It’s an enjoyable drive from Yakima to Cle Elum. At the crest of a long incline, there’s a breathtaking view of Mt. Rainier. There’s no snow on the peak, just bare granite thrusting into the sky.
In Cle Elum, the Tesla superchargers are nestled in a parking area surrounded by trees. I plug Freedom in and walk to the nearby coffee shop. It feels good to move, to breathe the fresh air.
I see a man ahead. He’s waiting for me. “What are you driving?” He asks.
“Model 3, and you?”
“Model S. What color?”
His eyes hold me in his gaze. “It’s Midnight…” I can’t think. Why can’t I remember the color? I turn to look at Freedom. “Grey,” I whisper, but that’s not correct. “It has blue sparkles.” I say, like a little girl telling her favorite color.
We walk to the coffee shop. His presence enfolds me. We’re communicating, but are we talking?
Inside, I wander. There are several rooms with comfortable places to sit. Framed sayings hang on the walls. There’s a table with a water cooler. I fill a cup and drink. In the restroom I see that I look disheveled. I comb my hair and re-braid it, put on lipstick. When I open the door, he’s sitting at the table across the room.
“Will you join me?” As I approach the table he asks, “Where are you from?”
“I guess you can say I’m from everywhere right now. I sold my house, got rid of most of my belongings, and put the essentials in storage. I’ve been on the road since June first.” My heart is beating fast. I think I drank too much coffee at breakfast. “Where are you from?”
“Montana.” He says, on his way to help his daughter move. “I would like to take you to dinner.” He’s heading north; after the weekend I’m going west. I don’t say no. I don’t say yes.
We talk, the conversation people have getting to know each other. In his early life he’d been a journalist. We have writing in common. “Are you writing anything now?” I ask.
“Non-fiction about wildlife. I photograph wildlife in black and white.”
I tell him that I write a blog.
How do I find your blog?
I give him my card. “Nice. What kind of flowers are these?”
“Poppies. I think.” I can’t think. Inside me there’s a storm; he is stillness. He turns the card for me to see. “Poppies,” I say.
“There’s no phone number.” He pushes the card across the table and I write the number on the back.
“I will read your blog and text you.” I believe him.
“They call you Franny?” There’s something about the way he says my name. I nod. “M’hm.”
Time stands still. I feel all at sea, only his blue eyes a beacon in the distance.
I look at my watch. “My car is charged. I need to go.” And like a skittish horse, I bolt.
As I drive away I wonder, did I say good bye, it’s nice to meet you?
Roslyn is an old coal mining community, made famous by a television series. People are walking the streets eating ice cream cones, or food from the food carts in the park. Are they all Northern Exposure fans like me, or are they there for the quaint charm of the town on a beautiful day?
Northern Exposure is one of my favorite series. The characters are eccentric, flawed, and loveable. The stories are about philosophy, psychology, film, literature, art, music, getting along with others different from ourselves, and the environment. It’s done with humor and intelligence, and is never denigrating to anyone or anything.
In January my son, Paul, gave me the complete box set of Northern Exposure. I found that thirty years later the show didn’t seem dated, and the subject matter is still relevant. One thing saddened me. Concerns the characters expressed about the environment then haven’t been addressed, and are still problems today, only more dire.
The townspeople are happy to talk about Northern Exposure, sharing personal experiences. They speak fondly of John Corbett who played Chris Stevens, the KBHR DJ. A shopkeeper says that the memorial for Peg Phillips was held at the gravesite that Ed Chigliak bought for Ruth Ann, the character she played. A woman in her twenties has never seen an episode of Northern Exposure, even though she was born and raised here.
I’ve often wondered why the show hasn’t been picked up by Netflix or one of the other streaming services.
In the morning I decide to hike the 4.7 mile Coal Mines Trail to Roslyn, have lunch and return to Cle Elum. It seems a nice way to spend a Sunday.
The path is wide and shared with joggers, cyclists, and horse riders. For a while the trail borders a neighborhood. I see two men walking with a little girl. They appear to be a father, son, and his daughter. The little girl is wearing a pink tutu and a blue Disney princess T-shirt. I say good morning to the men. To the little girl I say, “I hoped I’d see a princess on my walk today.”
She turns her blue eyes up to me and shows me the stick she’s carrying. “This is my pet snake, but he won’t hurt you. He’s dead.”
“I’m sorry he’s dead. I see you are taking good care of him.” She nods. I look up and her father is grinning. I smile back, wish them a good day, and we walk on, in different directions.
Although it’s wooded, the wide path is in direct sunlight and it’s warmer than I expected. I see a stump under a tree and sit to enjoy the shade for a little while. It’s late August and there’s a subtle change in the weather, cooler at night, with a little chill in the morning and warm afternoons. Lovely Autumn is sending notice of her imminent return, touching the leaves with a little yellow here, a little orange there, as Lady Summer beckons the birds to fly south with her.
There’s a riot of chirps and twitters in the trees. Birds fly from tree to tree, flitting from branch to branch. It seems as if the trees tremble with their energy. I point my camera at a tree and click, not knowing what I will get.
The birds have quieted to an occasional chirp. I sit in the peaceful company of the trees and realize that I don’t need to go to Roslyn, turn around and head back to Cle Elum. I spend the afternoon wandering the streets of the town. Most of the stores are closed. I look in the windows.
An antique store is open. Inside are the remnants of other people’s lives. I see rings, and bracelets, and necklaces. Were any tokens of love? I see photographs of individuals and families. Even though people didn’t smile when photos were taken in those times, I hope they were happy. I wonder about the meals that were served on sets of fine China, and if the baby who rode on her mother’s back in the cradleboard had a fulfilling life.
I walk to the edge of town, cross the street and stop at Sunset Café to have something to eat. The servers wear face masks covered with sequins. Both the food and service are good.
The road goes up a hill. At the top is a shopping center. I go in the supermarket and walk around the produce section. There’s a display of large peaches that look ready to eat. I buy a few and walk down the hill. At a green space near the motel, two women burn sage for a ritual. I find a spot of my own and eat a peach. My fingers get sticky from its sweet juice as I watch Venus grow bright in the twilight sky.
Leaving Cle Elum, HWY 90 rises in the Cascade Range, flanked by pine forests. Swathes of clear cut land look like scars on the mountains. On the radio, Lucinda Williams sings, “Something About What Happens When We Talk,” and I think about the man from Montana. I wonder if he reads my blogs. I wonder if he still would like to take me to dinner.
The Write Mind of a Lefthander 