Most my memories of Philomath are before the age of 17 when I moved to California after graduation. That was the deal I made with my parents: finish school and I could start my life’s adventure wherever I wanted. Fast-forward 17 years and I’m back, with many memories of the Golden State, and a fresh pair of eyes as I rediscover my hometown.
I grew up in a place between Kings Valley and Wren, technically Philomath, but we often called it “no man’s land.” It was rural enough that a trip to town took 30 minutes, so I spent many hours entertaining myself in the woods and pastures that surrounded us. In my absence, that place has become a local destination in the world of wine, and its pastures have been replaced with rows of grapes. A mini Sonoma, Cardwell Hill Road is now a household name.
Recently I went for a day trip to my former playground. As we pulled up to Lumos' tasting room it felt familiar. In its past life the property belonged to my childhood friend’s grandfather. As we sat on the new deck built off the old barn, I thought of my friend Jonah. We used to play in the fields below. I still have our “first day of school” photos, us side-by-side at the bus stop with our little lunch boxes and big smiles.
As we headed to Cardwell Hill Cellars on the road that is now paved, I didn’t hear the slaps of gravel against the car that I remembered growing up. We passed the spot in the road where I had a bike accident that resulted in my first stitches. I had gotten gravel lodged in my forehead when I flew over my handlebars and caught the ground with my face. I thought about how that was my first act of bravery; the day I sat still as the doctor removed the pieces.
We came upon Coyote Hill Road, the road leading to my childhood home. It now has a fancy bus stop at the bottom with solar panels on the roof, an upgrade to the umbrella I used to stand under. I recalled when the families living on that road came together to give it its name. I was too young for my vote to count, but I do remember the debates, ultimately giving namesake to the coyotes that roamed the hills. Growing up I remember seeing them slip in and out of the tree line and can still hear the cracked voices of the pups learning to howl each summer.
From the road I looked up to the place I used to call home. The house is now hidden by the trees but I could see the barn. I thought about my handprint in its foundation. I saw the gate to the garden my dad built with a “Z” pattern for my mom’s maiden name. Most of the trees that border the property were planted by us; some were our Christmas trees, some were the seedlings I brought home on Earth Day. Now those trees tower above the ground, all grown up, just like me. The saying, “Someone is sitting in the shade today because someone planted a tree a long time ago” crossed my mind and never felt so relevant.
When we got to our next stop, the Cardwell Hill Cellars property looked nothing like it used to. The wild, grassy fields that llamas once grazed are long gone. The deck off the tasting room has a view of our former property. The oldest vines in the vineyard were planted along the border of ours in the last years we lived there. I recalled the day we were at the county fair and heard of a fire on Cardwell Hill. We rushed home and found the flames spreading up the hill to our property and to Cardwell Cellar’s now vintage vines. I remember us fighting the fire with hoses and buckets before the fire department arrived. I realized I had helped protect the plants that would define the future of Cardwell Hill, possibly sipping on their fruits as I recollected.
My trip down memory lane left me thinking about how each of us leaves our mark on the world and how the world leaves it mark on us. Like the handprint in the foundation of the barn, or the “Z” pattern on the gate of the garden, sometimes our marks carry over into someone’s else’s memories, past and present colliding. Some marks last longer than others, but the best ones are those that stay with us a lifetime.
I grew up in a place between Kings Valley and Wren, technically Philomath, but we often called it “no man’s land.” It was rural enough that a trip to town took 30 minutes, so I spent many hours entertaining myself in the woods and pastures that surrounded us. In my absence, that place has become a local destination in the world of wine, and its pastures have been replaced with rows of grapes. A mini Sonoma, Cardwell Hill Road is now a household name.
Recently I went for a day trip to my former playground. As we pulled up to Lumos' tasting room it felt familiar. In its past life the property belonged to my childhood friend’s grandfather. As we sat on the new deck built off the old barn, I thought of my friend Jonah. We used to play in the fields below. I still have our “first day of school” photos, us side-by-side at the bus stop with our little lunch boxes and big smiles.
As we headed to Cardwell Hill Cellars on the road that is now paved, I didn’t hear the slaps of gravel against the car that I remembered growing up. We passed the spot in the road where I had a bike accident that resulted in my first stitches. I had gotten gravel lodged in my forehead when I flew over my handlebars and caught the ground with my face. I thought about how that was my first act of bravery; the day I sat still as the doctor removed the pieces.
We came upon Coyote Hill Road, the road leading to my childhood home. It now has a fancy bus stop at the bottom with solar panels on the roof, an upgrade to the umbrella I used to stand under. I recalled when the families living on that road came together to give it its name. I was too young for my vote to count, but I do remember the debates, ultimately giving namesake to the coyotes that roamed the hills. Growing up I remember seeing them slip in and out of the tree line and can still hear the cracked voices of the pups learning to howl each summer.
From the road I looked up to the place I used to call home. The house is now hidden by the trees but I could see the barn. I thought about my handprint in its foundation. I saw the gate to the garden my dad built with a “Z” pattern for my mom’s maiden name. Most of the trees that border the property were planted by us; some were our Christmas trees, some were the seedlings I brought home on Earth Day. Now those trees tower above the ground, all grown up, just like me. The saying, “Someone is sitting in the shade today because someone planted a tree a long time ago” crossed my mind and never felt so relevant.
When we got to our next stop, the Cardwell Hill Cellars property looked nothing like it used to. The wild, grassy fields that llamas once grazed are long gone. The deck off the tasting room has a view of our former property. The oldest vines in the vineyard were planted along the border of ours in the last years we lived there. I recalled the day we were at the county fair and heard of a fire on Cardwell Hill. We rushed home and found the flames spreading up the hill to our property and to Cardwell Cellar’s now vintage vines. I remember us fighting the fire with hoses and buckets before the fire department arrived. I realized I had helped protect the plants that would define the future of Cardwell Hill, possibly sipping on their fruits as I recollected.
My trip down memory lane left me thinking about how each of us leaves our mark on the world and how the world leaves it mark on us. Like the handprint in the foundation of the barn, or the “Z” pattern on the gate of the garden, sometimes our marks carry over into someone’s else’s memories, past and present colliding. Some marks last longer than others, but the best ones are those that stay with us a lifetime.
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