First Impressions: Salem

On Sunday the 17^th of November, Jason and I left Idaho:

We crossed the state line and the Snake River as we drove through Ontario. When I saw the “Welcome to Oregon” sign, my throat constricted and my heart swelled with throngs of adventure, fear, and the promise of future nostalgia. When we drove from Baker City to La Grande, the sun was in the perfect spot to highlight the golden-colored fields, which made the Blue Mountains, rising around us and spotted with white snow, shine with the color of their name.  We stopped in Pendleton for a burger, fuel, and a stretch of the legs before continuing on our journey.  By the time we got to Portland it was dark, but along the highway towards Salem I could make out the silhouettes of towering trees along the curving roads, instilling a sense of peace, wisdom, or a “watching-over” only a grove of ancient trees can provide.

Interstate near La Grande: View from the car on the drive to Salem.

It is the smell of Western Oregon that I noticed first when I got out of the car at my new home; a perfume of moss and musk, moisture and mold.  The smell reminds me of the fertility of this place.  The earth is a rich brown, heavy and wet with rain.  The sky moves with different colors of dark grays, as if it is clay continuously being molded, created, destroyed, and then recreated again by invisible hands.  The landscape, even in the cold of November, is still a bold green.  It’s not quite an emerald color, and it is brighter than “forest green” (which was my favorite crayon color when I was in elementary school).  The best way to describe the color: if it were possible to put a thousand tons of live moss in a black hole to compress it into a tiny stone, and then if it were possible to cut that stone in half to view its marbled insides, that would be the color of Western Oregon.

I know I will miss the palette of the Southern Idaho high desert in which every color seems to be muted into an honest pastel version of itself: sage green, fading blue, mustard yellow, the muted grey-brown of the dry dirt.  But if I have to leave my Idaho, the colors of this place would be my second choice.

Coming here was really a bold step and a difficult decision for Jason and I.  Jason has and will continue to dedicate an immense amount of time and personal resources into his new job and promoted role.  It’s not easy to live out of a suitcase in an unfurnished and heartless apartment for two months, which he has been doing.  Even now, when I have finally joined him and our things are here to create a home around us, he is busy trying to keep his company, his client, and his employees happy; a triple juxtaposition that isn't easy to manage, and he puts in more hours at work than he does sleep at night.  He bears a heavy load, and I am immensely proud of him, the risk he took, and his hard work.  I know deep down that it will pay off.  He somehow manages to maintain his sense of humor during it all and still be the caring supportive man I first met.

I am here for reasons that are less sensible.  I have a heart of adventure and a desire to experience new things.  This comes from the well inside me that supplies optimism.  The other part of me, probably the more dominant part, puts security as the highest priority and balks at anything that could possibly challenge that security.  I am currently unemployed, have no friends in this city, and (besides being supportive) am powerless to help my husband with his own challenges at work.  I could feel worthless, drifting, depressed. I could feel like I am not contributing anything to this family and sink into sadness, but I won’t let myself.  I am here, and I am writing on, feeling thankful before Thanksgiving, so excited and anxious and blessed to be alive and not stagnant.