Home means the sage and the pine

On the way back to Salt Lake, I took three photographs from inside a moving car. These were the only pictures I took on my trip, which had a people-focused purpose not a focus on place. 

Why didn't I capture moments in the living room while looking at old photo albums? Or take a picture with my grandma, uncle, cousins or even my sister? 

A twinge of regret filled me as these thoughts tiptoed through my mind. I had better take a picture of Nevada before it slips away, I figured. 

The was the last of the three pictures I took. It's not easy taking a photograph in the backseat of a moving vehicle... While my dad is driving. 

I know I'll return to Nevada but the circumstances will be different. Leaving Nevada has never been easy. The first time I left for any significant amount of time, I had four months of a study abroad  program in front of me. 

The house I grew up in was going up for sale, and I had to move my belongings into storage. I intended to return to Reno to finish school but the rest of my family moved to California. 

When I returned from my four month adventure, I returned to the new home in California for the holidays and then secured housing in Reno before the spring semester started. 

The problem was "Home Means Nevada"  no longer rang true. With my family gone, the connection I felt with the people lessened. I lived alone in an awful, roach-infested old studio that allowed the cigarette and pot smoke from my neighbors to seep into everything I owned.  I suffered from severe culture shock. I resolved this struggle by making connections to the land. A girl and her camera graced Pyramid Lake, Lake Tahoe and other places where memories were made. 

While I regret not taking pictures of my recent trip, it took this written reflection to understand how Home means the sage and the pine. My heart will be forever moved by this picture and everything related to the trip it represents. And, perhaps, if you look closely, you can see my grandfather in the sunshine tending to the clouds. 

Part 2: Moments of Gratitude

A week and a half ago, I landed in Salt Lake City. The people I met in the airports and on the airplanes that day were inspiring, but the day had been long; I was tired.

The first time I drove through Salt Lake, I was a young child with my grandparents, sister and cousin on our way to my great-grandmother's memorial service. I remember grandpa stopping the car on the salt flats. He dared us to lick the ground. What? Ew! I remember looking for help from grandma but she stood there amused and grandpa was laughing his deep, belly chuckle. But I remember licking that salty ground like I remember swallowing my first mouthful of the Pacific Ocean, and both felt like coming of age rituals. Yes, I have licked the salt flats. Have you? Guess what: they're salty.

https://c2.staticflickr.com/8/7224/7252349550_6f4672489b_h.jpg

The second time I drove through Salt Lake, I was a new mother. My baby was six months old and our final destination was Elko, Nevada. Our connecting flight took off without us, even though our plane landed on time and we arrived at the gate before our scheduled departure. At the time, remember the new mom bit, I didn't cope well with this news. We weren't sure whether our luggage made it onto the plane and we couldn't drive without a car seat. But I'll tell you what: once we sorted out the airport mess and pointed our car towards Nevada, I was filled with memories of my first Salt Lake road trip and recounted them to my husband. The land between the Salt Lake airport and the state line is beautiful country. We stopped at one point and got out of the car to take pictures of the baby, documenting her journey. It felt like a big, beautiful deal.

The third time I drove through Salt Lake, I was a few years older with an additional kid. I left them all at home for this trip, and it was the longest time I've ever been away from my babies. (Thank goodness for a competent husband and caring in-laws who came down to support him while I was away.) This trip's purpose brought a similar sadness as the first trip: my parents and I flew in to Salt Lake on our way to my grandpa's memorial service.

Mom fetched me from the airport, and we navigated through town towards Temple Square, where my father, a tireless researcher of our family tree, found a few hours of joy among the family history records. I had never been to that area of town. As dad let the frigid air into the car, we contemplated our next move: hotel room, early dinner or exploring the town? I'll admit, in answering this question, I actually said: "When in Rome..." My vote stood firmly in parking and walking over to to the square, which reminded me of the fortified walls surrounding small Spanish towns with cathedrals poking above the wall... except for the obvious fact the behind the walls stood the Mormon Temple.

It beckoned, and we walked.

https://www.lds.org/locations/salt-lake-city-temple-square

Now, as those with whom I shared my childhood know`1, Mormons were our friends and neighbors and their churches were as plentiful as the Catholic churches. Those who knew me in college understand my appreciation for all religions, even those that I didn't belong to or identify with. While in Spain on my study abroad program, I attended mass more times in four months than some American Catholics attend in a year. Anyhow, I knew I might never have this chance to explore, admire and learn in the heart of Salt Lake.

As we were walking around, my eyes were drawn to the domed structure. I wanted to get closer. I couldn't figure out what it was, but my parents had made this trek before and told me it was the Mormon Tabernacle building. As we walked in, the sounds from the organ surrounded us. Aside for a few other people hovering near the doors, the building appeared empty, with the exception of the single organist pouring his soul into the keys before him. On this day, at this time, after so many interesting encounters, my heart rejoiced. I needed that music to hold back the tears of mourning, at least until the following day.

As we retreated reluctantly back into the bitter cold, I noticed newlyweds emerging from the temple for their wedding photography. Such joy in their faces, I couldn't help but stand and stare for a few moments before we made our way into a hotel lobby and out again and then into the Beehive House for a tour with two delightful Sisters: one from California and one from Russia.

I left Temple Square with a full heart and somewhat better prepared to face the emotions I had bottled up. But, no worries, the bottle was uncorked later, and I, again, felt grateful for the people, the place and the experiences I had.

Part 1: Moments of gratitude

I have no pictures to describe yesterday. Only words. 

I hugged my family holding back the tears. Six days apart from my babies is the longest ever separation from them, but travelling on a Friday or Monday of a holiday weekend was cost prohibitive. The was a money decision, not a decision from the heart. 

I made my way through security without incident. Well, you know, except for the pat down and special machine I had to go through because I forgot to put my phone and belt on the conveyor. But I maintained my composure and walked to Peets before checking for my gate. 

I treated myself to a maple latte and a chocolate croissant because calories don't count when you have six hours of flying time and 25 minutes of layover. 

One of the first to arrive at my gate, I chose a seat near a woman who was sitting alone. She left before I summoned the courage to talk with her. 

So I finished my coffee and started reading my book, Happy is the New Healthy. I fought back tears on the first page. He opened with a story about losing a grandparent, and the purpose of my trip is to honor the loss and celebrate the life of a grandfather. 

Next, a young man (or certainly not older than myself) sat down next to me. He reminded me of an unhappy looking Bob Marley with his long dreds, pile of at least five chunky silver chain necklaces hanging around his neck, sagging skinny jeans, colorful high top sneakers. As I sat wondering about his story, I noticed the star tattoo on his neck with a name in script written underneath. 

Before I had a chance to talk to Marley, the youthful, bedazzled jeans and jean jacket sporting June sat down on my left. With her hair wrapped in a scarf and the confidence of her turquoise eye shadow, I figured my chances of conversational rejection were much lower with her. 

After enthusiastically engaging with smiles and laughter, she left to get in line with boarding group A. I turned with my newly-gained conversational courage to Marley, and though I never got his name, his story touched me: lives in Miami, recently returned from a trip to Haiti, on his way to a recording studio in Oakland. Maybe famous or maybe a struggling artist, but I wished I didn't have to cut his stories short so that I could join boarding group B. 

As I stepped onto the plane and tried to focus on the mass of faces and seats, I heard June call out to me to sit next to her. In a day full of gratitude, I was thankful for our four hours of conversation in the fourth row of the airplane, which also allowed me enough time to deplane, buy a premade sandwich and Kettle Chips from Gordon Biersch. More on that in a yet to be written Part 2 post. 

After I nearly swallowed my sandwich, I let out a deep sigh, held up my hands and remarked to the man sitting next to me: I'm shaking. I couldn't decide if I was hungry, over-caffeinated from my maple latte or dehydrated from the four hour flight. I had no shortage of liquid and snacks on the plane, but by the time I landed it was nearly 2pm Houston time. 

My confidant, who reminded me in looks and quiet, confident demure, reminded me of James Earl Jones. His concern touched me as he asked whether I had trouble flying. I admitted I probably just needed more water and sugar, but hestitated as I looked at the time and people lining up to board. 

He instructed me to go and leave my bags behind, and I gave him a sideways, doubtful - please-don't-report-me-as-a-terrorist look. He assured me it was ok and added that he works for Southwest, the best credential he could have offered. So I flew to Max's Cafe for a water and a cookie and returned with enough time to learn that Mr. Jones purports to not be "smart enough" to be a pilot. When I pressed, he admitted that he's a regional director of Southwest. Does that mean California, I asked naively? No, the entire West. Oh, I shrugged. It seems to me you need to aim a little higher. 

My day might have been much different had I decided not to open up to these three strangers, but each of them enriched me in a way that helped propel me through the first leg of my trip. I was, however, happy for the two hours of silent reflection and reading that presented itself on the second leg of my flight. 

PART 1: What the trees mean to me

Jan 13: Before

Jan 13: After

Next month marks our sixth anniversary in our home. Moved in the weekend of Valentine's day, and TallHall joked that the washer, dryer and fridge would satisfy gifts for that weekend, my birthday and Christmas. There were two other significant events that year at the house: the removal of two oak trees and our wedding. 

In the backyard, we removed a "pencil" tree. It grew tall but never really branched out due, in part, to the close proximity of a nearby tree that was taller and healthier. Once we added gutters to the house, the tree nearly touched them.

In the front yard, there was a large oak tree that suffered root damage from the construction of the house. We had hoped that the tree might make a comeback and got second and third opinions from tree experts who agreed: it was dead and not coming back. I mourned the loss of those two trees.

Yet, even with the loss of two trees, our new identity as homeowners was closely tied to the remaining four huge oaks in our front yard and three in the back yard. The trees became a symbol of our love, and we found a way to include that in our wedding vows. An abbreviated excerpt:

"The majestic oak trees that surround this house have developed powerful roots that spread wide and deep. These hundred-year-old trees have relied heavily upon their roots to survive the most devastating storms and the severest droughts. Similarly, Hall2B and TallHall have grown strong as individuals, but only through the strength that their roots provide. As Hall and Hall2Be join to become one married couple, their strength and resilience will increase 10 fold..." 

On Tuesday, January 13, we lost two more trees. Concrete driveways and sidewalks restricted water flow to the trees. The canopy of the larger, remaining trees restricted the sunlight to these two, causing them to grow south toward our neighbors house, rending them a potential future storm safety concern should any branches break. I can only hope that the remaining trees will be able to absorb more sunlight, soil and water to fuel their continued growth.

Losses

Last year my mom's family saw more than its fair share of loss: Cleve, Jonna, Clara and Bill.

With the help of family, I wrote the following death notice and obituary to honor my Grandpa Bill. The obit will print in the Elko Daily Free Press Saturday, January 10.

He loved to tell stories ooooo-wheeee, and I'm eternally grateful for the notes and transcriptions from my father's oral histories with grandpa and countless other family members.

Death Notice

William Royce Harrington of Fernley, Nevada, died on December 28, 2014 at the VA Hospital in Reno. Bill was 85.

January 03, 2015 4:00 am
Elko Daily Press Obituaries

Obituary

William Royce Harrington, 85, of Fernley, died of complications from pneumonia on December 28, 2014 at the VA Hospital in Reno. He was born August 28, 1929 in Hollidays Cove, West Virginia to parents Truman Harrison Harrington and Ava Ellen Phebus.

Bill’s passion for fishing started at the age of 2. Reported missing once by his mother, he was found at the pond catching a “tish” for his daddy.  As a boy he sold popcorn, shined shoes and washed dishes. As a teenager he rode bulls and loved to shoot dice. Later, he worked as a car loader and motorman at the borax mines.

He married Irma Faye Fitzpatrick in Tonapah, Nevada on November 25, 1950. Shortly after the young couple married, Bill was drafted into the Army where he served in the Korean War as cook and a driver.

Driving was in Bill’s blood. He told childhood stories about the thrills of riding the big bus to see movies. After the war he drove a taxi, soda truck, and semis. In the late 1950s, Bill began his career as a Greyhound bus driver and took pride of his impeccable driving safety record.

As an adult, he loved fishing at the Ruby Marshes. He was well-known for his jerky, salami, smoked meats and chili and enjoyed sharing his creations with family and friends. Bill was a member of the masonic lodge (for 50 years), American Legion and Fernley Free Methodist Church.

He is survived by his wife Irma, his daughter Robin (Nick) Cimino of League City, Texas and his son Kevin (Pat) Harrington, of Elko, four grandchildren and seven great-grandchildren.

He is preceded in death by his parents and brothers Harold and Cleve Harrington.

Services will be held January 17, 11am at Living Stones Church, 172 5th St.