FEELINGS MATTER, A REVIEW OF WHY ON SAUVIE ISLAND

Feelings matter when you see yourself in a forty year old reflection.

In the image I’m looking through a window with another window shining on the other side.

Every year for decades a crew would go to Sauvie Island and prepare a historical house for the upcoming season.

Every room was cleaned, inventoried, and filled with household goods and furniture from the mid-1800’s.

Every year it was a party to look forward to. The end of the season had a bigger party called Wintering In.

It was incredibly fun being a youngster among the elderly.

Now I’m sixty-six and the house is abandoned. Sad and sweet at the same time.

This is the back porch of the Bybee-Howell House where I played my first gig on guitar with one of the best musicians I’ve known, banjo player Ron Brentano.

He was great; my hand froze because we played so long and I needed more conditioning.

One year we had a band, the 14th Ave. Band, on the porch.

From the look of things it needs a trim before the next gig.

Bybee-Howell on Sauvie Island

This is the front of the house. It’s all locked up, but the rooms are small with fireplaces.

The kitchen is in the back. It used to be outside due to fire danger.

Feelings Matter In Nature

The house alone is a treat, but the surrounding property holds many surprises.

There’s a barn and an orchard and a grove of trees with picnic tables in the middle.

It feels idyllic, a fairyland vibe, wandering from one to another.

A family touchstone, this is where my wife and I brought our babies out for fresh air. Country fresh.

The grove of evergreens and apple trees helped.

Apple Orchard From Historical Trees Grafts

This is the orchard fairy land part.

A sign says Metro is in charge of things, and by the looks of the grounds they’re keeping up the yard work.

In days past all of the apples would be gathered and used for juice in an old apple press while the place was full of people picnicking and enjoying the best country living feel near Portland.

The fir grove in the background towers over the historical apple trees.

It’s not called the Gillaspie Grove, but it could be in all fairness.

The Gillaspie Grove

The trees are about forty years old and poorly spaced. Some on the inside are dying because they’re too close.

The spacing was good when I first saw them. This time reminded me that feelings matter.

The trees were about six inches tall when I saw them first. Six inches tall in a field of grass four feet tall.

They were neglected.

I asked around. The senior staff at the time was a little long in the tooth to do anything about the trees, probably mid-forties. They were desk-soft and had little motivation to do the sort of work needed to save the trees.

While I’m no tree doctor, I knew what to do: push the tall grass around each tree down and chop it with a machete. That created little tree islands in a sea of grass drowning them.

But That Wasn’t Enough When Feelings Matter

During the early 80’s the Oregon Historical Society was in a golden era of doing big things.

I jumped in with a purchase order and a state truck. I’d found a man-eating lawn mower out on Interstate Rental. It was a two man operation to get it into the truck, so I had help at the beginning.

That’s how the Gillaspie Grove was saved.

I drove out and unloaded this machine with a big engine and an open helicopter blade in front.

The starter was a rope with a piece of wood as a handle and a knot at the other end. I wrapped it and gave it a pull. then another and another and another.

On the last pull the engine turned over and the rope released from the top spindle so fast that the knot whipped around and broke the last knuckle on my little finger.

It hurt so bad, but since I was there to get busy, I ignored it.

I mowed the grass flat the first time and over the years repeated the job until the trees grew tall enough to defeat the grass.

Now you know what forty year old trees look like.

Included is a sixty-six year old grass cutter learning how much feelings matter.

I put my arms in the air like I just don’t care. But I do, and the trees know it.