I was born high on a hill in a mighty fortress called OHSU; of a Mother from the Far East and a Father who hails from an island called Sauvie, between the banks of the mighty Columbia river, that mythical highway of water once presumed the Northwest Passage. I have a Queenly wife with Aztec blood that runs red as a Cardinal’s ferraiolo. She inebriates me. We have 6 children of our own, which means we dwell not merely in a house, but an ecosystem. Our home doesn’t just have modern convenience and high speed internet. It has the babbling brook of laughter, the ivy of serious study, and the hint of rainbows’ promise from children’s glassy eyes. It has climates and microclimates. Worms compost last nights' supper into dirt in our garden. The Black soil is wet with tears of indignation for the sufferings of our people (we are Christians you see). Sometimes pups howl for fear of dark and the willows weep, and they are not alone. In the morning lays the peaceful mist of prayers and supplication, and at night the gentle gaze of heaven’s stars. They do wink. We live on the Ring of Fire, at the feet of the Coastal Mountains, in a valley called Tualatin, just down the Great Plank Road, where the beavers live, in a home you might call the All-Crammed-Inn. We don’t make much a stink about birthdays. We pray for the dead. Pilgrims come hungry, you are welcome here.
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