Every New Season
For everything
there is a season,
and a time for
every matter under
heaven
(Ecclesiastes 3:1)
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Every New Season For everything
there is a season, |
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ESSAYS ON LIFE AT HOLDEN VILLAGE BY MARY KOCH
This page is dedicated to the memory of my late husband, John E. Andrist, who died at the age of 75 on Sept. 25, 2007. Now I am living for the two of us. Life moves from one season to the next. Winter 2011-12 coincides with a new season in my own life. I have moved from my home of more than 30 years to Holden Village in Washington State's North Cascade Mountains. It is said to be the most remote community in the lower 48 to be inhabited year-round. I invite you to join me each week as I explore Every New Season in this spectacular setting. If you would like to receive my essays directly by e-mail, or if you would like to respond to me, please e-mail: Previous essays in this series: The surest sign of spring at Holden Village is the arrival of two busloads of workers ... Spring at Holden Village is both a state of mind and an exercise in determination ... During a brief visit home last week, I realized that while my neighborhood looks the same, it will never again be the same ... Last week – Holy Week – marked a one-year anniversary for me ... Perhaps someday I will live in a senior citizen community with folks my own age ... If Holden Village, with its Lutheran roots, were to have a patron saint, I would nominate Katharina von Bora, wife of Martin Luther ... You may be lingering at the table after a meal, or you may be waiting for a meeting to begin or the boat to arrive, or you may be out on the trail on a snowshoe trek, when more than likely, someone gives you a gift: their story ... In addition to our regular jobs, all volunteers and staff at Holden share three rotating assignments to keep the community going ... Even at Holden Village, one dresses for the opera. Mozart’s Cosi Fan Tutte was playing Thursday night ... Holden Village is so remote and tiny, it doesn’t even merit a dot on the map. Yet I feel as if I’m at the crossroads of the world ... Just when I was finding my groove, we had “Stop Day” ... To get home you have to go out – a strange turn of phrase for someone raised in a family of baseball fans ... I had a dream the other night about Holden Village. Most people here would classify it as a nightmare ... My first snowshoeing trek was neither what I anticipated nor desired ... Thursdays are "Hunger
Awareness Day" in the village, which means we get
rice for This cozy little village snuggled in its mountain valley can be a scary place ... If I thought I would escape the ghosts of Christmas past by coming to this isolated mountain village, I was dead wrong ,,, When I told a younger friend that I was moving to Holden Village, she asked with confusion: "What is that? Some kind of assisted living?" ... This is my third series of weekly essays. The first series, Journal of Healing, described my years of caregiving for my late husband. The second series, A Widow Bit, explored a caregiver's life after her loved one has died. To read essays from these series, go to: Mary Koch is a veteran news reporter and editor. She was an Associated Press editor before marrying John E. Andrist in 1979, when she joined him in editing and publishing the Omak (Washington) Chronicle. They sold the newspaper in 1996. She continues to work as a writer and editor, currently living in Holden Village, Wash. |
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME I spent my 68th birthday yesterday trying to recall the previous 67 – or as many as possible. I recollect only a small number of celebrations, though I’m sure there’ve been many. Was I there? Two years ago, I was in England for what the British call my “birthing day.” I remember that but have no idea where I was or what I did last year. It’s not that I’m trying to ignore birthdays or forget my age. I don’t mind my age; I’m simply amazed by it. Like so many of my contemporaries, I wonder, “How did I get here?!” A couple milestone birthdays are memorable. On my 60th, friends and family threw a blow-out party that was blessedly absent of silly jokes about being “over the hill.” My 50th fell on the day before I was to take my stroke-paralyzed husband home from rehab and begin my 14-plus-year career as a full-time caregiver. My heart brimming with anxious prayer, I ignored my birthday – which may be why I remember it. I remember my 30th birthday, when I grieved the end of my Terrific Twenties. “I will never have any more fun,” I moaned to an older friend. He laughed at my foolishness. Now, having more than doubled that age, I happily report he was right. There were other milestone birthdays: the 12th, when I was permitted to begin wearing lipstick and nylon stockings; the 16th, when I got my driver’s license and the accompanying, unconscionable new level of freedom; the 21st, when I was fully an adult, able to vote, answer for my own financial decisions, and oh, yes, drink. I don’t specifically remember that celebration (probably a good thing) nor the others. I have good reason to remember my 68th. I did not celebrate it at Holden Village, having left the village to attend my granddaughter’s wedding, which happened to fall on my birthday. Such an event totally eclipsed my own relatively insignificant observance. En route to the wedding, I stopped for gas, muttering to myself about the unseemly price. After I’d filled the tank, the station manager approached my car and handed me a ticket for a free “deluxe” car wash. A previous customer had purchased it and then, for some reason, decided not to use it. I happily sat in my car while giant, soapy brushes moved back and forth, removing the layers of dust that are inevitable after a cross-state drive. When I emerged from the automated facility in my gleaming car, the manager nodded approvingly. I rolled down my window and said, “It’s my birthday. Thanks for the surprise gift.” He beamed. I’m sure I’ll still remember the wedding when my next birthday rolls around, but I may have forgotten the car wash. That’s OK. Life is full of little surprises, not only on birthdays. Every day of my life there’s at least one small, happy surprise. I don’t always remember them. The point is to notice each, confident there’ll be more to come.
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