“We start with the dying:
See, they depart, and we go with them.
We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.” (1)
Story I:
The summer sun had already set as I emerged from the trees and entered the clearing. A clearing where the old had been removed to make way for the new. A clearing waiting for a rebirth. I walked along a dirt path that led through my family’s fruit orchard. The same path along which I played as a child; the same path my ancestors used. And long before we were here the Chilluckittequaws (3) made their paths through this land. The summer air was warm and thick. Mount Adams and Mount Hood, my ancient sentries, were on my left and right. Eternal mountains. Calm. Serene. As lovely as a poet’s dream. Mount Hood and I are separated from Mount Adams by the mighty Columbia River and then, at my back, is the mount they call Defiance. The moon and the stars are far above. “Ssh. The music of the spheres” (4). Bats, those mystical flying creatures of death and rebirth, dart overhead. I hear the crickets cricketing in their multitudes. The chh-chh-chh of irrigation sprinkles. The smells of freshly cut grasses, orchard dust and petroleum. It is a beautifully melancholy June-moon-night.
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After pausing to drink in the broad expanse stretched out before me I continued east along the path in the direction of my grandparents’ home, my eyes fixed upon the celestial glory high above. And then, all at once, my intuition abruptly redirected my attention downward onto the path in front of me. There, standing directly in front of me, mere inches away, was a skunk. The creature was perfectly illuminated in the moonlight. It was small, but who cares! It was a skunk! And we were shoe to claw. It had probably seen me coming for yards, the same way it had so many other stupid humans who wandered into its path, staring up at the stars, oblivious to earthly surroundings. And yet, I somehow couldn’t help feeling that this little skunk staring up at me was equally as startled by me as I was by him or her.
Skunks are tolerant and sure of themselves; they are quiet, gentle creatures until provoked. They will give you plenty of chances before you become the unhappy recipient of their pungent, musky, sharp and violent scent, because once they’ve expended it, they’re helpless until the spray replenishes. But all the same, if you get too close they’ll soak you with their stink and that’s the end of that. Life sucks for you now. If you have never experienced it personally try imagining the aromas of garlic, onion and sulfur all mixed together in an horrid potpourri.
“First, [the skunk] will stamp its feet and turn its back on you. Second it will raise its tail up…When the third step arrives, it is usually too late. After raising the tail, the skunk will look back over its shoulder. This is to line up the correct angle for spraying. Once the skunk has seen you over its shoulder, it is too late” (5).
It really seemed to me that, at the same time my eyes were fixed upon the stars above me, this skunk had been trudging its tiny little steps and looking down at the path in front of itself. It was simply contemplating that which a skunk contemplates, before, its intuition alerted it to halt on a dime and look up to meet my gaze. Its tiny little skunk eyebrows were raised in surprise. (Skunks may not have eyebrows, I don’t actually know, but in this moment this one absolutely did. I can prove it with the picture in my mind). It looked up at me. I looked down at it. In that instant the crickets’ rhythmical serenade was pierced by the atonal shriek emitted from my mouth as I spun one-hundred-eighty degrees back towards Mount Defiance. I tried to run but stepped in a deep and hardened tractor rut twisting my ankle and falling forward flat onto my belly. It must have been at this very moment that the skunk omitted its musky liquid, which then passed directly over the top of me. Had I just been calm and cool and said hello to the skunk this may not have happened. But I had to go and turn into some kind of screaming idiot which, no doubt, changed the outcome of our encounter. After all, I was absolutely no threat to this little creature at all. I would have loved to stop and sit down for a chat. After all, people do have skunks as pets.
©Chris Beatrice, The Skunk, used with permission
But I was now flat on my belly in the dirt. I never stopped moving and screeching though, as I scrambled forward on my frontside, down the path, until I managed to scrabble to my hands and knees before finally making my way upright and onto my feet. I kept my head down while sprinting back into the relative safety of the trees and the ultimate safety of my house. I examined myself. My knees were skinned and my clothing was now dusty and dirty, but I found no evidence of direct contact with the spray. Whew!!! I was in utter disbelief. I had never been “skunked” before and this was not the time for it to happen. If there ever is a good time, right?!
This little skunk was most likely a member of the family that lived beneath the porch of the house in which I was staying. It was probably out hunting and scavenging, making its nightly rounds. Growing up where I did we cohabited with the skunk. You could detect their familiar odor from great distances, carried on the wind into your senses. “Uh, oh! I wonder who, or what, just got sprayed? Another dog probably just got annihilated. Poor doggie. Poor owners!” Or maybe you live in close proximity to them as they make their home beneath your porch or house. We just left them alone to live in peace under the porches and barns or within a wood or prop pile, for they are valued on the farm. They are huge assets and you want them around to eat the rodents and insects that prey upon trees and vegetation. They eat the grounded and rotting fruit, the mice, moles, voles and rats, birds, insects, nuts, pet food and garbage.
I waited what I hoped was enough time for the little creature to find its way peacefully to wherever it was headed before deducing that the coast must be clear and venturing out to re-attempt my journey. Instead of taking the same path I skirted the scene of the incident, walking an alternate route about a hundred yards parallel. Not being the most practiced outdoors-person, however, I managed to choose a route that was downwind of the incident. I guess downwind is good if you are trying to skirt a hungry mama grizzly, but this wasn’t that kind of scenario. I reached my grandparents’ home without further incident and entered through the backdoor, as is my usual routine, taking an immediate right into “grandpa’s bathroom.” This is where you went first if you were entering the house dirty. For the millionth time I smelled every inch of my clothing for skunk spray. I was convinced it had to be on me somewhere as I was still smelling it so strongly, but I once again confirmed that I had somehow avoided direct contact with the spray. I decided I’d take my sprained and throbbing ankle over getting “skunked” any day.
There was a deeper meaning in the incident, however, a more profound role the skunk had played this evening, a more important message it was bringing to me, for “Skunk shows up when you need to have a calm confidence but feel like a nervous wreck” (6). Even though the stink wasn’t on me it was in me. “Skunk energy is a swirling haze of scent. It burns your eyes and nose and absorbs into your skin. It is hot, strong, and pungent. If you look deeper into the haze, you’ll see wondrous beauty” (7). It’s discharge became my re-charge as its medicine permeated my senses. I absorbed the cumulative energies of all skunks; of Skunk. “[T]hat animal isn’t just the single animal, but is representing the spirit of the entire species” (8). Skunk had found me and I was being offered Skunk’s wisdom.
Little did I know that, when faced with such a creature, “All you have to do is be aware of them, ask for their help, be attentive to their answers, and honor their assistance” (9). Ina Woolcott writes:
“Skunk teaches us to understand a warning. Our instinct often foretells trouble ahead, but often our mind gets in the way of this knowledge…You can learn how to honour the part of yourself, which like the skunk, gives you many warnings before an actual problem or disaster develops. If skunk appears in your life, it could well be your intuition sending you a signal of imminent danger or caution” (10).
I didn’t understand at the time that this run in with Skunk was a warning of danger for I had yet to learn that “[E]nergy animals…act as our guides…[and] come with specific messages when we need them the most” (11). The encounter warned not just of a single coming event but rather of a storm of occurrences soon to blow onto my shore. The warning would not save me this time, however, for it would not be until years later that the whole lesson came into view.
The next morning my grandmother received quite a good laugh when I told my story. A well needed laugh in the midst of a sad time. My grandfather was ill; he had “one foot in the grave,” if you will. During the final six weeks of his life we cared for him at his bedside. Our family, along with a team of others who relieved us each evening, was able to keep him comfortable in the home that he and his wife had shared. I am quite sure that this was just as much a gift to me as it was for him. It was one of the true honors and privileges of my life. Charlie was not my grandfather by blood, but he behaved towards me in every way that a true grandfather does. That’s the moral of the story. I remember Charlie’s strong and hearty handshake and how his wrist bones would crack when he got older. I remember his heartfelt inquiries into my personal life and his stern advice when he thought I was drifting. Charles Ernest Edwards had been born in Missouri in 1920 and moved with his family to California in 1922. There he spent his childhood attending Madera County Schools before graduating from Raymond High School. He served his country in the South Pacific as a chief commissary steward in the U.S. Navy during World War II, then worked as a meat cutter for over sixteen years in Fresno, California where he met the love of his life, my grandmother Madeline. He would marry her in 1952. When a career change opportunity presented itself, Charlie and Madeline uprooted their family and moved to Hood River, Oregon. There, Charlie would learn from his father-in-law Cliff how to successfully tend an orchard. Charlie went on to become an award winning pear grower. Besides being a talented fruit cultivator, he was a sausage maker, turkey carver, fruit dryer, Mason, Elk, church builder, businessman, board member, fisherman, golf enthusiast, card player, and, most importantly, an honest and all-around kind man.
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My grandfather’s gift to me during this time – his parting blessing – was that in addition to caring for his physical self we also necessarily cared for his spiritual needs. Through experiencing this time with him I was left particularly in tune with the spiritual realm. I was not just in the shadow of the valley of death, but in the valley of my birth. The birthplace, too, of many of my ancestors. The place where so many of them had lived and loved. Bled and cried. Died. I was living on, and dreaming high above, the farm that had been in my family’s possession for fifty-eight years. Located on the east side of the valley it sits just below the overlook of the eastern hills where my ancestors had homesteaded over one-hundred years prior. I was walking through the very same houses and barns, and on the same paths, as my forebears. I felt their presence all around. The ancestors approached.
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The kitchen table, as I suspect it is for most families, was a place of communion for us, and it was here that one of the truly monumental events of my life happened. At that kitchen table, just as my grandfather was leaving this world. My grandmother and I sat at the table, both gazing out the sliding glass door and across the beautiful green grass into the gloriously, warm and brightly nourishing summer day. Flower beds surrounded the house with color and history and aroma. The bees were buzzing. The butterflies flickered and fluttered about while the birds searched for seed and the squirrels acted as squirrels do. In the distance the meticulously maintained rows of the fruit orchard stretched out into the distance under the loving supervision of mighty Mount Hood. It was in beautifully melancholy contrast to the sad narrative playing out within the house. It was then that my grandmother first mentioned one Stephen Monroe.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“You’ve never heard of Stephen Monroe?” She responded with shocked amazement.
“No.”
“Well, he would be your great, great…great grandfather. Stephen Monroe Eby. He was a wonderful man. You know that dresser in the back bedroom? That was his. I remember how he would keep a bag of lemon drops in the top drawer and would let us kids go and get one,” my grandmother smiled as she recalled the great-grandfather of whom she was so fond.
“Rosetta was his daughter,” she said next.
“So…” I trailed off as my mind worked out what I knew of our family tree.
“She was my grandmother,” my grandmother offered, following my train of thought. “Rosetta Elveretta Eby Taylor. Mother’s mother. She would be your great, great grandmother. “She died in your room over there you know,” she raised an arm and pointed her finger behind her towards the east. My room was the bedroom at the top of the stairs and to the right.
“In my room?” I exclaimed.
“Yes. She was so sick for so long.”
I was not in the least uncomfortable at the thought of my great, great grandmother passing away in my bedroom. What got me worked up was hearing stories about my family that I had never heard before. Stories about people I never knew existed. I eagerly listened as my grandmother reminisced.
“She was a good grandmother to me. I remember her hearty, jolly laugh. How she would throw her head back and laugh.” And then, almost as an afterthought, “I have her books of poetry back in the bedroom.” The words hung in the air.
“What? She was a poet?” I was breathless with excitement.
“Yes. She was a school teacher and she wrote poems and stories. She was our family historian, too,” my grandmother answered, before then announcing briskly, “I will go get them!” She disappeared efficiently around the corner, down the hallway.
As I sat and waited in gleeful anticipation of what was coming, I continued to gaze out through the wide open sliding glass door, past the screen and into the magical gardens that surrounded the house. I was still and began to remember…
When I was fourteen years old my maternal great grandmother passed away, after which, we, as had been her wish, moved into her house. This farmhouse was just to the east of my grandmother’s house and my room was at the top of the stairs and to the right. One afternoon, years after we had moved in, I was home alone, upstairs in my room. I remember feeling particularly uncomfortable and anxious at that moment. My guts were a wreck. I walked out of my bedroom and entered the alcove. I don’t remember having a “feeling” or “intuition” at that moment, but for some reason I spun my head around and looked back towards the bedroom, where, standing before me just outside the open bedroom door, stood an old woman. I did not see any detail in her face, but I do remember her shape and her clothing and the way she held her head. I saw no smile, but she was smiling. I turned my head around in the opposite direction then quickly back again for another look. She was gone. This was the first time that I experienced seeing a ghost. I was not scared. I felt safe and comforted and went about my day. Afterwards I supposed that I had seen my great grandmother, whom I called “Gree.” As a small child this is what came out of my mouth upon attempting to pronounce the words “great-grandma.” She loved it and so it stuck. I now began to wonder, however, if this could have been a meeting with Rosetta? What was her message to me? What did she want me to understand? Why did she come to me? Was it a test and was my ability to see her the passing of this test?
I continued to meditate on the gardens before me and my experience that day in the alcove. A soft, warm summer breeze, filled with all its magic and wonder, dances in through the screen door. It gently caresses my flesh, tickling my cheek, before engulfing my senses. This rich summer breeze, with its mystical and fragrant aromas, is about to carry aloft a beautifully lyrical tale. I hear the sounds in the distance. I am quiet. I listen...
© Dennis Skogsbergh, Sunrise, Mt. Hood, OR, used with permission
The summer sun of a new day rises over the eastern hills of the valley and quickly warms everything in its path. Blinding all with its magnificence. Sun-rays smile down on each twig and tender leaf, flower and precious fruit, each field and lea; the life-giving rays warm the earthly soil and nurture it from above by radiating down, into, and within, Mother Earth, enriching the curling tendrils of many roots that nourish and make possible the wondrous beauty of Her fair gardens. Gardens filled with the small and the wild and the sweet. Roses — so choice, so rare — and nasturtiums, with their seductively spicy scent and beautiful bright fire colored blooms. Orange lilies. Lilac bushes with their pale pinkish-violet color. The rose of Sharon and its pink, lavender and sometimes white flowers. Blooms upon blossoms, all contributing fragrant aromas so sweet, so delicate, so true that, when they combine, the air is saturated with a pungent, candy-like pleasure, which soothes and heals the soul. The fragrant breezes carry the scent of endless love, and of hope and cheer. Like the sacred incense burned in prayer it wafts into realms above, carrying offerings from the new and the living.
©Nadia Strelkina, The Magic Orchestra, used with permission
The bluebird and meadow lark, and even still a few cooing mourning doves huddled together in the bush, share their merry melodies with the world. Oh, there’s music in the air! Down below, everywhere one cannot see — unless one looks very carefully — the fairy folk dart and dance; they form in rhapsodic parade. Swirling and twirling, the garden fairies — proceeding like the most fantastic and magical of parades — are whirling. The fairy folk merrily perform a heart-felt chorus of love and hope and cheer that joins in perfect unison with the fragrances of love and hope and cheer that dance along the breeze.
These magical gardens are the adornments of a big, white farmhouse. And in an upstairs bedroom of that farmhouse, Rose is still sleeping. Her head rests peacefully just beneath her open window as the soft, warm summer breeze, filled with all its magic and wonder, dances in. It gently blows her silvery-white hair, making it tickle her cheek, before entering and engulfing her senses. This rich summer breeze, with its mystical and fragrant aromas, is delivering a very special message to Rose. With a soft murmur, the dearest and sweetest words come to her…
“Rose darling. Wake up my love. Mother is here. You’ve been asleep for a long while and it is now time to go, my darling. Come along. Your family and friends are waiting for you.”
©Yasmeen Olya, Eternity, used with permission
Rose opens her eyes. She has drifted off again while reading, but feels more rested than usual and decides that she wants to take a long walk. Placing her well-worn copy of the Bible on the nightstand, she takes the quilt by its corner, flipping it off of her in one brisk, lively motion. The late morning is warm — it is July the seventh — but is early enough yet that the summer air is still fresh. As she sits on the edge of the bed, she notices again how well rested she is and that she feels strong. Stronger than usual. She sits erect with her feet securely planted on the floor boards. Her shoulders are back, her head is up and her chin is down. Rose is grinning.
Just then, her cheek is tickled again, this time by a soft caress from the white and blue embroidered curtain, which dances in the warm summer wind entering through her east facing window. She turns her face toward the light and closes her eyes. She breathes deeply and tastes the air, which is thick with the sweet aroma of warm, summer sun-ripened treasures. Fruit bursts forth from golden-green orchards just outside the window. The fragrance of the garden’s flowers wafts in as well. Rose can nearly hear the fairy folk’s song on the breeze. The wealth of sensory input enriches her soul. And, like Jesus Christ — the savior she knows has always stood faithfully by her — she rises once again from the bed and finds her footing.
Rose’s room, as it has always been, is clean and tidy. She has had some extra help keeping it that way as of late, for which she is eternally grateful. Turning to the bed, she pulls back the covers. After expertly twitching the wrinkles out of the sheet with the practiced moves of a careful housewife, she tucks in its corners. Lastly, she spreads her quilt lovingly over the smooth sheets. Rose pauses and smiles to herself, remembering stitching away to make the quilt. Each dear piece of fabric holds a history familiar to her for the scraps come from the worn out and outgrown clothing of her two much loved granddaughters. She looks around the room and is content. Enriching herself with another deep breath of the fragrant summer air she knows that it is time to go.
Rose’s hands are empty, she takes nothing with her on her journey. She leaves her bedroom door open as she departs, allowing a lovely cross-breeze to continue flowing westward through the house, carrying the wonderful fragrances with it on its way. As she makes her way down the stairs she laughs her good natured, jolly laugh at the familiar creaking of the wooden steps beneath her feet. After turning right at the bottom of the stairs Rose carries on down the hallway before being again enveloped with sweet aromas — this time they come from the kitchen where her daughter Dorothy is busily working away. Over Dorothy’s shoulder, through the kitchen window, Rose spies her son-in-law Clifford toiling away in the green-gold orchard. It is cherry picking time!
Dorothy is known for laying an excellent table and her mother is proud of her. On this particular morning, with breakfast long since cleared away, the kitchen delights the senses with an abundance of aromas; they are from freshly baked biscuits and bread, and from the homemade strawberry jam bubbling away on the stove. Rose thinks of the many happy hours she and Dorothy spend together in the kitchen, laughing and singing as they cook. Rose blows her daughter a kiss as she passes, making her way into the front parlor. She pauses in front of her bookcase and straightens a few volumes. She loves them all. Finally, she grins as she catches a glimpse of the glass chicken sitting upon the sideboard. It is a crystal candy dish shaped like a roosting hen and it holds mints that the children of the family love to ask for. Just then, however, the overwhelmingly delicious and magical fragrance that has been guiding Rose wafts insistently in through the open front door and catches her attention. She follows the scent through the door and onto the front porch.
Rose pauses to greet her old friend to the north, Mount Adams. And, although out of view, she acknowledges the presence of her other old friend, Mount Hood, which lies directly to the south behind the white farmhouse. The cascade range gateway — that very same gateway through which she and her family passed so many decades ago as her mother and father sought a better life in Oregon. Gazing down the sloping hills of the luscious Hood River Valley, towards the mighty Columbia River, she is overcome by memories. She sits down upon the steps to reflect on her memories and to meditate upon the landscape. The front steps run between two of the large hydrangea bushes, heavy with their luscious blossoms, which are planted on either side of the porch. Above her head hang baskets of fuchsias, with their vivid purplish-red flowers looking for all the world like delicate, teardrop-shaped fairy lanterns. Little wild violets are blooming here and there, nearly hidden in the shady corners.
All of a sudden Rose hears a clear, young voice. It is coming from within the huge, old fruit trees that lie in the west. The trees hug the house like a forest. She turns just in time to see a young lad looking fine and strong, come bursting enthusiastically out of the orchard at a rapid pace. The lad sings a joyful tune. His step is light and graceful, his eyes are bright, and his cheeks have a healthy glow.
“Why,” asks Rose, with a low, sweet laugh, “do you hurry so in this direction?”
“It’s the fragrance of the flowers ma’am,” the lad replies, “Especially the rose, why she just seems to prance along on the warm summer breeze, dancing among the trees, murmuring my name. I couldn’t resist,” the boy clasps his hands and sighs joyfully. “I’ve left my harvesting chores behind,” he then adds, somewhat sheepishly.
Rose chuckles companionably, “I, too, have been following that enticing and enchanting fragrance. She appears to have led us both to this very place, making this no chance meeting.” There is already a comfortable familiarity between the pair. Rose continues,
“Well, soon you will need to return to your chores — you are being counted on — but, before you go, I would like to share a tale with you. Might it be that you are interested in hearing it dearie? It is a tale that begins long ago.” The silver-haired lady awaits the lad’s answer.
“Oh, yes, ma’am. I would love to hear your tale of long ago,” he replies eagerly. “Does it have ghosts and goblins and heroes and princesses and …”
Rose is endeared by the young lad’s enthusiasm and imagination. She interjects, “Yes, oh, yes, it contains all that you seek, my dear. Now,” she invites warmly, “come on over here and sit down next to me on the stairs sweetie.” She pats the step.
“Alright Gram … I mean ma’am.” The boy blushes, “I apologize most sincerely ma’am. Sometimes, when I get really excited about something, words seem to just fly right off my tongue.”
Rose grins from ear to ear. “Oh, sweetie, I find it perfectly appropriate that you call me Gram. Please do! Now come on over here and have a seat next to Gram on this step.”
©broadexpanse
The young lad quickly pats the dust out of his overalls, stomps his boots, and pulls up his socks before making his way through the grass and up the front porch steps to take his place next to Gram. He removes his cap from his head with his left hand as he wipes the sweat from his brow with his right before slapping his cap, slightly askew, back atop his head.
“There. I’m all ready. Now, would you please tell me your tale?” the young lad pleads politely.
Rose throws her head back and laughs with jolly amusement as she grasps the young lad’s hand into her own. She then takes a deep breath before turning away from him. The warm summer breeze caressing Rose’s face is full of childhood memory. She gazes straight ahead. Into the Cascade Gateway. The place of the great in between. Into the deep blue. In her eyes the young lad sees Rose’s dream.
© Dennis Skogsbergh, Sunrise, Mt. Hood, OR, used with permission
“Here are the books and a box of her papers. I salvaged what I could years ago,” my grandmother proclaimed, breaking me free of the ether. Before I looked in the box, however, I left the kitchen for a moment to check in on my grandfather. The dying will oftentimes wait for their loved ones to leave the room, or look away, before taking their final breath. This time was no different. We hugged. Cried.
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