Our Place

Six generations. I am the fifth. My daughter is the sixth. For six generations, my family has inhabited this spectacular, limitless, undefinable place we call the Pacific Northwest. Six generations and it never ceases to amaze, mystify, and inspire.

Sitting on a train to Portland with variegated shades of green whizzing by in a blur, I am forced out of myself and into this moment. Every few seconds a tree or bush or blade of tall grass locks into focus. It holds me until this speeding pane of glass takes it away and brings me to the next, and the next. Meloy’s vibrato seems synchronized with every change of view.

Grass and trees and sky, and water. All the water. The Sound, the rivers, the camouflaged ponds I take for granted. And the rain I love to hate, which makes the sun so precious. The water makes the green. The green makes this place. The water makes this place.

This place. This Cascadia so unlike any other place. I can travel and love and admire so many places and their people. But, there is nowhere like here. This is my place, our place. If I leave, or return, or leave again, it runs through my veins. It’s etched in my DNA. Our DNA.

We make another stop. We round another curve. More blue sky, more water. More verdant blurs and rusted barns, and regal towering firs. I am the fifth. My daughter is the sixth. This will always be our place.