There are a zillion pullouts on a jillion logging roads in the Coast Range, and this one has little to recommend it. It’s just another crunchy gravel space the width of a pickup for staying out of the way of traffic that never comes. Often there is an empty potato chip bag or beer can left by some slob who thinks the highest use for a wide spot along a forest road is to function as their personal garbage can. Years back we picked early summer blackberries here until the third-growth Douglas-fir on the tree plantation finally grew tall enough to shade the sun-loving fruit. Now there is only one distinguishing feature for this pullout—it is my last outpost for phone service on the winding backway to the Johnny Gunter place, just before the road tips precipitously downward into the Smith River drainage.
That phrase "the uncorrectable past," and how your friend chose to deal with it—by ignoring what you had already screwed up—will stay with me. Sometimes, if we're lucky, the outcome of grief is some remembrance that can transform our suffering into action. I'm sure your friend would not think that you owed him anything, but the preservative you put on the wood, and in this post, is a tribute to you both. Thank you for sharing him with us.
Oh...such a loss. I'm so sorry, and thank you for expressing your tears and grief there in the pullout--a gift of empathy for all who have personally known the true meaning of the "broken" heart and for those who will know it...I began reading as ever admiring your apt and refreshing language--"russet wingbeats" of the Ruffed Grouse, and then I was right there with you....in that moment of tears flowing. "Pullout"--such a word of meaning..wide space in the road, the boat in the eddy or river edge, the place of pause....and sometimes for a reckoning.
This is a moving tribute to the man Steve was. He/family were my across the street neighbors for almost all years the 26 years I lived on Jackson. I moved 5 years ago and Just had Steve over before Christmas. He was a huge party of my annual Christmas & July 4th gatherings. he was steady, constant, a loyal friend, happy, funny, giving of his time and knowledge and skills. I am still just shaking my head. Thank you for this very touching tribute.
Sometimes it is just too much. I find myself crying often now, almost a month after Dale's death. Memories steal up on me. I just keep on keeping on. Thanks for the vulnerability.
I'm glad you were able to just let yourself break down, crying seems to cleanse the soul. I am thankful you write, your wisdom helps me think. Take care Tom.
This week I sat with 2 people under the age of 40 being worked up for heart transplants. Trying to put into words that can have meaning that the heart is far more than an elegant pump, I falter. I attempt to encourage and caution them from my safe but darkening eddy, my pullout, as their rivers head towards inevitable rapids. I think of your words here.
'A broken heart is an open heart.' Blargh.
It seems you are undergoing your own emotional transplant. I can only re-member the moan from your chest. And breathe for you until you can resume. It is all any of us can do for each other.
On our journeys there will always be moments of calm and sun. May your time on the Baja bring many breaths with oxygen-richness.
Deep peace of the running waves to you, my friend.
That phrase "the uncorrectable past," and how your friend chose to deal with it—by ignoring what you had already screwed up—will stay with me. Sometimes, if we're lucky, the outcome of grief is some remembrance that can transform our suffering into action. I'm sure your friend would not think that you owed him anything, but the preservative you put on the wood, and in this post, is a tribute to you both. Thank you for sharing him with us.
Oh...such a loss. I'm so sorry, and thank you for expressing your tears and grief there in the pullout--a gift of empathy for all who have personally known the true meaning of the "broken" heart and for those who will know it...I began reading as ever admiring your apt and refreshing language--"russet wingbeats" of the Ruffed Grouse, and then I was right there with you....in that moment of tears flowing. "Pullout"--such a word of meaning..wide space in the road, the boat in the eddy or river edge, the place of pause....and sometimes for a reckoning.
This is a moving tribute to the man Steve was. He/family were my across the street neighbors for almost all years the 26 years I lived on Jackson. I moved 5 years ago and Just had Steve over before Christmas. He was a huge party of my annual Christmas & July 4th gatherings. he was steady, constant, a loyal friend, happy, funny, giving of his time and knowledge and skills. I am still just shaking my head. Thank you for this very touching tribute.
Sometimes it is just too much. I find myself crying often now, almost a month after Dale's death. Memories steal up on me. I just keep on keeping on. Thanks for the vulnerability.
I'm glad you were able to just let yourself break down, crying seems to cleanse the soul. I am thankful you write, your wisdom helps me think. Take care Tom.
Thank you, Tom, for helping us wade through life.
Gawd, Tom. It hurts like hell to read these beautifully etched words. Charlie
Love and light, Tom. You’re made of the stuff, but I send mine to you anyway.
This week I sat with 2 people under the age of 40 being worked up for heart transplants. Trying to put into words that can have meaning that the heart is far more than an elegant pump, I falter. I attempt to encourage and caution them from my safe but darkening eddy, my pullout, as their rivers head towards inevitable rapids. I think of your words here.
'A broken heart is an open heart.' Blargh.
It seems you are undergoing your own emotional transplant. I can only re-member the moan from your chest. And breathe for you until you can resume. It is all any of us can do for each other.
On our journeys there will always be moments of calm and sun. May your time on the Baja bring many breaths with oxygen-richness.
Deep peace of the running waves to you, my friend.
Arms around you, dear friend. ❤️