 I was about 10 when I first met Uncle Jimmy. I don’t remember ever even hearing about Jimmy until one day in the car-ride over to one of our much anticipated trips to my grandparents’ house, Mom and Dad tried to explain that we’d be meeting Dad’s younger brother and that he was different and that we should all be very kind to him. I really didn’t understand what “different” meant as my exposure to different had been pretty limited in my small-town, Catholic school childhood. So when we walked in Grandma’s front door, I wasn’t prepared for the grown man that came walking over with short, quick steps and extended his hand to my Dad. “How do Brother John” Jimmy said with a big toothless grin. After my dad said hello and shook hands with his brother, my dad turned to all of us and introduced us to Jimmy. I remember shaking his smooth, limp hand as he said “How do Pammy.”
Jimmy was indeed different. I starred, I’m sure a little too long and intently, at my uncle, a tall lanky man with questionmark posture, his pants hiked up a little too far over his white button-up shirt, and his hair combed over and plastered down like a young boy’s. He was like no grown-up I’d ever met before. Grandma tried to explain. “When he was only two,” she said,” Jimmy got very sick -- so sick that his brain stopped growing and got stuck. He’s been about 2 ½ or 3 for his whole life.”
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Greetings friends! Wishing you the peace, love, and joy of this holiday season!
As this year comes to a close, it provides a time for reflection about what this year has held for us. And it’s been a doozy. There are been times of great joy and excitement, but there have also been times of great heartbreak and sadness. I guess let’s start with the bad first...  The greatest gift my parents ever gave me was my sister Stephanie. I didn’t always think this of course -- in fact, one of my earliest memories was of my sister breaking my favorite doll. And then there were covers she stole in the middle of the night in our shared bed. And later there were the clothes she borrowed and didn’t return. But then again, I wasn’t the best sister to her either. Apparently, when we were young, I told her that the crows flying over us would swoop down and carry her away if she wasn’t careful. This instilled in her an unreasonable fear of crows that has carried into her adult years. (Sorry Sis).
But somewhere along the way, I realized that my sister was absolutely essential to my life. Maybe it was after she was in a minor biking accident when we were young that this became clear. Tomorrow is my birthday. But instead of celebrating me, I would like to celebrate the woman who brought me into the world. Because it wasn’t easy. And because this is my first birthday without her.
 It was a “minimally invasive” back surgery. She was supposed to recover at my house for 4-6 weeks -- time I was looking forward to. The last few years had been so busy, and I hadn’t made as much time for her as I should have. But because she wasn’t quite ready to navigate the few stairs at my house, the hospital released her to a skilled nursing facility to begin her physical therapy. A week at most, we thought. She was such a good patient and hard worker. We knew it would only be a week and then she would be at my house, and we would be watching movies, and talking about books, and about my kids, and anything else that we thought of. But she left us the next morning. And we still don’t know what happened.
 Well here we are in the beautiful and snowy Willamette Valley south of Portland at the beginning of a new year, renting a house while we begin our search for Little Lavender Farm #2. We made this move because Mark landed his dream job -- and because it would allow me to follow my dream as well. Yes, I love my Little Lavender Farm in Escondido, but there was only so much I could do with it. My dream is to have five or so acres, with a few acres of different varieties of lavender, as well as keep bees, plant a big organic garden, maybe host a few events, and eventually have some guest cottages. And while I was certainly able to achieve some of this in Escondido, the land was like cement, the water was scarce, and I spent most of my time teaching high school. So here we are where the land is fertile, there is plenty of water and I’ve got a little more time to chase these dreams.
 Along with this reflection comes some news to share.
Mark and I are pulling up roots in San Diego to embark on a new adventure in the Portland Oregon area. Mark landed his dream job as the director of software development at a company in Wilsonville Oregon. It all happened rather quickly so my head is spinning a bit, but I’m very excited at the same time. So I will be leaving this home I love in search of a new one. This has gotten me thinking a lot about home and what it means. Is it the physical structure? Is it the friends and family nearby? Is it the love inside the home? Is it where your soul is most at peace?  Noah was in 4th grade when he transferred to Explorer Elementary School, part of the High Tech High Village in Point Loma CA where I had just started working as the 12th grade English teacher. The transition was tough for him -- new people, new approach to education, early mornings due to our 35 minute commute and early staff meetings. So I was concerned, but not entirely surprised, when I received a call during the middle of my class that Noah had run out of Explorer’s building and no one knew where he had gone. I quickly told my class that I needed to leave for a few minutes and then ran downstairs to our dean, Brian, to tell him what was going on. “Let’s go find him,” was his response as he ran out of the door with me to search for my 9 year old boy. We split up to cover more ground -- and about 10 minutes later I got a call from Brian saying that he had found Noah in the grocery store parking lot a block or so from the school. I was relieved and grateful for his help, but I didn’t know the half of it. A few years later Noah told me what happened in that parking lot and what a big impact it had on him: Brian saw Noah and Noah saw Brian -- but instead of running after him (as I would have), Brian stopped and just waited. After a few minutes, Noah slowly walked across the parking lot to Brian, who said to him, “I knew you would make the right choice.” Think about that for a minute. “I knew you would make the right choice.” Not a scolding or a lecture, but an affirmation. What a profoundly empowering statement. The seeds of confidence and thoughtfulness planted in Noah that day took root and continue to grow.
 Winnie’s first memory was of her father being laid out for burial. He was wearing bright white socks. She was 2 ½. The day that her father was buried, her Grandfather Napier came and took Winnie and her mom Ruth and her little sister Jeanette and big brother Son to his farm in Alabama. This was where she swept the dirt in the front yard and caught frogs with her cousins. It’s where she was pulled from quicksand by her brother hanging down from a tree limb. It’s where she and as many uncles, aunts and cousins as could squeeze into (or hang onto) her grandfather’s new car would ride into town for supplies. This was where she learned the strength of family.  I’m sitting in my brother John’s living room this morning, listening to my 18-year-old son Noah playing legos with his 4 and 7-year old cousins Matthew and William as if they are 1) the same age and 2) best buddies. Through my own fault and skewed priorities, these cousins had never met until yesterday, and yet somehow they know each other. The Reynolds eyebrows, the sunny personalities, the silliness, the laugh — all feel familiar to them and so create an instant connection. I feel the same way. I love his family instantly and wish that we lived closer. More specifically, I wish that I had made more of an effort to see them because right now, I can see what I’ve missed out on. I see Johnny’s quiet, observant nature in William and my mother’s optimistic, giving qualities in Matthew and the curious, active personality of my brother James in little David. I see glimpses of my grandmother and grandfather in the farmers that my brother and his beautiful wife Kate have become on this 36 acre slice of heaven in Northern California. And as I listen to these cousins play, I am reminded of my own cousins and how much I loved them (still do). I’m reminded of how much I looked forward to seeing them at my grandparent’s house — and the mischief we would get into (well, truth be told, it was usually Greg, Hugh, and Kent that got into mischief, but we all relished in their mishievery). Those were days of climbing trees and hide and seek and grandpa jiggling our chins and grandma’s stash of candy on the piano. They were the days of sleeping in the living room with my sister and Sheryl and Sue, of Pepe the dog singing along to Grandpa’s harmonica, of listening to all of the grownups laughing and playing card games at the dining room table. Even all these years later, there are long- standing inside jokes and references that ground me every time they are mentioned.
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AuthorHello! My name is Pam Reynolds Baker and I am a mom/wife /English teacher and lavender farmer located in Dundee, Oregon. |
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