike's brother Randy was older still, and I didn't know him as well when I was young, but we have got to know either other quite well in more recent years. Randy moved in with me for a while when I was living and working in Hermiston about 20 years ago. He is funny and can always make me laugh. Because he was older, and had maintained his ties to Nebraska, even over years of working in Oregon, he knew more about the older generations of the family. He was my connection to the family. Their oldest brothers, Steve and Keith, were already out of the house by the time of my earliest memories. They were more like uncles than cousins.
When we were children, I didn't spend much time with Mike. He was the same age as my brother Ron and I felt too old, too mature to hang out with the younger kids. Ironically, I did every thing I could to hang out with Bill, who was about as many years older than me as I was older than Mike. Bill was much more magnanimous with his time than I was with mine.
I regret that now. The regrets are piling up with age. I used to arrogantly tell a former girlfriend that I had no regrets. It may have been true then, back in my college days, but then there wasn't much life lived to realize the mistakes that would haunt me. Now the haunting spirits of regret emerge with frightening regularity.
I got an e-mail from Mike a few days ago. It included a whole bunch of pictures of a guy who builds scale model airplanes out of metal. I thought about writing back just to see how things were going. But I was annoyed too because all the photos attached to the message were clogging up my e-mail program and it was taking forever to see the text of the message and the photos. In frustration I just tossed the message into the trash and never hit the reply button. Hindsight, being what it is, I certainly regret that now.
If I could go back a few days, I would write to Mike and say something, anything. And if I could go back to those college days I would not be so boastful about lack of regret with a certain young woman. Isn't that how it goes? Once so proud of a lack of regrets, now here I am facing regrets about things said and things left unsaid.
It's easy to forget that I come from a big family. I'm glad I got to go back to Nebraska in September to spend some time with Mike and Uncle Doug and so many other members of both sides of my family who I now so rarely see. We don't get all the time we want to do all the things we want with all the people we want. I'm thankful for the time I got and for the chance to learn how strong family ties can remain, in spite of time and distance.
Grieving can be a lonely experience, but it's mitigated when it's shared with others close to you. I'm so sorry for the loss Mike's death will mean to family and friends, particularly to his mother who has been able to live in her own home with Mike's help.
I really haven't been looking forward to Christmas this year for a very pathetic reason. Finances are tight and I am not going to be able to buy gifts for as many people as I would like to and won't be able to spend as much on the gifts that are given. I was even thinking about not going to see my parents and brothers to avoid any awkwardness over gifts or the lack thereof. Silly. And sad that it takes the loss of a cousin to remind me of what I should already know. Certainly there will be a some grieving over this holiday season, but I shall attempt to make this also a season for celebrating life and family -- those I will be fortunate enough to see for Christmas, those far away, and those gone but not forgotten.
Mike, Steve and Keith West at graveside services for Clyde West in September 2009 at the Mitchell, Neb., cemetery.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Heading back up the Oregon Trail
My dad and I headed back to Nebraska for his oldest brother's funeral last week. It was good to see family, but I wish it were under more pleasant circumstances.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Happy birthday, baby brother
Tuesday, Aug. 25, is my brother Dean's birthday.
The year Dean was born was an eventful one for our little branch of the West Family Tree. As my mom was getting ready for labor, my dad was buying a business in the thriving metropolis of Echo, Ore.
About a month after Dean was born, my dad piled all of our belongings into a moving truck in Western Nebraska and then he piled my mom, brother Ron, me and newborn Dean into a small plane and flew us to our new home in Oregon. We landed literally right outside our new backdoor. Our new home, on a small private airstrip out in the country, was also the home base for my dad's new business.
I doubt my brother remembers the trip. I was about a month shy of my 8th birthday. I can't say I remember a lot of it myself either.
It's hard to believe all of that was 36 years ago.
I was trying to figure out what to do for my brother for his birthday. My first thought was to shave part of his head, so he was a hairstyle more like the ones sported by my dad, brother Ron and I. But since I won't actually see my brother on his birthday, I opted instead to embarrass him long distance with a few photos from his recent past.
Happy Birthday Dean!
The year Dean was born was an eventful one for our little branch of the West Family Tree. As my mom was getting ready for labor, my dad was buying a business in the thriving metropolis of Echo, Ore.
About a month after Dean was born, my dad piled all of our belongings into a moving truck in Western Nebraska and then he piled my mom, brother Ron, me and newborn Dean into a small plane and flew us to our new home in Oregon. We landed literally right outside our new backdoor. Our new home, on a small private airstrip out in the country, was also the home base for my dad's new business.
I doubt my brother remembers the trip. I was about a month shy of my 8th birthday. I can't say I remember a lot of it myself either.
It's hard to believe all of that was 36 years ago.
I was trying to figure out what to do for my brother for his birthday. My first thought was to shave part of his head, so he was a hairstyle more like the ones sported by my dad, brother Ron and I. But since I won't actually see my brother on his birthday, I opted instead to embarrass him long distance with a few photos from his recent past.
Happy Birthday Dean!
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Unravelling a family mystery
I've never known much about my family history. I spent my early childhood in a small town in Nebraska that both of my parents' families had lived in for a long time. I knew one of my great grandparents. But I never really knew much about my family heritage. About all I knew was that my mom's side of the family was German and had come to America from Russia.
That's all.
My father's side has been a complete mystery. From the few conversations I've had about the family line with my father, I think that lineage is a mystery to him too. For the most part, it's been a mystery I've not felt too compelled to solve.
Something seems to have changed.
I'm not quite sure what inspired me to do it, but I've started looking into my family tree. Maybe it's the fact that they were talking about ancestry recently on the Today Show (although I didn't see any of those segments, just the promos for them). Then, there was a commercial for a website that allows people to trace their family tree on TV the other day. And as simple as that, I started a search.
Maybe it should not be such a surprise that I've become captivated by this exploration. It sort of fits what I do for my day job. Finding information, looking for records, trying to answer difficult questions is part of my job.
If the path I've followed is true, I've traced my father's line back 10 generations, to the year 1680 in England, before I ran out of leads. I've been able to get back about the same number of generations on one branch of my mother's side of the family, also to England, where that trail runs cold in 1724. I'm not sure if I can expect to find much about my maternal grandfather's family or not. I did find records indicating they were German, but I have jet to find a name for my grandfather's grandfather. So, the search will continue.
I've enjoyed the challenge of trying to add small pieces of the puzzle together to learn what the next piece reveals. It may not result in a story for print in the normal way I deal with stories, but it may tell me more about my own story, the things about myself that I never knew I wanted or needed to know.
Now, as my daughter is becoming a young adult, it seems like that's a story that I may want to tell her one day.
That's all.
My father's side has been a complete mystery. From the few conversations I've had about the family line with my father, I think that lineage is a mystery to him too. For the most part, it's been a mystery I've not felt too compelled to solve.
Something seems to have changed.
I'm not quite sure what inspired me to do it, but I've started looking into my family tree. Maybe it's the fact that they were talking about ancestry recently on the Today Show (although I didn't see any of those segments, just the promos for them). Then, there was a commercial for a website that allows people to trace their family tree on TV the other day. And as simple as that, I started a search.
Maybe it should not be such a surprise that I've become captivated by this exploration. It sort of fits what I do for my day job. Finding information, looking for records, trying to answer difficult questions is part of my job.
If the path I've followed is true, I've traced my father's line back 10 generations, to the year 1680 in England, before I ran out of leads. I've been able to get back about the same number of generations on one branch of my mother's side of the family, also to England, where that trail runs cold in 1724. I'm not sure if I can expect to find much about my maternal grandfather's family or not. I did find records indicating they were German, but I have jet to find a name for my grandfather's grandfather. So, the search will continue.
I've enjoyed the challenge of trying to add small pieces of the puzzle together to learn what the next piece reveals. It may not result in a story for print in the normal way I deal with stories, but it may tell me more about my own story, the things about myself that I never knew I wanted or needed to know.
Now, as my daughter is becoming a young adult, it seems like that's a story that I may want to tell her one day.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Reliving the gory, glory days
This upcoming weekend, the Fourth of July weekend, is one I've been looking forward to for a long time. Now, for some unexplained reason, I find myself having mixed emotions about it.
I've been looking forward to it for months now because there is a reunion in my old hometown and I'm hoping to see a lot of old friends from school, many of whom I probably haven't seen in 20 years or more.
Our school was quite small, so we can't really have traditional high school reunions, where a particular class gathers at those various milestone years -- 5, 10, 20, 25 years, etc. If we did that for my class, there would only be 17 of us there, and spouses perhaps, and that's if everyone showed up, and if I'm rightly remembering the number of people in my class. Obviously, everyone would not show up. So, every so often a school/community reunion is scheduled where everyone from any year, or who has ever just lived in the community can show up. So, that might improve the odds that more than 17 people will be there, but it also means that people far younger, or older, than I and whom I don't even know will be there. It's not just classmates, or even immediate year schoolmates.
I already know at least one of my classmates, and the guy who was my best friend from second grade through college, won't be there. He has a family event to attend for the holiday weekend.
Maybe part of the reason I'm having mixed feelings is because I'm skipping out on a family event myself to attend this school/community reunion. But this is only the second school reunion like this I've heard about since I graduated. The only other one I knew about occurred when I was living in California and the time off just wasn't in the cards, or something. I don't really remember when it was or why I didn't go, but I didn't.
I am excited to see at least one person who I know is expected to attend. One of my old running buddies who now lives in Germany is bringing his wife and kids home to visit his family and they scheduled their visit to coincide with the reunion.
The friend in question was a few years ahead of me in school, and had a bit of a wild boy reputation. Why he ever let me hang out with him, I'll never know. But we had a good time pursuing, if never quite capturing the elusive females of the species on warm summer days and nights in a beat up Chevy Vega, or whatever vehicle I could manage to borrow from my folks.
In fact I even served as best man at his first wedding, a casual backyard affair. I had no clue what a best man was supposed to do, and in hindsight I was a lousy one, but I stood up with my friend and witnesses the momentous occasion, all the while fawning over his then-new bride's younger sister.
My ol' buddy and I got reacquainted not so long ago over the Internet. In fact he was the one who told me about the reunion. Obviously he's got better connections around the old homestead than I do. Given the time difference, we often catch up with each other just as he is starting his work day and I'm thinking I should head off to bed.
Getting a chance to get caught up should be worth the trip. And who knows, maybe there will be some still single, or single again, women there too. And I can get absolutely nowhere again with the girls-turned-women of my old hometown.
Sometimes I get quite nostalgic for home, that home of my youth, and the people I spent it with. But I don't miss the boy I was, perpetually shy and terrified of members of the opposite sex. The boy who was unsure of himself and his place in the world. That boy is, for the most part, gone. But his ghosts haunts the present day from time to time, like when I'm confronted with a new situation, or meeting new people in a purely social context. It's those times I wish I had my old running buddy or my old best friend to lead the way with their outgoing, seemingly unflappable natures. Their confidence, bordering on arrogance, was something I've never perfected, except sometimes in the working world. Sometimes, when I know I need to take a leap, not like the one at the swimming hole along the Umatilla River of my teens, I need someone to leap first to show me the water is deep enough. And sometimes I need someone to give me a little nudge to leave the relative security of solid ground to step out into thin air and feel the rush.
I've been looking forward to it for months now because there is a reunion in my old hometown and I'm hoping to see a lot of old friends from school, many of whom I probably haven't seen in 20 years or more.
Our school was quite small, so we can't really have traditional high school reunions, where a particular class gathers at those various milestone years -- 5, 10, 20, 25 years, etc. If we did that for my class, there would only be 17 of us there, and spouses perhaps, and that's if everyone showed up, and if I'm rightly remembering the number of people in my class. Obviously, everyone would not show up. So, every so often a school/community reunion is scheduled where everyone from any year, or who has ever just lived in the community can show up. So, that might improve the odds that more than 17 people will be there, but it also means that people far younger, or older, than I and whom I don't even know will be there. It's not just classmates, or even immediate year schoolmates.
I already know at least one of my classmates, and the guy who was my best friend from second grade through college, won't be there. He has a family event to attend for the holiday weekend.
Maybe part of the reason I'm having mixed feelings is because I'm skipping out on a family event myself to attend this school/community reunion. But this is only the second school reunion like this I've heard about since I graduated. The only other one I knew about occurred when I was living in California and the time off just wasn't in the cards, or something. I don't really remember when it was or why I didn't go, but I didn't.
I am excited to see at least one person who I know is expected to attend. One of my old running buddies who now lives in Germany is bringing his wife and kids home to visit his family and they scheduled their visit to coincide with the reunion.
The friend in question was a few years ahead of me in school, and had a bit of a wild boy reputation. Why he ever let me hang out with him, I'll never know. But we had a good time pursuing, if never quite capturing the elusive females of the species on warm summer days and nights in a beat up Chevy Vega, or whatever vehicle I could manage to borrow from my folks.
In fact I even served as best man at his first wedding, a casual backyard affair. I had no clue what a best man was supposed to do, and in hindsight I was a lousy one, but I stood up with my friend and witnesses the momentous occasion, all the while fawning over his then-new bride's younger sister.
My ol' buddy and I got reacquainted not so long ago over the Internet. In fact he was the one who told me about the reunion. Obviously he's got better connections around the old homestead than I do. Given the time difference, we often catch up with each other just as he is starting his work day and I'm thinking I should head off to bed.
Getting a chance to get caught up should be worth the trip. And who knows, maybe there will be some still single, or single again, women there too. And I can get absolutely nowhere again with the girls-turned-women of my old hometown.
Sometimes I get quite nostalgic for home, that home of my youth, and the people I spent it with. But I don't miss the boy I was, perpetually shy and terrified of members of the opposite sex. The boy who was unsure of himself and his place in the world. That boy is, for the most part, gone. But his ghosts haunts the present day from time to time, like when I'm confronted with a new situation, or meeting new people in a purely social context. It's those times I wish I had my old running buddy or my old best friend to lead the way with their outgoing, seemingly unflappable natures. Their confidence, bordering on arrogance, was something I've never perfected, except sometimes in the working world. Sometimes, when I know I need to take a leap, not like the one at the swimming hole along the Umatilla River of my teens, I need someone to leap first to show me the water is deep enough. And sometimes I need someone to give me a little nudge to leave the relative security of solid ground to step out into thin air and feel the rush.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
The kindest kind of crush
I saw a woman today in the lobby of my office. She was sitting in the reception area. I don't know why she was there. I didn’t know her, but she reminded me of someone I once knew.
A name and a face flashed into my mind. The name of the woman the mysterious visitor reminded me of was Kim. I haven't seen, or thought of, Kim in many years.
Kim was the source of my infatuation in junior high. She may have been my first real crush, if you don't count the one I had on my teacher in second grade. This crush was different. At a time of adolescent awakening, this one came with all sorts of odd, tingly feelings I couldn't explain.
Seeing Kim made me happy. It made me feel all warm and weird and wonderful.
Like all first lusts, the relationship was doomed from the start. Kim didn't feel the same feelings I did, if memory serves. She eventually changed schools and we went our separate ways.
I had not thought about Kim in many, many years. But seeing that woman today brought that name, and that face, to mind with a burst of synapses. It was like the name exploded in my head with a load bang. It shocked me. And it made me smile. Thanks mysterious stranger. And thanks Kim, wherever you are.
A name and a face flashed into my mind. The name of the woman the mysterious visitor reminded me of was Kim. I haven't seen, or thought of, Kim in many years.
Kim was the source of my infatuation in junior high. She may have been my first real crush, if you don't count the one I had on my teacher in second grade. This crush was different. At a time of adolescent awakening, this one came with all sorts of odd, tingly feelings I couldn't explain.
Seeing Kim made me happy. It made me feel all warm and weird and wonderful.
Like all first lusts, the relationship was doomed from the start. Kim didn't feel the same feelings I did, if memory serves. She eventually changed schools and we went our separate ways.
I had not thought about Kim in many, many years. But seeing that woman today brought that name, and that face, to mind with a burst of synapses. It was like the name exploded in my head with a load bang. It shocked me. And it made me smile. Thanks mysterious stranger. And thanks Kim, wherever you are.
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