Garibaldi

This is the view from my motel room window: train tracks, the famous smokestack, and a portable toilet. America is like that. The town of Garibaldi was not established till 1946.

This rich and fertile land land belonged to Native people who fished for salmon and gathered what the earth offered for a couple of thousand years until Europeans arrived in the 19th century and brought death in the form of guns, smallpox, and domination. Europeans took the land, began cutting down the forest, and forced Native people to live on reservations with other Native people who had different languages and cultures. The Native population of this area fell from about 2200 to 200 in a couple of generations. We cannot imagine the suffering that must have entailed. 

On this day I woke in Garibaldi, drove to Portland, and met Margie in the afternoon. Margie is grieving for a friend (also in her 90s) whose cognitive loss, after a stroke, is severe. “She used to be edgy and sharp, capable of humor and anger and the whole range of human emotions. Now she’s just in Lala Land.” Margie asks herself, “How can you grieve for a person who is still alive but absent? And how do you deal with the fear that you may go that way yourself?” We sat with those questions. No answers. Margie held up both hands with crossed fingers. “I hope I can go before that comes.” Yes. We do earnestly hope.