From the beginning.

The whole history of my life isn’t important but let’s get to know each other with a few stories. Birth order, growing up in the country and loss. That covers the first two decades or so.

Birth Order: I am the oldest of four. My middle siblings (twins) were only nineteen months younger than me. They were a surprise. Well, not the baby part, but the twin part. My brother was born, then, to my parent’s astonishment, my sister. Yes, back in those days, it wasn’t always easy to know. Over the years, we have all seen the blurry photo of my sister in the delivery room because my Dad was shaking terribly upon discovering she existed. And, the story that was shared countless times of him launching himself into the waiting room to proclaim to my Grandma “It’s a boy…AND a girl” to which she turned pale and almost fainted. But there we all were. A little family of three turned to a family of five overnight. Being a mother myself, I can’t even imagine the blur that year must have been for my saint of a Mom.

The Country: This all happened in Portland Oregon on Salmon Street. My Dad, though, always had a hankering (yes, I said that because I am leading up to my country story here) to live near the forest, something scenic, outdoors. That’s kind of his thing. So, we packed it up and moved to Hood River, about an hour east in the Columbia River Gorge. Our first house, coincidentally, was on Portland Drive. I always thought that was so funny. It was like the city was following us. We had an orchard there and my Dad eventually started his own logging company. This town is in a beautiful valley lush with farmland. Our second house was even deeper into the country on a dead end road as you meandered away from the river that separates Oregon and Washington, up toward the stunning Mt. Hood on Highway 35. We lived in the tiny neighborhood of Pine Grove. Our grade school had less than 100 students and this was a magical place to grow up. This is where our youngest sister finally came into the picture. Although her birth story isn’t as interesting as my brother and sister’s story, I do remember taking her to show-and-tell when I was in Kindergarten. That was pretty cool.

Skipping along through childhood in our picturesque little place in the country. Summer jobs of blueberry picking, going to the country fair, and being in 4H were all part of it. After my Dad’s logging business fell on really tough times (another story, another day), we moved back to Portland. I was devastated and sixteen. Not a fun time to move away from your friends. But, we managed and my Dad, the entrepreneur-aholic that he was, started a new company there. I skated my way through my last couple years of high school, tried community college, worked here and there. Basically, I was being a total confused lazy ass.

Loss: Then, it happened. July 31, 1992. My brother died suddenly in a drowning accident. My only brother. My sister’s twin. My parent’s only son. The story is long and it is awful and I will write about it some other time. This was the first time I really understood life though. I remember the deepest yearning. I wanted him back so bad that I couldn’t breathe sometimes. Until that time, I had been fairly rudderless. Loss and hardship have a way of bringing sudden clarity and perspective. You have no choice. Death is especially productive when it comes to building resilience. I know that sounds really awful and I would rather learn my lessons any other way than this, but loss like this stays with you forever. At every fork in the road after that, every awful curveball ahead, it is there reminding you of what you are made of, what you are capable of overcoming, and that despite the shittiness of it, you will be okay. Not only okay, but you can be great and fulfilled and happy. I have walked through other fires over the years, and each one gives me another layer, tougher skin, another badge. I don’t know, but thirty years after my first big tribulation, I really am happy. And it really is okay.