Once upon a time ...

Her Story:

How did we meet? At work. How common.

Except there is a story.

You see, Onnie and I both were employed by Portland State University just months apart. Onnie ended up becoming part of the Tech Support Team for the department that I was working in (one of many on his roster). I was there for four years and I don't remember him ever coming up to service our group's machines -- he sent his student workers instead, which was de rigueur.

You may say that four years is a long time, but to be fair Onnie was married at the time and, well, I was just learning about Portland, enjoying my new home in the Northwest, and curious if the right man was to materialize. I was also waiting for the right job to materialize. When I eventually found a new group, it was, lo and behold, in the same basement hallway as my previous Tech Team. Imagine!

Well, since I knew one of the students, Andrew (the rest had recently graduated or flown the coop), I was introduced to Onnie at Andrew's graduation/going-away dinner. After that we politely waved in the hall. Nearly a year later I started to lunch in the hall (because the cafeteria was just too crowded by then), and we started to chat more in the hall. And laugh in the hall.

And he seemed to take breaks at the same time (funny how I would run into him outside and going in the same direction).

And the rest .... is a sweet up-and-down crazy private story that you aren't privy to. Needless to say, the basement is no longer a dingy dark subterranean enclave. It's our little place now; he's nearby and I love it. (Until departments or jobs change, that is, but he's there for me to go home to and that means everything.)

There's also a bit about a hare and a mythical sea creature, but it's shrouded in tidal mist and can't be translated into any written language...

His Story:

So, why Astoria, you ask?

Thanks for asking. I like that you wonder about things. I like to wonder, too.

When I was a little kid, so I'm told, I used to sit at the kitchen table and pour the contents of a glass of water from one glass, to another. Then I'd pour it back into the first glass ... and then into the other glass ... watching the water rising, falling, rising, falling ...

Some people see the glass as half-full. Some see it as half-empty.

What did I see? I can't tell you.

I can't tell you not just because I can't remember (and to be honest I don't remember this water-pouring scenario, I have to trust my dad on this), but because if you're looking at the glass, you miss the point.

I was born in Los Angeles, at a time when The Beach Boys were still young on the radio and the beach itself was only a short drive away. My dad was an engineer with a penchant for old cars and bicycle racing; my mom, a nurse/housewife/very patient woman. I had a big sister to torture me, and a little brother to torture for myself. Life was good.

During my happy childhood, my dad owned a series of antique cars that did or didn't run on any given day based on the mood of the car and the skill of my dad. But on a good weekend, when all the stars and car tires were in alignment, we'd all pile in one of those cars and head to the beach, either in LA or down to my gramma and grampa's place in San Diego.

And we'd get to the beach and I'd look out over the ocean ... the waves rising, falling, rising, falling ... and I'd think, "The whole world is out there."

I still get that feeling when I look out over the ocean -- the whole world is out there.

Some people look out over the ocean, and all they think about is the undertow that can be waiting, right off the shore. And if you turn your back to the ocean for even a few seconds, a sneaker wave can come out of nowhere ... and drag you away, sometimes forever.

I know the feeling. It can be cold out there. You make one wrong move, even with the best of intentions ...

I've traveled around a lot in the past forty-something years, and many times I've felt lost, and been lost, in more than a few ways ...

My mother passed away ten years ago after a long and difficult illness ...

I got married, then divorced, and I spent too much time dealing with a fear of personal failure, rather than openly grieving for the death of relationship ...

There were many times in all those years I looked out over the water and couldn't see beyond the storms and the darkness.

But ...

Have you ever look into someone's eyes, and in them you see the ocean rising and falling ...

... and then you kiss her and you feel the warmth of her breath against your cheek, her touch as gentle and enticing as the incoming tide, lapping at your toes?

And far out to sea there's that whisper, a distant wind ...

... and it fills your head and your heart and your lungs until you can't breath, the waves engulf you but it's the most pleasant sensation, the bell buoys calling out the rising sun and the joy of a new day ...

... and then the mermaid swims back out to sea and you follow her, finally waking up, laughing, in your own bed in your own room in your own place and it's Monday but such a lovely morning, who could be sad that another week is beginning, even if you're late for work? . . .

My mom loved the Oregon coast. She loved to visit the South Jetty, at the mouth of the Columbia River, a dozen miles or so from Astoria. Me, I preferred a few miles down the beach, scampering about on the remains of the Peter Iredale, a shipwreck from way before either of us were born.

I don't know what she saw when she looked out over the ocean.

But I can still see her there. I don't know what she sees, but I know she's smiling.

And the ocean still goes on, forever.