I remarked to Robert this week that Oregon will always be the frontier of America– wild, lawless, not quite part of the Union and not quite foreign, where cultures collide and there’s still far more natural than human on the horizon.
That Oregon is a refuge of weirdness is well-known. There’s a whole television show about the quirkiness of Portland, which, believe it or not, is the actually the most Americanized, most assimilated place out here. In the small towns, composed of farmers, ranchers, fruit-pickers, teachers, nurses, midwives, distillers, and store clerks, things are downright eccentric.
People are a little bit skeptical of strangers, like in all small towns, but they make an effort to be friendly. When you are introduced to someone, you lean far, far out of your personal space, feet firmly planted, to extend an overbalanced handshake. When you greet a friend, you raise your left hand and hug them across the shoulder blades from your right side, and the pair of you briefly create two cache-coeurs around each other with your arms.
We celebrate weird, here.
We go to the drive-in, and we shop at the farmer’s market. We have a parade to celebrate flowers, and we drive 50 miles on the freeway as if it’s nothing. We walk home in the rain and we travel to seek out snow and surf. We know that the best watermelons come from Hermiston and the best strawberries from Hood River. We watch the fields stream by out of the windows of cars and trains and buses and we know: that’s barley, that’s hops, that’s rye, that’s cabbage, that’s grapes, that’s green beans. We speak Spanish and Chinook jargon and French. We chop wood and haul wood and mill wood and burn wood and plant saplings and listen to the forest sighing in the wind and count the rings on our Christmas trees and always seem to have some pitch on our hands. We are Facebook fans of that hideous airport carpet, that, ugly as it is, means “home.” We vote by mail to protect the salmon, and we hold nothing more sacred than our own self-determination.
I’ve lived all over this state, and traveled even more of it. I’ve tracked deer in the Wallowas, I’ve boogie boarded in Pacific City, and I’ve stared up at the stars on the Nevada border. I know the sharp smell of an approaching thunderstorm in the high desert, and the gentle susurration of ocean waves on a sunny afternoon, and the chill of dew on prairie grass under my bare feet.
And I can’t imagine raising my children anywhere else.
Today is the third anniversary of the day we bought our plane tickets home. My eyes sting with tears as I think about that– how long it’s been, how we’re starting to take Oregon for granted again, how Númenor and Ithilien don’t really remember living anywhere else.
The fact is, back east was too much for us. Too much in our business. Too much snow. Too much traffic. Too much crowding. Too much America. Too much pollution. Too much conformity. Too much erosion of the mountains. Too much lime in the drinking water. Too much fuss to vote. Too much fear. Too much civilization.
When I stepped off that plane and saw that hideous windmill carpet in PDX, I could breathe again. As we drove through rainy, nighttime Portland, trying to find the food we’d promised our beleaguered toddlers who had just endured a three-layover cross-country flight, it all came back to me. How to navigate Portland, and that we should be looking for a Plaid Pantry, and what it felt like to know you belonged somewhere.
The state of Oregon will be turning 147 years old this month. But somehow, it still feels like a territory. It’s a place of changes and contradictions and clashing cultures and weirdness, where the rules don’t fully apply. And it is my home.
So thank you, Oregon, for flying with your own wings. And thank you, fellow Oregonians, for keeping this place a weird and wild exception to the rules.
Life on the frontier is a perfect fit for me.