Presents on River Road

“The birthday of my life has come, my love has come to me.” - Christina Rossetti

January 10th, Mark celebrated his first married birthday. Since it fell on a Sunday, I had all intentions of devising a unique and mildly eventful weekend full of leisurely, comforting things to do. “I’ll make a reservation,” I thought to myself, “for Saturday morning at Mother’s downtown. He’ll have the eggs benedict and I the crepes, and we’ll lean over the table beside the window and watch the people go by." Then, perhaps we’d stroll a bit about Portland, dodging raindrops and window shopping our way through the afternoon. I’d looked into taking a tour and tasting of the Clear Creek Distillery, but found that I should have looked weeks ago. I am ever amazed at how far in advanced the rest of the world seems to plan. I had hoped that we might find ourselves that evening by the fireplace at the Stillhouse, or at home over a lavish dinner I’d been preparing all week. We’d conclude our birthday celebration, then, with the little something that had been waiting on the shelf in the closet for Mark. It would be “just what he wanted!” And thrilled would I be that all had gone so swimmingly.

But his birthday weekend was nothing like this. No, in fact, I believe it was a great deal more satisfying and enjoyable than anything I could have designed on my own. We woke early Saturday morning and, stirring our minds with conversation, lay warm in bed discussing what we knew had to be done that day. The CV joints. They must be taken care of. The day was dry and vacant. We readied ourselves together (which is a most delightful way to begin any day) and said goodbye. We don’t usually have to say goodbye on Saturday mornings, but the CV joints beckoned Mark as my ample wealth of homework beckoned me. It would be all day before my husband returned, only to bear news that there were complications in the installation of the CV joints, his car was rendered undrivable, and we would need to purchase a new part and complete the project the next day - his birthday.

Sunday morning, I must confess, we did not attend church. Sympathize, for this was not out of idleness or remiss. It was the CV joints. We enjoyed breakfast together (at Shari’s, not Mother’s), then made our way over to acquire a replacement part for the car. The drive out my grandparents’ farm (where the doctoring of Mark’s car was occurring) was most delightful. The sky was brilliantly clouded, looming over the ribbon of river we followed. I was eventually grateful for the slow-moving vehicle ahead of us, obviously timid on the winding country road, and for the way time passed so slowly. I made that drive as a child innumerable times - know every bend, every curve, every waterspout jutting from the land slopes above. I know that my dad used to jump off the Carver Bridge as a kid into the Clackamas, and can almost hear the slap of his tennis shoes hitting the water. I know which farm our Christmas trees came from, know the house that used to be a school, know when the road of trees bursts out into the open road of flat, quiet farmland. But we were driving so slowly this time that I could not help but notice things I never noticed before - not the least of which was making a childhood drive now with my husband beside me in the car. You see, I cannot explain it, but there was something spectacular about this.

This birthday weekend was most grand for that reason. Mark and I are both admittedly rather nostalgic people. I suppose I had never felt so young and so grown at once. I think this must be why he likes to watch old movies with me - ones he grew up with, and why he wants to take me to Disney Land, and why he brought me out to Dexter the night he asked me to marry him. To know every part of another person is not merely to engage with them in present experiences, but to also invite them, urge them, into your past. We didn’t get to grow up together as children, but oh, the ways in which we fuse our pasts with this glorious present! That was evermore better than any jaunt downtown. And he did, I might add, fix his car.

Happy birthday, my love. I hope this weekend was as much a gift to you as it was to me.