MARKED THE JOURNEY

Dear Spike:

We spent last night in a tent in your grandparents' backyard, looking up through the tall swaying oaks at the same stars under which your mother and I fell in love, years ago. You were exhausted after two days with your cousins in Portland and though it was a bit chilly, you slept soundly, all night long.

We've had a lovely trip so far. In Portland (where we were greeted, early Friday morning, with a misty rain) you were smitten with your Aunt Molly, Uncle Matt and cousins Jay and Brett. We took walks through their neighborhood and visited one of their favorite parks, where we looked out over a tree-lined horizon just as green as your could dream.

We drove, last night, through the heart of Oregon's wine country. Memories marked the journey like road signs. Here we took a long bike ride and made love in a field of irises. Here we lived in a little apartment, above a church, and watched the ragtag July 4 parade from our balcony. Here we found a little hidden park and dreamed about our future.

Now in Corvallis, where your mother grew up and we met at Oregon State University, you've been playing with your grandmother, great grandmother, Aunt Alisa and cousins Zach and Katarina. The backyard here opens up into the McDonald Forest, where quail run between the brush and chipmunks dance from oak tree to oak tree. This is where your mother and I were married, on a perfect August night, nearly six year ago.

Tomorrow, we'll go to the lovely, rocky coast near Newport — to spend a day at the same place where your mother and I were engaged. — and then we'll return to Corvallis for a few more days before heading to central Oregon, where one of my dearest friends from college is to be married.

I do so love this place.

Though it seems likely that we'll be raising you in Utah, I do hope that you will consider yourself, at least in part, an Oregonian.

Home is, of course, is largely a geographical and genealogical concept. But it is also a spiritual one.

Love,
dad