My father called this evening, radiating good cheer down the phone line, and announced he's just bought a house in Vancouver, Washington.
"But Dad," I said in some confusion, "you already own a place in Bellevue and a house in Palm Desert. Why Vancouver?"
Space, he answered obliquely, and time. Timelessness would be a better word. He wants more space than they have in their delightful little condo which they are now planning to sell. He wants a hobby room for his latest interest in making gift cards out of handmade paper decorated with pressed flowers, dried leaves, and seeds. He'd like to have room to put up guests in their own room instead of his study. He wants to have a garden again, to dig his hands into the earth, and tend his crops of vegetables and flowers. He wants to watch things grow and to look forward to each cycle of seedling, shoot, blossom, and dormancy. A response to a brush with mortality, in short. My father needs a palpable future quite urgently.
It's also home for him, in a way. He's from the greater Portland area, as is Mary Lou, my stepmother, and as was my mother. Dad was born in Caspar, Wyoming, in 1927 where his family had tried their hand at cattle ranching. Sheep ranchers moved in around the turn of the century and ruined the cattle country. Shortly after Dad's birth, my grandfather moved the family of seven to Kelso, Washington where he took mill jobs up and down both sides of the Columbia River. My father grew up during the Depression, went to school in St. Helen's, Oregon, had a Victory Garden, was too young to join up during World War II, and went on to the University of Oregon. He and Mom met cute in their history class, got married in 1950, and he went on to law school for a year at Lewis and Clark (Monica Lewinsky's alma mater). By the time I came along they were living on Belvedere Island across the bay from San Francisco. Except for a brief stint in the Army, he's always lived in one of the coastal states. That's where every single one of my numerous relatives live, too. None of us would voluntarily live anywhere else. We are a west coast clan, you bet.
So Vancouver isn't quite as extraordinary as I first thought. For one thing, living there will put him closer to his remaining siblings and a large group of long time friends. For another, it shortens the semi-annual migration to and from the desert by a good three hours. And for a third, Mary Lou will be closer to her friends and family which I think she's looking forward to. It's the rapidity of it that takes my breath away. They buy and sell homes in a matter of weeks the way you and I decide on buying a new sofa. I didn't inherit this panache, or this financial acumen, for that matter. I wish I had.
I offered to fly up and help them pack but he said they had it all organized. They don't own a lot so I suppose three weeks will be enough time to pack everything. He was awfully pleased I offered, though. I surprised myself just a little by impetuously making the offer. When did I learn to be thoughtful of others? I used to be so selfish. No, not selfish, but not generous with my time. I would give someone money before I would shift my backside to do them a favor. And when I had no money to give, and no interest in giving up my free time for someone else's convenience, I felt impoverished far beyond mere lack of income. I remember that quite well because a number of people helped me for no reason other than charitable instincts and a kindness for those in need. I felt guilty because they helped me. I thought I could never repay them.
Now I know that the discharge of those debts is not strictly reciprocal. I have been good to others who were baffled by my goodness, and worried that they could not repay me, and I have assured them someday they will help someone else. My father has done a lot for me, and I cannot pay him back in kind, but I can pay him, and everyone else, by being a generous and thoughtful person. Perhaps I've finally integrated that particular lesson. A sea-change, a new season.
"Send me some photos of the new place, Dad," I asked him. "Especially the back yard where the garden will be."
"Yep, yep," he said cheerfully. "Just as soon as we head south again. I'm awfully excited about the house. Family nearby. Old friends, too. Space to breathe, and time to work in the garden."
A good way to end the long, hard year.
