One of my childhood homes was down in an old, funky boatyard, nestled away below an old railroad track. The boatyard was home to many folk working on boats and dreaming of returning to the water.
Up a short slope, there was the old track, and down an embankment on the far side was a beach, partly stones and partly sand. At low tide, you could walk all the way to the ruins of a trestle bridge.
Many a meal included shellfish gathered from the beach or fresh vegetables grown in a little garden beside our home. We lived in a small 12-foot trailer parked beside an old step van. The van, in turn, had been expanded using scrap wood and construction materials to include a workshop alongside it.
Now, years later, I stand atop the spot where our roof would have been. The entire old, funky boat yard is gone. All that remains is a sandy paved driveway and parking area with a lavatory nearby.
I had seen it once before after returning from school in Oregon. I think seeing now has had more of an impact on me. Being older now, I feel a greater void when recalling the past, and from my memories, the life I once lived.
Also gone is the trestle bridge, which was still there 18 years ago. Now the beach is uncluttered except for the driftwood, a staple sight in the PNW.
After the trestle beach, we drove through downtown and on to the other harbor. I saw considerably more buildings around there than we had in the past. The whole town has seen much development.
Other parts seemed the same. The food co-op hadn’t changed a great deal other than some interior remodeling. The public library and uptown businesses still stood. Although Aldrich’s had been rebuilt. I think I heard it had burned down while I was away at school.
In the harbor, I got a good look at another boat my father shares with a delightful lady who lives in the flat below his home.
The beach here was also littered with driftwood and seaweed. The pungent aroma of salt and seaweed could not be avoided.
