Today marks the day that I will never more return to the broom closet.
So, as all good stories ,I think the beginning is the best place to start , and so, I shall.
A good many years ago ,the stormy seas of my youth tossed me onto the shores of a place so beautiful,that when all is dark ,I close my eyes and go there still. Southern Oregon.More particularly, a small vale called Bull Run Creek. It was to be not only my home,but my very salvation, and though I often said as much, I was not to know how true that was for many years and many miles later.
A sad divorce and a loving Auntie dropped me and my very small daughter, Rebecca,there.Alone and isolated. No friends or family.No car or phone.No money or means, save a 50 gallon storage bin of dried red beans and a rickety barn that held several cases of antiquated C rations and more than a few boxes of crystallized dynamite (whenever the wind blew, the barn threatened to tumble over and give new life to the TNT). There was a house that had been added onto in every which way the lay of the land would allow.It was drafty and cold and none of the windows or doors shut tight due to swelling from the damp climate.There was a wood stove that was fairly ineffective thanks to a large hole in the roof where the pipe had once gone, but the pipe had been rerouted through the wall and even though the hole in the ceiling made a lovely sky light, it was not welcome that first Winter( when the weather dried, I faced my fear of heights ,and did my best to fix it,but it was far from perfect).
Except for a brief residence at a commune in Hawaii,I had never lived anywhere without the conveinences of modern life.But, it was the very necessity of depending on myself for the day to day needs of my child and mine that took me away from feeling sorry for our sad state.
There was no time for self pity. My time was spent gathering bark to burn and wild greens to eat as compliment to the beans.
The property itself belonged to my Aunt and Uncle,who lived in another state and were happy to have someone on the premises.It was through their association that I was able to make a few acquaintances down the road, who would look in on us from time to time to make sure we were still alive.
It wasn't long before the woods became more of a home than the house itself.
Becky and I would spend whole days and some nights down in the lower meadow by the creek,weaving daisy chains and playing baby games. There was a very special place we would nap, a perfect circle, no more than ten feet across,of tall Douglas fir trees. It was more magical than I could ever know at the time,being preoccupied with basic living. I did, however recognise the sense of peace and safety I felt there.It truly was my haven....More to come.Be blessed,friends!