is a single mama in the city, super-savvy editor, writer, video host and shameless shoe whore.
Postcards from Corvallis: And he ran, he ran so far away
Monday, August 24, 2009 Ten years ago, I couldn't wait to drive out of Corvallis, Oregon for good. I left with a wad of cash The Ex and I combined from our closed bank accounts, driving a UHaul, pulling a 1981 green Volvo station wagon. I was delirious and in a tradition my college roommate and I started when we screeched out of the small Missouri town for breaks, I flipped off the whole city as I drove away.
"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck you, Corvallis!" I screamed. Rebellious, I know.
I thought of that last week when I drove over the bridge where I once flailed expletives. This time, I was driving into town. I took a deep breath, exhaled, and let the happiness to be back fill me up.
I never imagined I'd return to Corvallis this way, with a boy in the backseat clinging to a light saber, visiting friends I haven't seen since I was married, relieved to reclaim this part of my past.
I went to grad school in Corvallis, laughed often at being a Women Studies major at a school that chanted "I'm a Beaver Believer." While I lived there, I was an adjunct professor, a nanny, a waitress. I lusted after a surfer, put up with a bartender, fell in love with an engineer, and found the person I thought was the one. I returned over the years to visit friends, eat my favorite dishes at the bistro where I worked, defend my thesis and claim my degree, and hope I'd run into the baby girl who I once helped raise during her first year.
Now we were back to see one friend, the fabulous Paula, who runs a blueberry farm with her husband on the outskirts of town. We came to Corvallis to wander around and just enjoy the town for what it is -- pretty, smallish, very Oregon.
I also wanted to show Lil E the places where I lived, where his father and I met and shared a home, where that history was forged. It felt important for him to see if he will ever understand the whole story of our family, so that neither of us gets stuck in the transition or or pain drama or last couple of years.
We took refuge on the blueberry farm. We only ventured out to tour all those old apartments and a bit of Oregon State University. We stopped in for pizza and salad at an old favorite, American Dream, and find another bartender friend at a new restaurant, Aqua. Most of our time was spent walking in between aisles and aisles of blueberry bushes, cuddling up to our friends' many pets, and relaxing under twinkly lights in the hot tub Lil E kept calling the "warm pool."
The most precious postcard from this part of our trip took place in our first few hours there. After driving out to the edge of the farm and collecting buckets of blackberries and blueberries, our hands stained with the evidence of all we ate while we were out there, we climbed in the golf cart to head back to the house. Lil E asked politely if he could run along side with the dogs rather than run. It was a long way back to the house, but we agreed, cheering him on as he ran and ran and ran and ran all the way home.
We laughed when he did double-takes when the road forked through different rows of bushes and as he pumped his little arms hard to keep up with the dogs and outrace our cart.
He was so determined. And still, a sense of peace and freedom emanated from him.
I loved watching him, loved that I captured a bit of it. If it is possible, I loved him even more in those minutes.
We're back, I kept thinking. I am here with my boy and we're back.
Yes, we rode the Beaver. Shush it.
Casey, the not-always-friendly horse, loved Lil E.
Cooling off in the shed with an ice-cream sandwich and dogs Porter and Rex.
On the river walk just outside the restaurant where his dad and I met. I rode my bike on this path and pushed another mother's child in a stroller along the river on many summer days. So lovely to share it with my son.
Reader Comments (2)