Seventeen years ago this week we moved from Boston to Portland, Oregon, a place we’d never even visited before. We’d had it with the East Coast rat race — not to mention a two-hour commute each day — and were ready to light out for the territories.
We’ve never looked back.
We landed in a ’50s ranch tucked away in a quiet little neighborhood ten minutes from downtown. From my kitchen window I can see my neighbor’s barn and tidy home, part of the original dahlia farm from which our small subdivision was fashioned. I was reminded of this last night when my husband and I took our dog for a walk. It was twilight, and suddenly the air was alight with swallows. We stood and watched them dipping and wheeling in their graceful airborne dance. Then just as suddenly, they were gone.
Swallows’ Haven Farm is long gone, too, but my neighbor honors its memory by growing dahlias of her own. Come winter, she’ll dig up the tubers and store them in the original bulb house with its wall lined with wooden drawers, but now, in late summer, her garden is alive with color. She plants dozens of varieties and produces dazzling bouquets, many of which, like this one on my breakfast table this morning , make it across the back fence to our house. So do vegetables of all varieties, and now that she’s added her own flock of chickens, so do fresh eggs. It’s like having our own private farmer’s market.
Her chickens arrived just as we were saying goodbye to ours (see my related post “End of an era“), so the eggs have been especially welcome. I bake fresh bread each week for my family, and I give her a loaf in exchange for a dozen. It’s an arrangement that makes everybody happy.
But then, who wouldn’t be happy, living next door to such a wonderful neighbor — and such a good egg?