Return to Whiskey Jane

July 2024

After the final effort to gather any recoverable items from the fire, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever go back to the property. Graciously, even though I had no legal claim to it, Kara’s family had extended an open invitation for me to return at my discretion. But I didn’t know if I’d ever recover to the point of wanting to visit. Or if I would someday feel like there was some unfinished business to tend to or resolution needed.

Then recently, her brother made plans to bring his family out to stay in a nearby town for a week. He had to meet with some contractors at the property and decided to bring his wife and kids along to get some R&R in as well. They got an Airbnb half an hour away and asked if I’d like to come up. And very much wanting to see them again, I happily accepted the offer.

He also invited me to come with them to the property, if I felt so inclined. A decision I would make in real time based on any number of factors. Then when the day came for me to drive up to them, the timing was such that I would arrive in the area during a window when they would be at the site. Without much contemplation or hesitation, I decided I would meet them there. I think he was a little surprised, and so was I. Oddly enough, the only rationale at the time for wanting to meet them there was so I could be a part of her niece and nephew’s introduction to the place.

But then I had a full two-hour drive to let what was about to happen sink in. And sink in it did, especially once I got off the highway and onto the series of country roads that led to our home. I hadn’t made this drive in 2 ½ years and there was suddenly a shit-ton of surreal to contend with.

I pulled into the circular gravel drive, parked the car, and gave a warm greeting to my cedar. I saw the family, along with some surveyors and a contractor spread out across the yard a stone’s throw away from me, but I immediately walked in the other direction. I first needed a moment alone to reacquaint myself with the hallowed grounds. All the emotions and tears one might expect were immediate. 

Then, amid my sentimental saunter, I was suddenly struck by how wonderful the property looked—all the summer shades of green on full display and the orchard in bloom. And the Grand Fir that guarded Whiskey Jane, who suffered significant charring from the intense fire, stood tall and in relatively good health. With new strands of lichen adorning the damaged branches. And the most pleasant surprise of all, the smell of home had returned. The distinctly humid and perfumed air of our five acres had been completely restored. Replacing the last putrid aroma that was etched into my olfactory archives during my previous visit.

Kara’s brother was still otherwise occupied, but I greeted her sister-in-law, niece, and nephew, with big hugs and red eyes. I looked out across the lawn and had a difficult time visualizing exactly where our house had been. For whatever reason, I thought there would be some sort of remnant or indicator of the residence. An outline, divot, depression, or detectable change in the landscape where the home once was. But there wasn’t. The lawn and the regrowth were seamless. I was confused, pleased, and also paralyzed by the home’s utter and complete removal from existence. I remembered living in a house that took up what felt like half of the property. 

But the more I stood there and assessed formerly familiar angles and sightlines, the more I was surprised by how small the home’s actual footprint was. Standing in its absence and within the largeness of the forest, it felt as if the open yard space wasn’t any bigger now than it had been before. Just structureless in a barely noticeable manner.

It’s remarkable to realize that so much of what I was, who I am, what I remember, and what I will always love, occupied such a physically small space. The home felt enormous to me when I lived in it. However, I can see now that it wasn’t the building’s square footage or dimensions that gave life to a sense of largeness. The structure was the embodiment and container of our hopes, dreams, and the things she and I coveted the most in this world, be they tangible and touchable or otherwise. And because everything within its walls filled my heart to such capacity, the home itself played vastly larger in my mind’s eye than it was in actuality.

The kids were in heaven. I smiled broadly and with unwarranted pride, watching them play in the dirt and run through the forest. A scene that produced a bizarre sort of melancholy warmth within me, as Kara didn’t get the opportunity to witness this moment in person. Then her niece asked me if I would show them my favorite plants and the things that we could eat in the woods. Apparently, my tendencies had been relayed by somebody at some point all the way back to Pennsylvania. 

I beamed at them both and then made for the red huckleberries that grew from old nurse logs near the driveway. They both adored the berries, how could they not? I found true happiness in their pure interest and fascination with my favorite parcel of land. But moments like these come at a cost.

Kara’s niece not only has her aunt’s flowing raven-colored hair but also regularly looks at me with the same eyes and shoots many of the same facial expressions. This is something that breaks and then rebuilds my heart in a somehow welcomed way every time. The family plans on putting some sort of small, cabin-like structure out there that can be used as a vacation or getaway spot for the family, the kids someday, or even myself. 

Days ago, I wouldn’t have considered such a thing a possibility. But just like finding love, a way forward, or purpose again, it’s suddenly not just on the table but a likelihood or even reality. That property continues to teach me lessons and provide much-needed reminders even today.

In this case, the reminder was that the capacity for healing and regrowth within all living things is truly extraordinary. And the lesson, was that limitless love can reside within any sized receptacle. In fact, it can continue to emanate indefinitely, even in the absence of one.