in the out door

In last Monday’s post – the one about leaving California and all the times I’ve lived here and likely won’t again – I made reference to “Making memories,” a line I borrowed from one of the twins in the Lindsey Lohan ‘Parent Trap’ remake. Walking and hiking the trails I’ve been walking and hiking nearly a year. Gazing down at the San Luis Obispo Creek. Strolling out onto the Avila Beach pier. This Trader Joe’s. This very Starbucks. Today, if I’m lucky, Cayucos.

And now a most wonderful thing has happened. For one, I remember distinctly of talking out loud about “making memories” before leaving Portland, nearly five years ago. I’d lived there more than 12 times as long as I’ve lived here, and believe I was at least 12 times as devoted making those memories. Additionally, and way cooler, those memories I did make back there and then have begun flowing back to me. Vividly, in living color. Sensually.

This is mostly the result of a relentless search to find a place 900 plus miles north to call home. Response after response after response to Craigslist postings and Facebook postings and the rare reply to my CL posting. And with each of those I have looked at the map of Portland, checked the address specifics of the home/room posted. And almost inevitably there has been some sense of familiarity and maybe a smidge of memory. And quite often the address, the streets, that neighborhood has been more like a “blast from the past.” And I know that. I can feel that trail, that wetland. I know those ups and downs in Laurelhurst. I know the all-ness of how it feels to sit on that bench. I was once one of the regulars at that very Starbucks on Burnside and 28th.

I have made Portland memories and they have come back to greet me. To take my hand. “Yay,” I hear them whisper. “He’s coming back. Yay.

“Kid,” they say, “How about this one?”