PREFACE
How did I arrive in this place? This place sown of deep beauty and runaway joy but as with all of life coupled with twinges of trial and pain. This place so distant and abstract yet enchantingly near and decidedly real. This place that was fashioned by the dreams of a child and all too quickly displaced by the fond musings of age. The question above resounds. Was it by the hand of others? Decisions of my own making? The Divine Providence of our Creator?
Perhaps specific locations at different points in time hold the key and in fact, a venue comes to mind. Our family always called it Holly Beach but the maps simply identify the spot as Holly. A small community quietly resting on a relatively minor finger of the Salish Sea known as Hood Canal. Then, drilling down, a tiny yellow cabin set in the shadows of mighty Douglas Fir which then take their place in obscurity under the watchful eye of the majestic Olympic Mountains. Regardless any of that, the spoken word "Holly" invokes so much more than a simple place residing on a timeline. Indeed, words like family, laughter, and togetherness flood into the conscious mind and these in turn awaken a renewed awareness of concepts such as gifts, blessings, and love. Still, the question persists: How did I arrive in this place?
So it came to pass that an old photo album was dusted off with the hopes that an answer could be rooted out. Most of the pictures are worn and faded. The oldest images obscured by the grains of pixelation within the many shades of black and white - actualities reminiscent the technology of the era. Surprisingly, without exception, the memory of that split-second when any given photo was captured is lost. But that is not to say that the photos are without worth. Indeed, while any awareness of the instant of the shutter-click is absent, the photos summon unsuspected snippets from the past. Recollections too long passed over. Reflections lacking specific context but rich with state-of-mind consciousness. Unlike the albums and the snapshots within, sorted and placed, the consequent contemplations are random and scattered. These are their stories:
THE ROAD
rollercoaster like
curves blur past....here come the dips
"faster dad! faster!"
Chevy's springs stretch to touch sky
stomachs turn over in glee
Before we ever got to the beach, there was always the car ride out from our home in Bremerton on a road hacked into the terrain and carved out of the forest. Narrow with trees pressing in on the sides, the builders firmly believed in following the path of least resistance. All too often, the "oohs and aahs" turned to "boos and blahs" as motion sickness reared its ugly head.
La Costa Plenta
Emigrants depart
sacrifice their levied toll
Immigrants they came
generations near and far
each played a role in this place
It was the mid 50's and I was unaware at the time, but Dad's source of gainful employment was Title Insurance. Somewhere in the course of business he learned of a deteriorating vacation resort consisting of some twelve cabins that were being sold off individually. Each cabin and it's accompanying 50 feet of waterfront were being sold for the grand sum of $2000.00. Mom and Dad went halves with Uncle Howard. They swallowed hard and ponied up the $1000.00 apiece.
Their first work party painted the exterior of the cabin bright yellow and no sooner had the paint dried than a flat piece of cedar driftwood was hung on the rough wooden siding for all to see. Carved into the piece of drift and painted black were the scripted letters La Costa Plenta..
First generation Americans of Swedish descent on my Mother's side, second generation on my Father's, the three proud landowners of humble ancestry loved to point at their most modest abode and say "La Costa Plenta" in the deepest Swedish brogue they could muster. Then they'd laugh.
.
MAIDEN FLIGHT
Dad holds fender firm
"just pedal.....go straight for now"
wow! I'm doing it!
ten.....twenty.....the yards fly past
Dad?....crash ensues, passion joined
For untold centuries our little corner of Holly existed as a saltwater marsh rather than a "beach". But that all changed with the coming of that vacation resort vision. Indeed, the low lying areas were filled in with logging debris along with large amounts of dirt, sand, and gravel in order to raise the ground level just above the highest tide. Then the cabins were raised, leaving an open area roughly 100 feet wide and some 550 feet long between the cabins and the shoreline. My "flight" covered some 200 feet of that uneven ground before realizing that Dad had quit running besides me some ways back. A reassuring presence can work wonders and encourages perseverance. Then, onward to character and ultimately hope (Romans 5:3-5).
A few months later a shiny red Schwinn Electra bicycle was found on Christmas morning standing next to the tree. No bike has ever logged more miles.
BEACH FIRES
Smoke herds in circles
moist wood at long last flames....then
marshmallows ignite
eyes sting, mosquitoes feast full
togetherness at dusk.....perfect
Darkness always arrived too early at Holly. Tucked beneath two high peaks known as "The Brothers", the land to west of Holly descended quickly over the foothills and down to the opposite shore of Hood Canal. As such, the angle of the setting rays never lent themselves to spectacular colors. But the night did fall and so did the temperature even on the hottest of days.
Each day ended with a gathering of everyone who had endured the road. Circling the fire ring just a few feet removed from the high tide line we came together as one. Tired, yet contented, faces sporadically illuminated in the glimmer of firelight.
Most of the one-man stones circling the fire pit had been collected from an abandoned gravel pit a few miles back up the road. They had been gathered and then transported in the trunk of our baby blue Chevy that Mom had christened Bluebird. Stones laid. Surely, each an Ebenezer (1 Samuel 7:12). Each a testimony to the Grace of God.
THE SPRING
cloaked in mystery
crystal pure it bubbles forth
gurgles without sound
they come again and again
life disguised in waters form
One day, Dad and Uncle Howard announced that they were headed out to take a look at the communities water supply - a few hundred yards back and just off the road. Sure enough, not more than 20 feet from the road's edge we found the reservoir. A concrete structure maybe 8 feet by 12 feet and about 4 feet deep. Covered with a peaked corrugated metal roof, a tiny stream flowed in and over the top of the back wall while the overflow spilled out the front curtain-like over a dam covered in brilliant green algae. A 3 inch metal pipe exited the front at the bottom and headed downhill towards Holly Beach.
Always the adventurer, Uncle Howard exhorted, "Let's go find the spring!". Off we went, although I had no idea what we were looking for. Just being with Dad and Uncle Howard was enough. Following a little-used trail running parallel the stream we headed uphill but not far along the trail pretty much disappeared. From there on, my leaders bushwhacked their way through thick underbrush and over fallen trees.
Then suddenly, there it was. Out of nowhere, just bubbling up from the depths, crystal clear laying over a small bed of washed rocks.
The day was hot and on the walk back down the road, I asked, "Where is the water coming from?".
We stopped walking and Dad responded, "Well, we're not completely sure but do you see that snow up there on The Brothers?", now pointing with his right hand way across the canal and up.
I nodded but not really sure of where this was going.
Dad smiled and then continued, "The snow over there is melting and as the water runs down to the canal, some of it falls into cracks in the earth." Now Dad made a swinging motion with his right hand in the form of a "U" in front of his body, right to left all the while saying, "Those cracks turn into caves and those caves run all the way under the canal over to us." Here he made a pressing down gesture with his right hand and a lifting motion with his left. "And the water pops up."
Even now, I doubt that I understand the science behind that hydrogeological discharge. I certainly didn't then. Regardless, some of life's lessons simply stick and those that speak to God's ingenuity leave a lasting mark.
THE OLD TIMER
gray stub, weathered brow
shrimping his trade and passion
giant kettle boils pink
stories bygone, bold and rare
but oh! that harsh scent of brine
Dad loved the taste of shrimp so not surprisingly, he would habitually scan the waters to see if the shrimp boat, white and rickety, was coming in. He'd wait a half hour or so, and then we would walk a short ways up the beach to the shrimp fisherman's house in hopes that he would have a few extra to sell. From 100 yards out the stench of the shrimp boil permeated everything. 50 yards if the fisher had been skunked that day.
Phundt was his last name but his first name is elusive. Alan? Albert? No matter.
Mr. Phundt was a fisherman by trade, but a storyteller by heart. He engrossed with myths of kraken-like creatures that he had hauled up from the deepness. Then there was the tale of a miraculous deliverance from falling debris. Wreckage flung into the sky by a freak wind that toppled old growth conifers, some uprooted while others were snapped off like matchsticks. My favorite was his account of a winter long past when he had walked across the canal, shore to shore and back (2 miles one way approximately), on a sheet of ice that had formed during a weeks long deep freeze. His stories captivated this young mind.
One year, Dad's relish for shrimp proved too much for him, so he decided to buy a trap from Mr. Phundt and the prerequisite 300 feet of rope topped off with the buoy. The trap was rectangular and about 3' x 3' x 1'. Constructed of a heavy metal rebar frame and encased with a black creosote netting, two small concave mouths in the narrow screen walls allowed for the shrimp to enter, but few, if any, could figure their way out. I'm not sure how much it weighed but it was difficult for me to lift.
Of course, Dad and Uncle Howard went partners in the project. Right from the start issues arose. They had nothing to use for bait. Hmmm....but a brief brainstorming session landed on dog food. A tin was borrowed from the neighbors and soon holes were punched all over the can. Next, setting the trap proved problematic as the first few attempts at finding bottom proved fruitless. Much to their dismay, each failure required them taking turns at the hand-over-hand retrieval that left them both gasping for air. However, they seemed quite pleased with themselves in that they hadn't lost their entire enterprise into the abyss. Regardless those complications, after some jockeying of the boat, the trap was finally set.
The next day we returned to find the buoy peacefully bobbing in place. As Uncle Howard began the pull he exclaimed, "It's so heavy, we must have hundreds!" Peering down from the gunnel, my heart was pounding. I was tad bit fearful that we had latched on to one of those kraken things so I wore a mask of silence and a smile. I was never sure if Dad and Uncle Howard had bought my act or not. But there was no time to fret as a dark form began to emerge from the depths. What? As the sea water poured out the netting, one very shrimpy shrimp was found lodged in a corner of the trap along with one worse-for-wear can of dog food.
Two subsequent attempts followed that outing. The total bounty counted out at four puny shrimp. The truth be told, the fourth placing of the trap came about unceremoniously in the shed behind the cabin and there it gathered dust for years thereafter - a testament to dreams unfulfilled and the talents of one gnarled old fisherman.
THE QUIET YEARS
solitude descends
still covers the wilderness
"hush, little one, hush"
alone but never lonely
His Peace fills this troubled soul
My twenties were difficult times for me. Self-consciousness and low self-esteem spiraled into self-doubt and a lack of confidence, culminating in self-loathing. I was the definition of a "selfie" long before selfies were even a thing. Fears in many forms consumed me. All triggered by events not worth mentioning. Only a few of you remain who knew me then and this account may come as a surprise.....maybe not. A mask of silence and a smile were enlisted as my smokescreen of choice.
Soon, physical ailments followed as something diagnosed as cluster headaches became a daily occurrence, often multiple times per day. Further, a spine that for years had run freely was suddenly given to sporadic spasms and slippages resulting in a right hip insisting on residing in the space where the rib cage had already staked claim. Yes, it hurt.
It was during these years that I frequented Holly Beach whenever I could in those hours when no one else was there.
The mighty communal fires of years past were replaced by gentle flames to which I huddled close. As the last ember flickered black, a stillness fell across the pitch-dark water that was hauntingly beautiful.
And then there was rain. In the shadow of the the Olympic Rainforest, often the air became heavy with liquid. Sometimes to the degree that made me wonder how any lung could extract oxygen from the damp. Splonk.....Splonk.....Splonk..... The cadence cried out with rest.
Through it all there was a sense of God's presence and indeed, I know He was there. In time, I came to understand that life is neither about myself nor my gain and certainly not about my glory. Life and the meaning thereof, is simply about finding God through His Son and accepting my place in that relationship with Him. In that connection comes incredible peace, love, and joy. Indeed, hope wells up and a realization is established that all of us, even me, are His creation and that He loves us regardless of our flaws.
The afflictions of those years are distant memories now although I must confess that the selfies still come calling every once in awhile. But that's OK now. It is then I'm reminded:
God is good. Say it with me. God is good! Amen.
SWEDISH DEATH CLEANING
palms up we hold them
trophies of a life well lived
blessings beyond dreams
temporary and fleeting
all held like a butterfly
Some odd 35 years moved through like a proverbial summer's rain. Marriages. Births. Deaths. All in their appointed times. Even that old road became straight as seemingly every summer found a new section under construction.
Through it all, that little spring never missed a beat - although somewhere along the line something called progress dictated that it be replaced by a well, pump, and tank system. Likewise, my parents were constants. Their values and their faith never wavered.
Mom and Dad held their Swedish heritage dear and one tradition that they came to embrace later in life is something called dödsstädning - death cleaning in english. The idea is to organize and eliminate many of life's material possessions as one grows older. Not only does the process streamline one's life in the present but it also simplifies matters for heirs upon death.
To that end, Mom and Dad swallowed hard and sold their half of Holly Beach to Uncle Howard and his family.
EPILOGUE
Coming full circle, how did I arrive at this place? The contemplations of Holly Beach presented above are really nothing more than snippets. Singular data points amongst thousands of others experienced within a lifetime. Be that as it may, an understanding has been shepherded forth. An appreciation has been gained.
The place of which I speak is not a physical location nor a moment in time. No, this place is a state-of-mind dominated by the constructs of faith, hope, and love. A mindset of joy established by countless relationships, continual lessons, and endless beauty - all orchestrated by a Great and Merciful God.
But none of that should diminish any of this.
Undoubtedly, trials of many flavors have played their roles in the coming to this place as well. Pain hurts. Loss may be irrevocable. Failure depresses. More-so, it is during these periods that our adversary (I Peter 5:8) in the form of temptation can pose its greatest draw. Yet, the testing of faith produces endurance, endurance produces character, and character produces hope (James 1:2-4).
That being so, know this: As each of our earthly "butterflies" flutter away out of sight if not out of mind, with open palms we await the next "butterfly" to softly light and touch our very souls.
Which leads to the another question, a question laden with hope: What's next?
