A Cupcake Promise and Poet Passion

I woke to a misty morning and the sound of children laughing. Elizabeth lay snuggled next to me, having crawled into my bed from the tent in the predawn hours. I looked out the window at the fog caressing the trees and snaking around the plants while weak sunlight tried to break free.

Upstairs, the campers were enjoying a snack of fruit and cocoa. I sipped a cup of tea, trying to clear my own foggy brain enough for the brightness of coherent conversation to peek through. The day stretched before us, beginning with breakfast at a local place called Our Bar.

The small downtown of Washougal offered perhaps the best breakfast I've had. Sitting at a long wooden table set with mason jars of water and a hodgepodge of thrift store plates and silverware, we were served by a bearded man wearing a trucker hat and plaid flannel. I grinned behind my tea and wondered if I should take a picture of the quintessential PNW hipster. Then our food arrived.

Eggs mixed with summer squash and bean sprouts were topped with a spattering of vivid violet flowers. The kids devoured thick slices of French toast slathered with butter and drowned in thick syrup. And next to me, Don tucked into cheddar and bacon biscuits topped with spicy boar gravy and a creamy potato and egg stack he topped with a spicy green chili sauce while Makensy ate a parfait of cool yogurt and what looked to be homemade granola. We ordered seconds, savoring each bite of the complex flavors until we could eat no more.

We piled back into the van and headed for the city.

There is in Portland, a shop called Saint Cupcake where sweet combinations like salted caramel and toasted coconut are worshiped and buttercream frosting is the patron saint. It was there we headed first because Don felt he owed me a cupcake.

When we were in the fourth grade, birthday cupcakes arrived in the classroom on a regular basis. While everyone else rushed forward to eat the treat, I held back, staring with single minded determination at the book in my hands, pretending not to care. I felt my cheeks stain scarlet when my classmates asked me why I wasn't eating a cupcake, the looks on their faces a combination of curiosity and confusion.

With false confidence, knowing even then it was far better to act like I didn't care, I replied, "I don't celebrate birthdays."

The memory, like so many from childhood, faded around the edges and mixed with others until, one day, three years ago, I reconnected with Don on Facebook and he brought it up. "If you ever come visit, I'm buying you a cupcake," he wrote, remembering the strange girl with the southern accent who didn't celebrate holidays.

So, he did.

We piled back into the van, our cupcakes safely tucked into a cooler, and went to a place spoken of in excited tumbles of words and wide-eyed enthusiasm. Powell's Bookstore was larger than I'd anticipated, rambling over almost a city block on four different levels. The musty smell of old books met us at the door and sent my heart racing.

An hour later, I sat crossed legged on the floor, my arms full and two little girls standing behind me looking on with the sort of pitying fascination usually reserved for the insane ramblings of a mad woman as I, in near tears, pulled book after book from the shelf with small thought of where my son was or how I'd transport the heavy tomes home. I felt my heart thump a bass beat against my ribcage.

In my hands, I held copies of Little Women (1937), Little Men (1942), Pride and Prejudice (1976), and Leaves of Grass (1926). The book plates had scrawling inscriptions in faded ink to the people who had worn the corners of the pages soft. I read the words I searched for while the girls looked on, explaining to them the depths to which the poem touched my heart.

"Answer. That you are here—that life exists and identity, That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse."

"Do you know who wrote this?" I asked the curly haired pixies holding bright pink fairy books in their hands. "Walt Whitman." I said the name with reverence, running a finger across the type. "Think about it, for just a moment. We're contributing a verse to the ever changing world. We are here, in this moment. No matter how difficult life is, our verse is important and essential to the play as a whole."

Elizabeth nodded her head, accustomed to my ramblings and passion while Frankie slanted her eyes at her new friend, perhaps wondering if her mother really was mad.

In the back of my mind, I knew we couldn't spend the whole day at the bookstore. There was a garden to visit, a car to pick up, a son to find. I stood and regretfully looked at the books beckoning my trembling hands and began to make my way to the front. When Don and Makensy found me, I had composed myself to a certain extent.

"I don't know whether to cry or hyperventilate," I said. They laughed. I speared them with a look. "The funny thing is, you think I'm joking."