Calling Oregon “Home”
by Ellen Osborn
Monmouth, OR
I’ll admit it.
It’s taken me quite awhile to adjust to Oregon.
At some point, I realized that I probably wasn’t the first wife to be dragged unwillingly along the Oregon Trail.
It’s not that the rain of the Willamette Valley winter is hard on this desert dweller, but I learned that there is a fine line between curling up under an afghan in front of a nice fire on a drizzly day, and pulling that same afghan over your head and waiting for the spring - however many months away.
In the Southwest I was used to a pot of flowers on a patio for yard work, now I’ve learned to hog out brush – blackberry, ivy, etc., ending up with arms that look like I was on the losing end of a fight with a bobcat.
I’ve learned that “sun breaks” usually last less than the time it takes to tie a pair of sneakers to get outside.
I’ve learned that you can “garden” in all kinds of weather and that “shrub wrestling” or jobs like transplanting a lilac bush are better done when the clay soil is like butter in the winter, rather than like a brick in the summer.
One winter, to keep my spirits ups, I wrote fake bumper stickers in my head, “Oregon – where the trees grow like weeds, and the weeds grow like trees.”
But just like moss, algae and mold, Oregon has kind of grown on me.
The scenic beauty is dazzling and Oregonians are passionate about preserving it.
The contrasts in our state are wonderful. Portland has a vibrancy all of it’s own and my small university town of Monmouth – where I can run all my errands within a few blocks of each other (banking, library, post office, market) is the ultimate in efficiency. In Oregon, we have stark deserts and forests carpeted by ferns. Towering mountains and the rocky coast. — all within a few hours of each other.
As Oregonians, we’re still marked by the pioneer spirit, no matter when we joined the journey on The Oregon Trail.
I guess I’ll have to admit it.
I’m happy to be calling Oregon home.
