The weightlessness of memory

I arrived in Eglon early in the morning when long shadows stretched across the roads and pastures, and the air was fresh and cool. Eglon is a rural area defined by a historic schoolhouse, a likewise ancient church, and an organic farm where I saw young farmhands bending over the rows of vegetables. Pastures of grass from old farms accentuate the tall fir trees, and the traffic is slow.

I parked my car in the driveway of the volunteer fire station and explored on foot to find a good composition for my painting. Behind the fire station along a fence row in the woods I peeked out at this scene. I especially liked the long shadows and the two buildings. I set up my easel and started to paint. I feel pretty good about the result, although those blue trees are overworked and the house has a halo around it.

After I finished, a large man in an old pickup truck pulled up next to me and introduced himself as Dennis. “I dug the basement of that house many years ago,” he said. “The church owns it now.” He went on to tell me the story of his family, how his grandfather came to this area in 1905. He was an immigrant from Sweden who arrived in America with his two brothers. They went to Montana where one brother died. His grandfather went to work for the railroad that eventually brought him to Edmonds, and Puget Sound reminded him of his home in Sweden. He bought land in Eglon from money he earned working in the sawmills in Edmonds, across the Sound. He would row back and forth while he was clearing the land of the huge stumps left by the loggers, and eventually he built a house, the same house that Dennis has lived in all his life. It was oral history of the best kind, but I was glad to start home for lunch.