I Love the Oregon Coast

Oregon Coast

From the Sea

Salt spray flittered over rocks and boulders re-dampening the patchy sand between the sharp crags.  Though sight darkened, hints of morning began to reveal shapes and colors as the detail brush strokes of the master beginning to crescendo upon a darkened canvas.  The misty air was retreating back to the sea as the natural time pieces of wind and sea tussled to and fro on the worn-out cliffs, leaving evidence of age.

She felt the tranquility on the morning breeze, slowing her mind and gathering thoughts with each breath of salt infused air.  Beach grass gently swayed and caressed her knees and awakened remembrances of youthful runs through immature barley fields surrounding her childhood home.  The sand felt cool beneath her naked feet producing an ineffable feeling of softness on the coarsely textured mineral.  Dressed in capris and pocketed over-shirt, which warmed her hands against the invigorating coastal temperature, she walked with a contemplative sway - evident that she felt unconstrained by the boundaries that time chose to engender.

The sound of the ocean was entrancing, beguiling all who travelled within audible distance of the rhythmic clap and hiss on the shore;  elsewhere along the coast, deep tones of violent water raging against ensconced rock, already tested for aeons, that stood as sentinels against the rising tide.  The gray light awakened the slumber of gulls, greeting the morning and announcing their presence with a symphony of bleating that mingled in the air, both near and far.

She was drawn to the water.  An old love of tidal pool inspection revealed life forms varied in shape, color, and texture; but all commonly bound by the will to survive - each using specialized talents to harvest and protect.  She would hunch for a few moments when encountering a new, exciting creature of the deep - only watching, controlling the urge to reach into the water for a closer examination.  The retreating tide revealed rocks with clinging starfish; reason left the question unanswered: Why not retreat to the safety of the water?

  Sea foam gathered and emulsified, residual evidence of high tide.  She was curious about the long tentacles of uprooted kelp littered the beach: What forest lived on the ocean floor that produced such lengths?  Erstwhile mighty trees lay strew along the vast beach, surely washed out to sea from a mighty river, stripped and preserved by the months drifting in salt water.  

As she ambled along the coastline, she noticed a speck of glimmer rushing back and forth in washing waves.  She approached with curiosity, wondering what sort of treasure was coming ashore.  She stooped and plucked a glass globe from the breaking water and rolled it over repeatedly in her hands.  

“Wow!  Where did you come from?” she whispered.

The globe was a glass float, used by fishermen decades before this time.  This find was green and translucent.  As the sun began to rise over the forested mountains, the light revealed subtle highlights within the glass.  She saw a curious mark, that was covered with tiny barnacles, but seemed to be a relief imprint of a shamrock.  Her interest piqued and imagination produced images of rugged fishermen working the decks of boats on rough seas.

She recalled a legend that few along these coastal communities told anymore - no one she knew really ever believed.  The story was of Irish fishermen were lost in a vicious storm in the north Atlantic sometime the late nineteenth century.  The legend consisted of unintended egress through the famed, mostly fictional, northwest passage.  Most of the crew perished in rough seas, but the ship and remaining three souls surfaced in the Bering Sea and eventually found passage into the Pacific.  The ship began to list and sink off the coast of Astoria, only one man found his way ashore.  He was found on the beach, but no one believed his story and he passed away with little fanfare before any type of verification could be made.  He did have an object with him, a green glass globe with the imprint of a shamrock - a float from one of the fishing nets on the ship.

And so it was, there on the beach with a piece of history in hand, she was convinced that this object was lost from the sunken ship - a sibling to the glass globe from the legend.  

“How long have you been out to sea?” she wondered aloud.

She was stunned to think about how long this object may have floated the vast Pacific.  Moreover, her heart was drawn away into the past and the horrors those men must have felt;  the unexplained loss to children wives in Ireland.  The gravity of her thoughts made tears well in her eyes.  Appreciation for the sacrifices that men made to eek out a living for those they loved caused her to bite her lower lip and love the man of her dreams a little bit more.

She heard small distant voices behind her.  She turned to see two blonde, curly-haired girls and a man carrying a young boy.  

“Mommy! Mommy!”

These were hers.  She hurried to meet them bearing stronger love and stories of her adventure.

Copyright (C) 2008

A short story about life

 One Tree

The Planting

The sun had not ascended over the eastern mountain range, which was covered with 

matted over-winter grass and leafless sage brush.  This early March morning was not eager to release its chilly grip from the frosted twigs.  Wispy remnants of fog completed their nightly excursion around  the lowest contours of the ground.

From the man’s vantage point, standing in a graveled farm lane, the world appeared in drab and varied hues of grey.  To him, this was the finest time of day - feeling the renewal of life while the earth awakened from restful slumber.  If there was a perfect time of any day, it was found in the newness of morning: to man comes the promise of opportunity and accomplishment; to the world, a refreshing coat of dew; and the air now filtered and cleansed from the sooty machinery of life.

The man was a  tiller of the earth by trade and had a natural propensity for respect toward the creations of his higher authority.  The miracle of the seed was never lost from his thoughts - especially at this time of year, when faith alone drove him to thrust  seeds into the ground with the lone promise of the harvest many months after toil and sacrifice. 

This morning was uncommon from the other spring work days - a day of labor still, but this was a special day that had been considered and anticipated on the mind of the farmer for some weeks.  This was the day that he would plant a tree.  And not a tree that would be counted among the column of red oaks that lined either side of the long lane from the highway to the elliptical front drive of the farmhouse - this tree would replace the eighty-five year old black walnut that his father had planted on this inherited farmland during a youth lived a generation ago.  Symbolic was the tree as it began to loose leaves and wither a few short months following the conclusion of his father’s well experienced life a year ago.  Late in the previous fall, a woodworking friend hewed the monument to the ground and carefully prepared the lumber to serve in useful capacities: furnishings for the farmer’s home that would ultimately become immemorial heirlooms bound to the present by stories of heritage.  The legacy would rest comfortably between the walls of the farmer’s home.

His son rounded the corner of the farm house, just as the sun’s first rays rushed across the pastures and over fences to light the little hollow beyond the east side of the house - where a new legacy would be planted.  

“Daddy!  You haven’t started without me, have you?”  Came the query from a youthful voice: a just-turned-eight year old little boy who had a zest for living and a love of life.  He had been relishing the thought of planting a tree with his own father - his father of short dialog, wearied from hours in the corrals and fields, long on love for mother and his two younger siblings.  Being the oldest had its privileges and instrumental participation in significant family events rated very high.

“Not at all, son.  Grab the shovels and I will get the new tree from the back of the pick-up.”  He cocked his head and rolled his shoulders to feel them crack, as he did each morning before the work began.  Some athletes and performers have routines that they obsessively carry out before their labors - this man caused the fluid in his sinews to “snap to” preparatory for work.

Both performed their assigned tasks and met in the sunlight ready to set a young sapling on its lifelong journey of selfless magnificence.  The boy anticipated ropes tied high in its branches and long summer hours spent in strong boughs.  The man thought of family picnics canopied in its shade and pushing his newest daughter toward the sky on a wood plank swing.  Future potential made the work seem effortless - so they began.

Grass was carefully edged with the shovel - father performed this work.  The sod was easily pierced as it had bathed in the spring dew.  After the circumference was hewn and the turf roots separated from the ground, the man and his boy both lifted the matrix of earth from the ground and moved it aside.  They broke it to pieces and shook the nutrient-rich soil into a nearby wheelbarrow.  They both took their spades, the man allowing the boy to use the larger of the two available, and they began to dig.  The earthy smell of soil made the man think of the many perfect miracles enjoined and culminating in creation.

Two feet of depth was reached and the man signaled that it was enough.  Both stood for a few minutes to rest on their shovels.  The boy smiled at his father, which was reciprocated.  “Well, dad, lets get it in the ground.”

The tree was moved carefully to the hole’s edge with the roots facing the new depression in the ground.  The man straddled the tree and lifted gently, “Now son, pull on the planter pot off of the roots.”

The boy, with some struggle, was able to get the pot off of the roots. “Wow, dad, it looks like a bunch of worms!”

“Yep, those are the roots of the tree.”

“Do we just put it in the hole now?”

“We need to break up the root ball a little first,” said the man as he removed a folding knife from his pocket, knelt beside end of the tree.  He carefully scored the clump of soil and roots to break them away from the many years confining mould and was confident that this would expedite the growth.

“Lets get it in the ground, son.”

“Okay, dad.”

They lifted the tree, careful to support the roots and the young trunk, and eased it down into the hole.  The man added a special mixture of a chemical that would help the tree acclimate to the foreign soil.  The saved soil was shoveled by both workers into the tree’s surrounding void.  

With water added, both the man and the boy stepped away from this new life and pondered the future.  After a few minutes of gathered thoughts, the man placed his well calloused hand behind the neck and shoulder of the boy.  The boy knew of the love of this man and felt safe and proud.  They walked together, without words, into the sunlight and the call of breakfast.

 Copyright © 2008