Some things are too good to pass up. But others, in the form of buck a bag parking lot sale items, sometimes come to you without a bit of scrutiny. They come in bulk to be analyzed later on. And come into your life to handle a role that nothing else could ever quite handle so well or efficiently. Tattered or not that second hand picnic quilt has earned it's place in our satchel. But because of it's size it's got to be one mighty big bag.
When the family left in the summer of '05, they left behind a half a car load of stuff in the living room that hadn't really been sorted out, gone through, put up or eyeball measured since that sale. Those goods were strewn all about the house, the couch and floors getting the lion's share of the loot. Most of it was strange...coats needing dry cleaning, a sleeping bag requiring a wash, an old wool flag needing an update of a star or three. But one thing I loved right off the bat, wears and tears regardless, was that tattered old quilt. The batting was seeping out in places, the edges were worn and rough, the patches were faded and a few squares needed to be restitched, but it had soul. Character. Charm, the way that a three legged, one-eyed dog has charm. And since it was able to fit in a grocery bag it only cost me a buck. To wash it was to court disaster. I threw it into the back of the station wagon and away we went.
That quilt has seen beaches and swap meets, drive-in movie theaters and road trips to California. It has been used for garage sale displays, picnics, furniture wraps and back of the wagon padding on long distance hauls. I even used it to keep warm one winter night on a return trip from California. I was pushing hard to make Eugene that day, but fell way short of my goal and landed in a rest stop outside of Grants Pass at one in the morning. It was exceptionally cold that December night, but that quilt was exceptionally warm and because of it I managed to sleep comfortably through the night.
I'm happy to say that that quilt found itself a key player in our drama early on. It was supposed to be a quick run to Ikea that Saturday, but the day turned out to be a legendary one, instead. By one o'clock we had seen all there was to see at Ikea that day. We cruised the store and got lost in the rugs, but you were looking for dining room tables that day and remembered hearing about a furniture place out in Sumner that might have what you were looking for. Was I interested in going along with you?
Was I what? What a question, especially coming from the woman who only moments before, snuck up behind me in the parking lot and draped her hands over my eyes while I talked to her on my cell phone. Was I interested? Man. I would have walked through hell with gasoline shorts on to have had the rest of the day to play with you. And so we did. Took those first steps on that sweet walk through hell.
We cruised to Sumner in separate cars, calling each other on our cell phones and chatting all the while. We took in malts at the Main Street Dairy Freeze, cruised the aisles and pretended to be an old married couple interested in dining room furniture at the old Cannery Furniture warehouse. We took forever to drive back to Tacoma, took in the view at the water's edge at Pt Definace Park and shopped for pears at Tacoma Boys. We packed that day with a ton of activity, but it was that one moment we spent at Loyalty Park that afternoon that solidified that day, and turned an afternoon of stolen delight into a red letter day that we celebrated each and every month.
The 27th of August. Oregon Maple trees. Strawberry malteds. It felt like our whole lives were spent waiting for us to find that park, to find that tree, to secure those malts, make good that promise of time.
It was only because of The Boy that I knew about that park. It had a lot to do with house hunting, with playgrounds and places to run. It had a lot to do with my ceaseless weekend drives, with my overarching hunger for good burgers, my knowledge of backroads between Tacoma, the Valley and Seattle. I had no idea what the park was called at the time, but I knew it was close in to that burger stand. When you travel with kids those two things matter: food and a place to burn it off.
We left your car behind at the burger shack and cruised a bit, looking for a place to sip those malts. The neighborhood behind the Dairy Freeze is one of my favorites. Lot's of old Craftsman styled homes, plenty of tree lined streets. The neighborhood was quiet, clean, charming, but then, it was old Sumner. A far cry from the fresh and new housing tracks I had been looking at six or seven years earlier that sprouted up all around it in the Valley. We pretty much stumbled upon the park in our wandering. It was hard to miss, though, as it's pretty much center placed in the middle of the neighborhood. But it was the trees that really drew us in. The park is well appointed with benches and playground furniture and such, wide and expansive, but the highlight is that's dotted with the most beautiful maples I have ever seen. Gorgeous up the sky trees, with leaves two hands or more wide, green in a shade of green that defied the imagination. We piled out out of my car, popped the lid to the back and grabbed the quilt. It was finally being pressed into service. How wonderful that it was there, in Sumner of all places, and best of all, with you.
What did we talk about? Family and my situation and work. We talked about our kids, about dining room tables and marriage and our daily letters. About a poem I had left for you in your email box. We talked about nothing and we talked about everything. Looking back I see us skirting the issue of what brought us together that afternoon, what allowed you to steal enough time to be out playing with me, what allowed me to have that day, and for that matter what I considered the rest of my life available for you to do with as you pleased.
Was I already washed out to sea at that point? I suppose you can say that I was. We had known each other for a couple years by then, worked together on and off in the stacks and the bookdrops of the library, but it was that starting point at the PT branch two years prior that gave it all away oh so long ago. The moment we opened up that quilt and layed it on the grass under that Oregon Maple was a culmination of a very long and friendly dance. A lovely waltz of sorts, one that had us arrive gingerly, at that point in the song that allowed for us to sit and mingle and check out our dance cards a bit. Mine was empty for the duration and all I wanted to do at the end of that day was fill it up with your name. Each and every line.
I know that the feeling was mutual. We only had to find the words.
And like that maple tree, and like that quilt, we found that good things take time. We found the time that day to spread that quilt and we found the impetus to move things along a path that had no real ending that we could see.
We know now where that day was going. And you know, like it or not, that I have no idea what the end of our story is.
Kind of like that maker of that quilt. In their wildest dreams did they ever think that it would be spread under an Oregon Maple in Sumner in the summer of 2006? I wonder where that quilt will go next, or if it will find a way back to that park, to a place under a tree that will support two lovers in search of a good malted and a bit of time to talk and whisper and hand each other their hearts.
Only time will tell.
Your WHMB
That quilt rides in the back of the car still to this day.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment