The Year We Lived in Seattle
I discovered how it felt to miss someone the year we lived in Seattle. We had driven the green station wagon all the way across the country so Dad could study oceanography. I was nine. Lying in my bunk at night, I’d imagine the face of Mary, or Jane, my best friends from Waterloo, and I would yearn for them. This new, twangy feeling fascinated me; I knew I was growing up, just a little.
My school, Olympic View, had a band program and Mom and Dad were excited for me - all they had to do was find an instrument. Dad thought I should play french horn, but when they located a second-hand clarinet for cheap, that was that. The smell of the cork grease, the stale taste of the reed, the pain in the side of my right thumb, the tickle in my lips, the pressure in my cheeks, none of it mattered when my first squawks gave way to fuzzy dark tones. Suddenly I had a new, deeper voice, like unsweetened cocoa mixed into spaghetti sauce. It didn’t take much practice to be the best in the class and I loved Mrs. Ryker our band teacher. We played Little Red Caboose and My Country Tis of Thee, but best of all was Arabian Dance. Mrs. Ryker explained that it sounded different because it was in a minor key. All I knew was that when I played it I felt exotic and, for the first time, musical. It didn’t occur to me to tell anyone.
Out on the rough-paved street with no sidewalks that ran past our house, I made friends with Florence. Florence had that fluffy, coiling kind of almost-white hair and she was nice and she said I should come to Campfire Girls. My Mom met with her Mom, and they agreed that I could, so I did. I liked the name of it better than Brownies. Campfire meant staring into flames, cooking potatoes in tinfoil, being outside in the dark night and singing.
Meetings were held in Florence's basement. We glued small vases into towers and glazed them with a green chemical that made frost patterns all over the glass. We earned painted beads and sewed them into patterns all over the felt of our matching navy vests. The other girls had been Bluebirds the previous year so almost right away we were getting ready to ‘fly up’ to Campfire Girls. There was a ceremony and everything - I was going to graduate! When the moment came, we stood up tall and said together the words we had memorized, the Trailseeker’s Pledge:
I desire to seek the way
which has become a delight to my feet
for it shall lead me to the fires of human kindness
lighted by those who have gone before me
on the campfire trail.
It filled my heart to imagine that kindness was ahead, just up the way. I savoured this new idea of me: I was a seeker. I was on a trail, moving toward fire.
Of all the songs we must have sung in Florence’s basement, only one stayed with me:
Peace I ask of thee oh river
Peace Peace Peace
When I learn to live serenely
Cares will cease.
From the hills I gather courage
Visions of the day to be
Friends and faith for me to follow
All are given unto me
Peace I ask of thee oh river
Peace Peace Peace.
I loved how the opening lines rose like a question. I loved the idea that you could talk to a river. Could I learn to live serenely? Really? It didn’t make any sense to me that courage could be gathered in the hills. And faith, that was a word we didn’t use in my family - faith was all about church, which my parents had little use for, though we knew enough not to say so. This whole middle part of the song had me drawing a blank. But then came the end, just like the beginning, except instead of climbing, the notes went down and settled, and when I sang it I felt quiet inside. Like a deep dark river.
So much else happened the year we lived in Seattle. I got a magic kit for Christmas. My baby brother was born. There was an earthquake. I learned what fuck meant. But my re-membering circles around these three: singing as supplication, embracing a vision of being a seeker but not a loner; and bearing down on a mouthful of wood and bamboo to make not just sounds but music. I want a word, now, for what these have in common, a word with the weight and colour of what these moments evoked in me. It is a word I’ve never owned. Soul. I felt soulful.
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