A few weeks ago I traveled to Odessalet for Duetchesfest. I've been to Odessa a hundred times and never really wanted to remember or more accurately put document the past. Because the past was still a real memory for me and one very accessible. I could visit the past any time I wanted - within reason.
This year, for the first time I thought the past, my memories, and those of our family, may be a thing of the past and will soon be forgotten altogether.
I won't go into details, but I will go into some history so that the photos below make some sense.
Somewhere around 1980 I was shipped off to this farm in the middle of wheat land in Washington state. I was, for all practical purposes, a Southern California girl who lived and thrived in the city. Sending me to a farm in the middle of no where, to a town that had 11 people in it (not counting the dogs) all of whom were relatives, and expecting me to enjoy myself was a joke. I wanted to go because it was to Grandma and Grandpa Wraspir's house. Grandma and Grandpa Wraspir were new grandparents to me since mom and dad had just married (he's a stepdad, but a dad nonetheless). I loved these grandparents. When they came to visit they smelled of the past. They smelled of simple folk who, while they had almost nothing, had everything. They were real people. People who worked the earth for a living, who kept bread on my table. I didn't realize then just the sacrifices they had experienced in their lives, but I knew the depression was at least one - so I respected them. Well that and they were my elders and I was brought up to respect those who were older and more knowledgeable than me.
As I was getting on the plane in LA, dad told me Uncle Gene would be meeting me at the airport with Grandma. I hadn't met Uncle Gene yet and had no idea how I'd know him. Asking dad he responded with, "He's a big, tall cowboy - you can't miss him." Cowboy? I thought they only had those in Wyoming. But whatever. I dutifully got on the plane and fretted for 2 hours. This was back in the days (which makes me sound old) where you could actually meet people at the gate - remember those good days where you's step off the plane and someone you loved was there to meet you with a hug? God, I miss those days.
So I stepped off the plane, no cowboy and no grandma anywhere in sight. I started to walk down the aisle of the Spokane airport marveling at how small it was compared to LAX of which I had just 2 hours ago departed. Amazed that two hours could transform me to a world so vastly different from where I came from. And then I saw him. As if he was a beacon of light calling to me. He was "running" - as much as Uncle Gene could toward me holding out these enormous arms that I knew would crush me if he got a chance to wrap them around me. Behind him - Grandma, who to me was a tall woman, and yet was dwarfed by this man. He spoke in a deep voice, "Suzie, I thought you'd never make it." The dolt didn't even know my name - he called me Suzie until the day he died. It was his endearment he bestowed on any girl, child in his life. I eventually became very fond of being called Suzie.
And so we departed to Irby. This little town my dad grew up in. These farm houses that have seen years of life in them, - let me say that again - YEARS of life. Uncle Gene slept in the same room he was born in. As we pulled onto the dirt road to Grandma and Grandpa's house, there's a worn down building. Grandma begins to recount to me tales of this old hotel and how she and Grandpa used to work there. It looked like a pile of wood t me, but they worked there and it was and is still part of their heart. A little further down the road was the old school house. Grandpa schooled there. He and every child in the immediate area. All ages, all grades, all in one room, one school house. Just like on Little House on the Prairie I thought.
To the left was acres of cattle land. Green and lush. Covered in pipes for watering and - well - cows. Lots of cows. I had never really seen a cow up close before and really had no desire to. Ick - cows. Those same cows I would grow to love and look forward to seeing again some day.
And there it was, sitting on a very slight hill, the house. Small and modest. It housed all the love all the pain, all the joy, all the heartache, and my grandparents. I'd later find out it housed a lot of people in it's years, but it was full of love. There was no doubt of that. I won't romanticize it by saying that only loved lived there, anger lived there too fueled by alcohol - but above all it was a symbol of welcoming to anyone. And I do mean anyone.
I settled in to a small room that had a piano in it and a little dressing table. On the walls hung pictures of something. I can't tell you what they were because they became such a part of that little room that they don't have their own memory. The bed was lumpy and comfortable. It was the room. Nothing fancy, but it served it purpose.
I could go on and on about farm memories, I eventually looked forward to my summers at the farm. It had history. It had strength. It had animals, and it had a junk yard.
This trip to Odessa I decided to go take photos of the junk yard. It had sat up there in the hill for years and I knew it would eventually no longer be available to us for all sorts of reasons. On the way to the junk yard, though, we had to pass this little modest house that held so many family dinners, so many family stories. Almost too much for it's four walls to hold. This little house was condemned. The yard that grandpa and grandma took care of (in later years my middle brother did as well) was overgrown and brown. The house looked sad, lonely even. I knew if I entered it would no longer feel as warm has it once did. We moved on to the junk yard. I barely wanted to even look at the house.
In the junk yard we found a treasure trove of old cars, old refrigerators, old washers, twine, barbwire, glass, nuts, bolts, everything. Some of the cars up there looked like the owners surely couldn't have survived the crash that had apparently happened by the looks of it.
This year, for the first time I thought the past, my memories, and those of our family, may be a thing of the past and will soon be forgotten altogether.
I won't go into details, but I will go into some history so that the photos below make some sense.
Somewhere around 1980 I was shipped off to this farm in the middle of wheat land in Washington state. I was, for all practical purposes, a Southern California girl who lived and thrived in the city. Sending me to a farm in the middle of no where, to a town that had 11 people in it (not counting the dogs) all of whom were relatives, and expecting me to enjoy myself was a joke. I wanted to go because it was to Grandma and Grandpa Wraspir's house. Grandma and Grandpa Wraspir were new grandparents to me since mom and dad had just married (he's a stepdad, but a dad nonetheless). I loved these grandparents. When they came to visit they smelled of the past. They smelled of simple folk who, while they had almost nothing, had everything. They were real people. People who worked the earth for a living, who kept bread on my table. I didn't realize then just the sacrifices they had experienced in their lives, but I knew the depression was at least one - so I respected them. Well that and they were my elders and I was brought up to respect those who were older and more knowledgeable than me.
As I was getting on the plane in LA, dad told me Uncle Gene would be meeting me at the airport with Grandma. I hadn't met Uncle Gene yet and had no idea how I'd know him. Asking dad he responded with, "He's a big, tall cowboy - you can't miss him." Cowboy? I thought they only had those in Wyoming. But whatever. I dutifully got on the plane and fretted for 2 hours. This was back in the days (which makes me sound old) where you could actually meet people at the gate - remember those good days where you's step off the plane and someone you loved was there to meet you with a hug? God, I miss those days.
So I stepped off the plane, no cowboy and no grandma anywhere in sight. I started to walk down the aisle of the Spokane airport marveling at how small it was compared to LAX of which I had just 2 hours ago departed. Amazed that two hours could transform me to a world so vastly different from where I came from. And then I saw him. As if he was a beacon of light calling to me. He was "running" - as much as Uncle Gene could toward me holding out these enormous arms that I knew would crush me if he got a chance to wrap them around me. Behind him - Grandma, who to me was a tall woman, and yet was dwarfed by this man. He spoke in a deep voice, "Suzie, I thought you'd never make it." The dolt didn't even know my name - he called me Suzie until the day he died. It was his endearment he bestowed on any girl, child in his life. I eventually became very fond of being called Suzie.
And so we departed to Irby. This little town my dad grew up in. These farm houses that have seen years of life in them, - let me say that again - YEARS of life. Uncle Gene slept in the same room he was born in. As we pulled onto the dirt road to Grandma and Grandpa's house, there's a worn down building. Grandma begins to recount to me tales of this old hotel and how she and Grandpa used to work there. It looked like a pile of wood t me, but they worked there and it was and is still part of their heart. A little further down the road was the old school house. Grandpa schooled there. He and every child in the immediate area. All ages, all grades, all in one room, one school house. Just like on Little House on the Prairie I thought.
To the left was acres of cattle land. Green and lush. Covered in pipes for watering and - well - cows. Lots of cows. I had never really seen a cow up close before and really had no desire to. Ick - cows. Those same cows I would grow to love and look forward to seeing again some day.
And there it was, sitting on a very slight hill, the house. Small and modest. It housed all the love all the pain, all the joy, all the heartache, and my grandparents. I'd later find out it housed a lot of people in it's years, but it was full of love. There was no doubt of that. I won't romanticize it by saying that only loved lived there, anger lived there too fueled by alcohol - but above all it was a symbol of welcoming to anyone. And I do mean anyone.
I settled in to a small room that had a piano in it and a little dressing table. On the walls hung pictures of something. I can't tell you what they were because they became such a part of that little room that they don't have their own memory. The bed was lumpy and comfortable. It was the room. Nothing fancy, but it served it purpose.
I could go on and on about farm memories, I eventually looked forward to my summers at the farm. It had history. It had strength. It had animals, and it had a junk yard.
This trip to Odessa I decided to go take photos of the junk yard. It had sat up there in the hill for years and I knew it would eventually no longer be available to us for all sorts of reasons. On the way to the junk yard, though, we had to pass this little modest house that held so many family dinners, so many family stories. Almost too much for it's four walls to hold. This little house was condemned. The yard that grandpa and grandma took care of (in later years my middle brother did as well) was overgrown and brown. The house looked sad, lonely even. I knew if I entered it would no longer feel as warm has it once did. We moved on to the junk yard. I barely wanted to even look at the house.
In the junk yard we found a treasure trove of old cars, old refrigerators, old washers, twine, barbwire, glass, nuts, bolts, everything. Some of the cars up there looked like the owners surely couldn't have survived the crash that had apparently happened by the looks of it.
If you want to see all the photos, click here.
2 comments:
Great blog....greater pictures! Boy, do they bring the memories. I haven't been to the junk yard in years...guess I need to make another trip. I will do it when there are no snakes tho!
That last picture is awesome. Wow.
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