So here we are again in the house where my husband grew up, a now-abandoned building sagging slowly into ruin behind the newer house where his parents currently live, marking the boundary where backyard and garden become old, rambling farm land. And it’s amazing the little snippets you can learn about us from this one simple photo: me, the transplanted Texan still wearing flipflops 11 years after moving north; my husband, who grew up an hour south of the Canadian border, wearing shorts year-round. He’s tall and I’m barely 5’1″, so short that I’ve long since given up hemming or rolling up the cuffs of my jeans and just let the denim pool around my ankles, which makes for some interesting suntan lines in the summer. But most of all, when I look at this photo I see us together in a place we both love for its family history, its quiet simplicity, its beauty… and yes, for all the rambling, dilapidated farm buildings that fascinate a born city girl like me.
There’s always magic here. It’s the place where I first fell in love with the Inland Northwest, the place I return to for solace time and time again. Stretching out on a trampoline or porch swing beneath the wide open sky, breathing in the spiced oatmeal scent of hay and alfalfa in the fields, listening to the song of the finches darting around the old cottonwood, watching sunset creep across the mountains… That’s my heaven. Each time I go, I never want to leave.
From the Archives: a series of posts originally written during
the first nine years of my life with chronic pain
August 2006 – May 2015