A Walk in the Garden

Cameras secure around our necks, we made the long walk up the hillside to the Japanese gardens. In hindsight, it might not have been the most ideal location to bring five young children. Little fingers want to touch and move carefully placed stone and little feet often don't understand the precision of carefully raked sand. Still, it was beautiful.

We wandered the trails, got lost and found ourselves again. I took dozens of pictures in the unrelenting sunlight, comparing notes with Makensy, each of us trying to acheive a perfect shot.

Afterwards, the kids hungry and eager to play, we found our way to a playground where they slid and swung and climbed with jelly smeared hands until it was time to eat cupcakes and, finally, head towards home. Don gamely offered to take all five kids to the house while Makensy and I picked up my rental car and hit up the store without a lull in the conversation.

A second night of camping for the kids, a second night of wine for the adults. We spoke of my writing, of the goals I have for myself, the dreams I hope to fulfill. They listened, encouraged, promised they would read - with some semblance of unbiased opinion. They spoke of their families, their upcoming vacation, their careers. We made promises of future visits and wine shipments. Makensy headed to bed early while Don and I polished of another bottle, stories and memories flowing with the rose and cabernet. Conversation turned to those we knew who had passed away - illness, suicide, accidents. We spoke of those we knew who had married, had children graduating high school or in college, the paths we all took, from this tiny town on the Columbia.

For twenty years, I've sat silent while friends shared high school memories. I've sipped my drinks, listened with a smile, and nodded while they spoke of mutual friends, of aquaintances, of families they knew. For twenty years, I've lived in this place and still, I don't know the stories, the people, the events that made up their teen years.

For two nights, I felt that connection, that sense of nostalgia. The holes in my memory were filled with a sudden vividness. It was a gift.

I went to bed that night, sad that I'd have to leave this lovely family the next morning. Their hospitality and friendship made them feel less like an old classmate and his clever wife and more like dear friends. I imagined living closer, drinking wine under those fairy lights, laughing with two people who, without artifice, taught me a little something about life and love and the magic of deeply planted roots.