Common Ground

I grew up a long way from here, my home. For 17 years, I lived on the edge of the prairie near the shadow of a mountain. It was an innocent life. I was naïve and unaware. That was okay. I had a few friends, but I could put names to faces of most everybody else. It was a small town. Collectively, I think we were happy, untroubled by the coming war. Not ready to dissect our values. Not ready to pull it all apart. That would come later for some of us. In those easy years we walked a common ground in a small town.

The earth on the prairie is hard and dry. The wind and the sun take the rain and leave the dirt in powder. Winter snow does not linger to replenish the aquafer. The bitter wind and icy sun leave it piled along fence and barn to evaporate in the dry air. It is a harsh place to grow. Our eyes squinted against the bright sun and stiff wind. We leaned against the wind, our heads down, necks tucked. It is a hard, unforgiving climate that breeds people with stiff character, too stubborn to give in, who walk with a certain self-righteous sense of what is right with lines clearly drawn, like the distant horizon. Whatever else we had, whatever differences there were between us, we had this in common.

I lived there for 17 years. It was formative and my foundation, I was stoic and certain of right and correctness. Ritual was important, ties worn to church, always ‘yes ma’am and yes sir’, handkerchief in the back pocket, and, never late to class (except the one sunny day a friend and I stood in the warm sun intentionally until the bell rang, then sauntered to the office for our detention slips and passes to class). The standards still rub at my conscience to this day.

I’ve lived in this valley for 50 years. Working and raising a family in uncertain times. It is a small town too. We have worked hard, made friends, and tried to give our children a sense of family and honesty. We try to be kind and not judgmental. We travel often, but always return here. It is our home.

On one side clouds roll over the Coast Range and saturate the ground. On the other, foothills and the Cascades wring the last moisture from the clouds as they climb, emptied, to the desert beyond. There are 50 names for rain. Only visitors carry umbrellas.  Plants grow in abundance, die, and become rich, moisture laden topsoil. Below this is clay, thick and gray. It sucks at boots and clings to clothes. Old plank roads had to be relaid every year because the planks sank and disappeared in the winter muck. Most of the year the sky is a high, gray dome. The sun is only an occasional guest. It is a moderate climate with rare cases of harsh weather and it breeds a polarized sensibility. Folks are contrary here with an inborn sense of freedom that denies definition. Flannel shirts, hiking boots, and shorts all winter is standard attire. There is always a knife in their pocket. Live and let live spoken with an iron voice is the norm. The land fosters this kind of dichotomy. It is what we have in common.

I’ve lived in both places and recognize the voice of each. I’m a part of both and both are a part of me.

Somewhere to the east of this valley, beyond the mountains, these two grounds join. And so, what we have in common here merges with what they have in common. Wherever that meeting place is, is where I live now and the faces of people, both here and there are real to me. Those on the little prairie town of fifty years ago remain young and alive. Those here change and grow older with me. It’s a mixed reality I know, but I hold it close never-the-less.

A few days ago, a friend from that little prairie town died. I hadn’t seen her in years and so, even though I know better, it was that sweet, funny 17-year-old girl who passed away.

Her passing made me realize how big a part of me that town and those people remain.  We started our lives together. Some of us remained there on the prairie. Some of us left and found a different place to be. I found this valley, a wife, and two children. My roots are here now. But, in my heart I know that one place leads to the other and it’s all common ground.

The Road