Knight of Tomorrow

Last week I was determined to make time to see the cherry blossoms at the university.

My daughter, who'd finished the requirements for her bachelor's degree that Tuesday, said they were not to be missed.

Who could blame the two young men who rolled by on their skateboards, then paused to take photos  of the full pink blooms with their phones?

If my daughter had been with me, we would have smiled at the boys and at the sign prohibiting skateboards.

It was my son who told me the Daybreak Yoshino Cherry trees are part of the university's "Walk of the Heroines."

Along the curving wall beneath the trees, names of inspirational women -- both well known (Sojourner Truth, Emma Goldman) and not -- are engraved.

There's also a bronze sculpture by Linda Stein called "Knight of Tomorrow 574," a heroic everywoman.

My daughter is my heroine. And my mother. And my grandmothers. So many women, but it is the names of these four that I wear etched on my bones, that I cradle in my marrow.

Every spring, the blossoms open to the sky, then begin their soft fall. How many shoulders have they landed on?

Climb Every Mountain

When I introduce a prompt to my classes, I know one thing: I'm going to be surprised by the results.

This intriguing piece by Deborah Lee was inspired by a Chinese proverb:
A dying leopard leaves his skin; a dying man his name.

A Dying Man Leaves His Name
by Deborah Lee

The man in the story is fading. The woman beside him knows his name, but the mountain in the distance does not, even though he has left many a footprint on its face.

The woman has walked the mountain with him as they climbed in the snow, up one side and down the other.

He lies in a hammock, no mosquito netting needed today. They would have walked all over his face, drawing his blood.

They would have a part of him, but not his name.

About the author: Deborah Lee loves to sing, struggles with playing guitar, and enjoys writing essays, songs, and memoir. 

Looking Ahead

Rain today, but everything is blooming or on the brink of blooming. As I walked through my neighborhood, I thought of

spring buds

swollen

with arias

to come

The Road Less Traveled

Have you ever grown to love something you thought you would always hate? In this memoir piece, Kit Thompson takes us on the path that led to her love of hiking.

Hiking

by Kit Thompson

Growing up with the thrill of downhill skiing and galloping my horse along the wild Skagit River just west of the North Cascade Mountains, I was not a sedentary girl. I once hiked up a small mountain with a friend. My sweat contained little beads of loathing for hiking, so I could not forget. There was no boat, no ski, no horse to carry you. You were the only one to lug yourself up a rugged steep hillside. Switchback trails were visually lovely, but long. It just drew out the pain for a longer distance to get up to the top. It was too hard! Gravity is cruel.

Thirty years later, and not so long ago...... Those mischievous black eyes of his, shining, that sly crooked grin, he was a devil lover in disguise. I wanted to impress him, so I faked enthusiasm for the sport, while holding a secret disdain for it. Oh, what we do for love! We went on multiple hikes in the Columbia Gorge, both Washington and Oregon sides of the river. I remember Rowena Hills in the early spring, dressed in brilliant green dotted with purple lupine, kittentails, and calming blue flax. 

"Look!" he said, when we reached the top. "Its a glacier lily!" The perfect wildflower. And then we'd rest. We picnicked on almonds and oranges. He would fall asleep, while I leaned against a tree, blissfully watching the clouds. 

This lovely man, whom I had such a passion for, went by the wayside on my journey. My real true love became hiking. Mountain climbing, alpine swims, identifying wildflowers, rock climbing, geology, how not to get lost, ALL of it, I loved. I hiked various legs of the PCT for a week at a time, long enough to be lusciously disconnected from the trivialities of everyday life in the city. My hikes varied as much as the people I hiked with; backpacking journeys with snowstorms in August, star gazing trips,and cathartic teary missions on not doing this sooner in my life. It was the best ever party; hikes in the Gorge, hikes in Montana, Washington and California.

Sometimes we try things, and don't like it. It gets shucked away onto the "no go" pile. My success with this challenge as well as my love for it proved that it may be worthwhile to revisit that old "used" pile one more time.

Looking Back

Below are two memoir pieces by talented writers I've met through my creative writing classes. The first one is a poem with a sweet, cantering rhythm by artist/writer LAW Fraser. The second one is an ironic reminiscence (and mystery!) by Linda Burk.

Check here in the weeks to come for more inventive literary works by various Portland voices!

My Wish
by LAW Fraser

Every star that shined first,

every wishbone that I snapped,

I asked for my very own pony.

Every day that wish stayed the same.

When asked what I wanted for a gift,

I asked for my very own pony,

one I could sit on and ride,

any time.

I could gallop up hills and

run through streams,

I could rest in the green,

while my pony grazed.

I would sweep out his stall,

carry water and hay,

brush his mane then

polish his hooves.

All these things I could do

if my wish would come true.

All the places I could ride

if only my wish would come true.

I’m now past my prime, won’t ride anymore.

So I’m content to watch from afar,

but still wild ponies excite

this old heart.

*****************************

The Woodstove

by Linda Burk

We bought the old farm at an auction. It was located on a back road in the hills of Pennsylvania. There were no neighbors in sight. Our boys were young and we needed to live in the city near their school. The farm was a weekend retreat for us. We loved the orchards with several varieties of crisp juicy apples and sweet red cherries. The old yard still had a few strawberries that we enjoyed in the summer.

The house was formerly owned by an old man who lived alone and must have subsisted on sardines and beans according to the piles of cans we found in the back yard.

The living room walls were black with soot but there was no sign of a woodstove. We spent many weekends stripping the walls to the studs while the boys enjoyed playing in the nearby fields.

As winter approached we attached our large woodstove, which we brought with us from our farm in West Virginia. It was cozy and warm in the rooms as we worked.

Our weeks were busy with school and work and there was a month between visits to the old place. When we returned we walked into the living room. We stood there with our mouths open! The woodstove and pipes were gone! We asked the few neighbors but no one heard anything or saw anything. It was frustrating but what did we expect? The old farm was located in a rural area called Exchange.