Return To Guam

The woods are cool and quiet this morning. I pull the small trash and large recycle bins up the long drive, one in each hand, their wheels clattering against the blacktop. I carefully line them up so the driver can maneuver his big truck in the small space down here at the end of the road.

I walk slowly back towards the house, meandering through the still-sleeping trees, picking up downed branches to deposit on piles near the driveway. We will have the Tree Master out in a few weeks to tend our woods. 

A few weeks ago as I worked up in my craft room I heard a loud CRACK! followed by BOOM! I knew instantly what it was. It sounded exactly like trees being felled in old movies. I scoured the woods from my perch on the back balcony, but didn't see anything unusual. I assumed the sound came from a neighbor, or perhaps the Hundred Acre Wood that borders Sanctuary. I went about my business.

Two days later National Asset and I are out in the front of the house. 

"What's that?" I ask. 

We head towards the south corner and find one of the giant twin-trunked black oaks sprawled across the property, one trunk pointing east and the other pointing west.

We 'ooh' and 'aah' and poke at it as if it's a dinosaur carcass, just to make sure it really is dead. Then I phone our neighbors.

"Call the Tree Master," Miles advises. 

So after scheduling and rescheduling a couple of times, due to snow and other inconveniences, Dan the Tree Master himself comes out. After surveying the horizontal oak, he walks around the property with us, advising which trees need work sooner rather than later. He gives us a bid, then looks around at the random piles of downed wood I have collected.

"If you pile those where our truck can access them, I'll chip 'em for you," he says. 

So this morning I gather wood (there is always wood) with renewed purpose, and make piles near the driveways. I look up and Father-In-Law is near.

"Going for a walk?" I ask, and, when he nods, I ask if this is the first walk of the morning. He loves his walks and has been taking several every day.

"Yes it is," he replies with a grin. "You know I was in Guam when I was in the service."

"Yes, I know," I say. "You have good memories of Guam?"

"Ohh, yes I do!" he replies.

Father-In-Law was young and single and from a very small farming community when he enlisted in the Air Force and was shipped to Guam. I don't remember him talking about it much before, but now it is ever-present in his mind. There is something about the woods and the way the local airport lays that brings back Guam. He seems to smell it in the air.  

When he first arrived for the visit, I worried about his walks. Short-term memory is a challenge, and we don't want him to get lost. But our neighbor Karen has been most gracious as Father-In-Law walks up her driveway, past the Private Property - No Trespassing sign, several times each day. I think I need to bring her a plate of cookies.

On a previous visit to Sanctuary, Father-In-Law once told me he goes there just to 'breath the air.' This man has loved airplanes and flying his whole life, and has passed this love on to all three of his sons. No longer flying himself, Third Son flew him to Sanctuary for a visit, landing at our airport.

Bobsie and Miles let them park in front of their hanger. They also showed Father-In-Law which gates to use and gave right-of-way permission for walks.

One day Father-In-Law enters the front door of Sanctuary on a return from 'Guam.'

"I have something to tell you," he says, "and there is no need to call the fire department or anything."

"Okay,"  I reply, wondering if he has spotted smoke somewhere. I tend to take things literally.

"I left my walking stick by a gate," he says. I breathe a sigh of relief.

"I can't remember where," he continues.

"Shall we go look for it?" I ask.

"Okay!" he replies.

We stroll up the driveway to Bobsie's gate. 

"Did you come through here?" I ask.

"Could be," he says.

We open the gate and pass through. Chica, one of Bobsie's dogs, perks up and starts towards us. I call a greeting to her and she decides all is well. We continue slowly up towards the hanger, chatting about this and that as we walk. As we near the hanger gate I see something, and so does Father-In-Law. We collect the walking stick, turn around and head back down to Sanctuary.

He points to their garage/guest house. "I have a memory of eating something good in there," he says. "I think a sandwich and a coke." We have taken turns telling him that there is no cafe in that building. But the memory is so strong, surely there must be a building just like it, weathering somewhere in the woods of Guam.

I wonder which of my memories will endure when others have faded with time. Will it be the sweet smell of my newborn babies, or the roses I carried with me as a bride? Or perhaps the scent of spring wisteria wafting through our bedroom window from the arbor Father-In-Law helped build?