The Ghosts of the Past

As I’m writing this, I’m sitting in our RV in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. Yesterday was a long day, driving from White Salmon with only a few quick stops for gas and bathroom breaks, totaling about 6 hours. About a half hour out of White Salmon, just east of The Dalles, we hit wood smoke and it didn’t get better all the way to the resort. Yep, back in the summer of 2020 with the creepy sun and the Apple Weather app telling me I shouldn’t breathe for my health. Ugh.

On Sunday I did a long walk around White Salmon to spend some time with my past. It was a good thing, I think, putting in stark contrast the decision between moving to the Gorge or New Hampshire, and as I told Danica, it firmed up my confidence that this decision is the right one. Walking through White Salmon was being constantly reminded of the past, and places I can never go back to, regardless of where I am geographically. Living in White Salmon would be comforting, to be sure, but it wouldn’t be challenging. I know all the roads, trails, stores, weather, wildlife, and culture. Also, my guess is that in that in the back of my head I’d always be doing that differential analysis of what was and what is, which I think I’d find annoying but unable to shut off.

I think the past is a great place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there.

This is the first house we lived in when we moved to White Salmon, a tiny little thing. I don’t remember a lot about it, since I think we moved into our next house prior to being a Kindergartener.