Next to me, a girl with curly hair held her own flute to her lips and brought forth a perfect c followed by an even more perfect b. I sighed, and concentrated yet again on the splotches of black dancing across the straight lines of the staff, paying close attention to the notes before the curly treble clef.
For the next eight years, I sat next to her. She moved to first chair, eventually adding the oboe and piccolo to her collection of instruments while I sat in second chair due more to my age than my skill level until finally we walked in our caps and gowns and promptly lost track of each other.
She was the first person from high school who contacted me on MySpace back when Facebook was a twinkle in Zuckerberg's eye. We transitioned to Facebook around the same time. I watched as her family grew and her adventures took her around the country, the curly haired vegetarian developed a taste for killer heels and even more delicious BBQ. When we decided to travel through Washington, she was one of the first people I contacted. I couldn't wait to meet the Brady Bunch and see her again after all these years.
The kids and I left Orcas Island Monday morning, watching the dock slip away into the distance like Brigadoon. We drove off the ferry, back on the mainland where cars were locked, people were showered, and children were no longer running free along the beaches.
The drive to Olympia took longer than I'd hoped. We drove through a forest to her house - the theme of our trip - and pulled in front to see her children pouring out the doors. Chandra is the mother and stepmother to a total of six children - four of whom were at home. Her sons insisted on carrying our suitcases while her daughter promised to paint Elizabeth's nails. Within minutes the kids bonded over Minecraft and Chandra had somehow put dinner on the table while pouring wine, answering a text from work, and keeping her kitchen tidy.
Theirs is a family of music and laughter and so very much love and faith. Guitars dotted the living room, family made art hung on the walls, and I had the feeling they would welcome and care for anyone who came into their path. Her husband took time out of his studying to visit and chat. He has a voice, low and rhythmic, made for talking to a youth group or discussing a scripture in front of a group of young families. He is going to make a wonderful minister.
Chandra's sister and tiny little niece arrived to spend the night. We roasted marshmallows and sent the kids inside while the adults drank wine and talked of life, children, and the mayhem of raising them. I was struck again at how different my life might have been if I'd never made that trek to California. I wonder if I'd have memories past high school of the people I spent so many hours with for so many years. I wonder if I'd kept myself separated or if, as an adult, I'd have opened myself to the same sort of experiences and revelations I had in California. Somehow, for some reason, I think moving allowed me to discover who I was free of the chains of church and expectations. Still, I feel a tinge of regret.
Breakfast brought hot cocoa and mini marshmallows and my son begging to be left behind. I stood in the bedroom in the middle of packing and listened to the music drifting up the stairs, Chandra's clear voice accompanying it. There was a reason she was first chair and it was talent.
We left their home with promises for future visits and tight hugs, pointed our car south and began our way back to Portland and the flight that would take us home.
Home.
Home to gentle rolling hills of brown dotted with splotches of dusty green and rows of vines. Home to warm sandy beaches and surfers cutting through the waves. Home to the place where my babies were born, where my heart was broken and then healed. Home to family and friends who have helped me create the memories of adulthood.
Is it possible for two places to call to your soul? One the soft safety of childhood and the other the hard reality of a life being lived.
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