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During the London Olympics of 2012, while other people were cheering on Michael Phelps and Gabby Douglas, my mother was busy discovering an American Idol winner – Phillip Phillips. His game changing song from that competition, “Home,” had been usurped by NBC as the official theme of the Games. The earthy tone of his voice, the heartfelt lyrics, my mom couldn’t help but be swept off her feet and over to her local library to borrow a copy of his CD. She uploaded the music onto her iPod, and began playing the summer anthem in a never-ending loop on her morning hike.

A year later, amidst the aftermath of a taxing break up, I received a phone call one day from my mom crying. I asked her what was wrong, and she said she’d been listening to “Home.” My initial instinct was to laugh – the thought of my 57 year old mother crying over an Idol was pretty priceless – but then she said she’d been envisioning me. She knew Aaron, my ex, hadn’t been the right guy for me, but she was desperately wanting me to find a loving, supportive partner. “I’ve been praying for your future husband,” she said, “for a man who will say those things to you.”

As sappy as this all might sound (especially to a non-believing feminist like myself), my mom’s words hit me hard. If I’m being completely honest, I had watched that season of American Idol with my ex and I had cried during Phillip’s win and preceding victory song. While the whole show is designed to bring the audience to tears (“My parents died and I became a prostitute to feed my 9 brothers and sisters”), it wasn’t the perfect camera angle on the singer’s tear-stricken face, nor the utter delight of his friends and family that had moved me on the couch that night. No, it was the song. The simple, haunting, beautiful “Home.”

When I think of the word home, the first image that pops in my mind is the house I grew up in. It was a beautiful two story craftsman overlooking the bluff in Portland, Oregon. My parents had bought it for dirt cheap (it was in a low-income neighborhood), and renovated it, restoring its 1930s charm. One of my earliest memories is of the day they got the keys to the house, and I ran up the stairs and into the master bedroom. The realtor had left a giant white teddy bear in it, and four year old me exclaimed loudly “My room!” And so it was.
We lived in that house on Willamette Blvd. until I turned 16. The housing market was booming, and my parents turned a large profit on the sale, buying another fixer in a much more desirable neighborhood. Two years later, they turned that home for a profit, and bought yet another, much larger fixer, and thus began their later in life careers as house flippers. They now live in Rancho Mirage in a chic single story mid-century with a sweeping view of the mountains. While they own several rental properties now in the desert, they intend on staying in this house for a long time. It’s become home.

When people ask me where I’m from, “where home is,” I find it difficult to answer. Even though my childhood house is the first thing I think of, Portland no longer feels quite like home. My parents have left, my brother’s in transition, my few high school friends I keep in contact with our dispersed across the globe. The only thing keeping me anchored in the Northwest are my grandmother and my memories. According to my cell phone, home is technically my parent’s place in Rancho Mirage. Every time they phone me from the landline there, it shows up on my caller ID as just that – “Home.” And in some ways, that’s correct. But, after living in my Los Angeles bungalow for over seven years now, my place in Hollywood certainly feels like home, too. Especially after a month or two of traveling abroad, which I’m prone to do annually, I usually can’t wait to get home to my charming one bedroom guest house. (Except for the summer I lived in Paris – for me, that city strangely feels like home as well).

The point is, while all of these ideas of home are tied to a place – the house in Portland, my parent’s place in Rancho Mirage, my Los Angeles abode – the actual concept of home is far more abstract. And that’s what Phillip Phillips song has captured so beautifully. The main verse, the one my mom wants a man to say to me, reads “Just know you’re not alone, I’m gonna make this place your home.” Although he uses the word place, it’s pretty clear that it doesn’t matter where in the world he and his love are, it will be home. As that old adage beaten to death by kitschy wall ornaments and Christmas tunes goes, home is where the heart is.

As I write this, I am still single, and have yet to find a man singing Phillip Phillips songs to me. But unlike my mom, I’m not really worried about it. While I look forward to meeting that special someone and creating my own family someday, I take comfort knowing I’ve always had a place to call home.

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Portland: Now and Then and Later

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When I left Portland ten years, two months, and twenty four days ago, I could have cared less if I ever returned. I mean that rhetorically, because my parents still lived in the city of roses and I had just booked a film which I would be returning to shoot only a couple of weeks later, but regardless, I flew down the I5 like a bat out of grey-clouded hell. I was so ready for my new life as an actress and college student to begin in LA that I literally left the day after I graduated from Lincoln High School. I had had enough rain and green and clean air for one lifetime. Bring on the glittery smog and the land where stars are in the street instead of the sky!

It wasn’t so much that I wanted to escape my childhood – I had been very happy in my single digit and teen years – but rather that there was so much else I wanted to do. I had experienced the Great Outdoors, grown tired of seeing the same buildings while riding Trimet, gotten bored of doing the same bridge runs, drinking the same awesome coffee, smelling all those damn flowers and pine trees. There were 49 other states, 196 odd countries, 7 billion more people beyond the perimeter of my hometown. I had big dreams, Huge Dreams, and they did not include a minute longer in worn-out, thread-bare Portland. The city had reached its expiration date in The Book of Amy, and I was beyond thrilled to begin Chapter 2: Los Angeles.* No looking back, no strings attached.

You can imagine my surprise, then, when I started packing last Wednesday for Portland and felt genuine, schoolgirl-esque excitement. It had been five years since my parents had moved down to Rancho Mirage, California, and consequently five years since I had returned to Oregon. I had scarcely even thought about my hometown over the past decade, except when people asked me where I’d grown up (and of course when Portlandia debuted on IFC.) But over the last few months, Portland had been on my mind more and more, mostly as a result of all the reflecting I was doing while writing.

In following Rilke’s advice, I had been probing my childhood, “that jewel beyond all price,” while stuck in Writer’s Block Prison, and spent hours digging up memories from the past, flipping back the pages and mining the text of my life for further meaning. I had stumbled on people from high school, my childhood best friend, my grandfather, moments with my mom and dad, flashes of joy and pain and juvenile angst. I had unearthed an early sexual experience with repercussions I had previously left undefined, and struggled to see those long gone years through a more highly developed lens. The clincher was reading Niall Williams’ exquisite History of the Rain, a meandering novel narrated by the fictional Ruth Swain chronicling her family history in another water-logged part of the world: Ireland. I suddenly felt desperate to return to my rainy roots and see it the way Ruth saw her small town Faha, with humor and insight and poetry. I had to get back to Portland. I got online and booked a flight.

* * * * *

It’s a weird feeling, being a stranger in the city you grew up in. In some ways I was prepared for it – after all, I knew how much I’d changed. I’m a true California girl now, an honorary LA native having achieved my ten year (terrible pun). But what I wasn’t prepared for was how much Portland had changed. I shouldn’t have been surprised, having read and heard about the city’s thriving culture, yet I was. That first evening out on the East Side, driving alone on the way to meet my brother, I felt a rush of emotion: these were the same streets as my youth, but they felt so different. Burnside was peppered with new restaurants and bars, filled with throngs of 20 something hipsters enjoying craft brews and adventurous bites. I’d run up and down this street hundreds of time and never remembered it being this… cool. I felt a sudden fondness for my hometown, but also a disconnect. As I tasted IPAs at a local brewery less than a mile from the house I’d lived in during high school, I felt like a tourist. I was a tourist.

Over the next several days, I experienced a bizarre combination of nostalgia and novelty. From the runs I took to the places I ate to the people I saw, everything reflected this dichotomy of old and new. I’d never been in Gabriel Park before, and that first morning run the ground felt alive and the forest enchanted as I wound my way through literal backyard trails. A couple of days later I ventured down to the Waterfront to cover old cross country ground, and my mind flooded with memories with each pedestrian bridge lane, each piece of street art, OMSI. I made my way up to my high school, and the building – empty for summer – came alive with my old classmates. There was Lydia, running across the quad at the end of freshman year, Lauren and Stephanie with their Boyd’s coffee cups in the crosswalk, the quarterback I unfortunately had a thing for in his letterman jacket. It felt surreal, another lifetime ago, like I may have dreamt it. But no, there was the statue of Lincoln on the second floor, there were the dressing rooms where I transformed for my theatrical debut, there was Matt Groening’s sidewalk carving of Bart Simpson I hadn’t made up. It was real. It had happened.

Or maybe it hadn’t. Eating lunch over in NE Portland on Williams there was almost no trace of the past. Gentrification had rendered the once impoverished and dangerous neighborhood trendy and fashionable. The process was so complete that there was even a New Seasons welcoming baby-toting yuppies. Were it not for the 4 bus rambling along the street I may not have believed that this was the same highly suspect route I used to take home from school everyday. But it was, and if the meal we had at Tasty & Sons was any indication of the quality of the new no-longer-ghetto hood, I was 100% on board. Let bygones be bygones. (On the other hand, not a single thing has changed since 1969 at The Stockpot Broiler, my grandmother’s go-to restaurant, not even the clientele.)

Meetings with old friends and family dug up even more of the past, while also illuminating just how different our lives now were. Mikie and I reminisced about Monopoly and Now & Laters and camping at Bench Lake, while I oohed and awed over her two beautiful daughters. Sarah and Ashley and I gossiped about senior year boyfriends, while marveling at how much we had all been through, how little we knew of our current selves. Hanging out with my brother and his friends, I hardly recognized him, and yet I’d spent more of my life in his company than anyone else’s, save my parents.** Not even my grandmother, that stalwart of tradition, failed to surprise me, as we chatted with her 94 year old boyfriend. What a difference a decade makes! From the native to the tourist, the old paths to the new trails, the classic salmon to the Burmese Red Pork Stew, the infants to the nonagenarians- I relished in the blended realities of the past and present.

* * * * *

Driving down Sunset Blvd this morning past the 405 and UCLA, I thought about what I had learned. Had I had a Ruth Swainian, Rilke-like, earth-shattering realization about the meaning of my life after my five days in Portland? Probably not. But what I can say is I no longer feel the same sort of self-imposed distance from it that I did before. If I once needed to separate my identity from Portland to prove to myself that I was a Big City girl with Big Dreams and Big Ideas, I’ve grown out of it. I’m no more defined by Portland that it is defined by me. I’ve shed those old judgments and that adolescent perspective and can finally see the city for what it is: pretty frickin’ awesome. And weird. And green. And a formative part of me. And some place I’ll almost certainly never live again, but am sure to keep visiting (and seeing anew) again and again.***

* Or maybe it’s Chapter 3, since I was born in Everett. Or Chapter 4, because there were those couple years in Thailand. And then there was Seattle, so maybe Los Angeles is Chapter 5? But then again, it’s not like I changed that much there in the beginning, so– Ah, who knows, it could all change in the final edit.
** The good news is I like him a lot more now. The bad news is now I hardly ever see him.
*** I will live in Portland if Chris Pine wants me to. Or if I become a series regular on Grimm. Or if global warming reverses the 9 months of cloud coverage and 50 degree weather.

The Impact of Trains, and other Memories

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My grandfather loved trains. He loved trains, the Oregon State Beavers, Sierra Club, and keeping journals. He wore grandfather clothes, smelled like grandfather, and talked with a grandfather accent – slow, methodical, wise, gentle. He was good at games, had an infectious laugh, and always sat at the head of the table. If he ever got mad, or raised his voice, or had something bad to say about someone else, I never saw it or heard it. He was a pillar of morality, a good Christian, the man who always led grace and always gave thanks at family gatherings. These are the things I remember about my grandfather from my childhood, before I grew up, before he got sick, before our memories betrayed ourselves.

I wish I could say I think about him more often, Ivan Minderhout, the man who is one half of my father, one quarter of me. He is the reason for all of this, or at least, an essential part of it, for me, for my experience of the world. I may go months without consciously thinking about him, and yet he is with me daily, in my upbringing, in my heritage, in my genetic code. When I think of how much each of my parents has influenced me, and then how much each of their parents must have shaped them, my grandfather is much more critical to the making of “me” then I have given him credit for. Sure, it’s easy to recognize his partial responsibility for my blue eyes, or the fact that I don’t smoke (my dad gave me the same $2000 deal my grandpa gave him not to touch cigarettes until he was 21, and it worked!). But even as I write this right now, I am realizing that perhaps my desire to record my reflections in writing might be inherited from his enviable journaling skills- he wrote daily for decades.

I’m thinking about him right now because I am on a train from Oceanside to Los Angeles. Without fail, trains always trigger memories of my grandfather in me. Every horn, every box car, every lonely railroad track conjures up some essence of his being. It’s the one thing he has truly laid stake on in my memory, more than Beavers football, more than Thanksgiving speeches, more than Parkinson’s. Trains belong to him, they are and always will be his. Just like dried pressed flowers will always belong to my grandmother, or fish tanks to my brother, or Scattegories to my cousin. I know these things no more define these people than gymnastics or Yahtzee or kittens might define me, but I like that they own these things for me, that these things create an emotional response connected to them. Even if it’s small, it’s something, and it’s important, especially when all the memories begin to fade.

I wonder if other people think about memory as much as I do. The more I write, the more I think about the past, the more often I’m disappointed in it – my memory. Perhaps, more accurately, it’s what I’ve chosen to remember that I’m disappointed in. I can’t really fault the mechanisms in my brain, which are still functioning quite highly. Nor is it really fair to fault my 5 year old self, or my ten year old self, or even my 15 year old self, for not paying closer attention to the things I consider important now. How could I have known as a 12 year old that someday I would want to understand my grandfather as an adult might? To get to know Ivan the way I’ve gotten to know my Grandfather Jerry better in the past few years? Futile questions until time travel is invented. So instead, I’m left with trains, beavers, and illness.

Before he got sick, before I was born, my grandfather was the manager of Lloyd Center, the largest shopping mall at the time in Portland, Oregon. This was a very important position, and from what I’ve been told, he handled it with aplomb. I imagine my grandfather, suit and tie, hair slicked back in Mad Men fashion, heading up that glorious American institution: the shopping mall. I picture him being the first in the offices every morning, working hard at his desk and out in the field, treating the store owners and his employees sternly but fairly. I never saw my grandfather work, but there are somethings you just know, and I know he was a great businessman, a respected boss, a well-liked colleague.

By the time I had technically entered “womanhood”, the disease had already begun to slowly take him over. I sat patiently with the other grandchildren at holidays as he struggled to comment on the latest current affairs, his hand shaking as he reached for his fork. By the end of high school, when I was at the peak of my vanity and he fighting desperately a losing war with his whole body, I could hardly bare to be around him. It was too painful, and I couldn’t stand to face anything as ugly as mortality. I would hug him and nod and turn away, scared to catch him drooling or unable to find a word. It wasn’t how I wanted to remember him. I wanted the trains, and the Sierra Club calendars with majestic lakes and stoic mountains, and the Beaver blanket in his study.

The last time I actually saw him was the winter before he died. He had been in a home for awhile, and no longer had any physical or mental control. His legs were as thin as chicken bones, and his skin the color of cream of mushroom soup. He was being kept alive by machines and doctors and medicine, and while his heart somehow continued to beat, mine broke. I knew it was the last time I would ever see him in the flesh, but that the last time I had actually seen him had been years back. It’s a strange feeling, seeing this body of someone you once knew as your grandfather, reduced to a small, motionless form. If ever there was an argument for the soul, the separation of mind and body, this was it.

I try not to remember my grandfather in those late stages, when he’d fully succumbed to Parkinson’s, but rather as the man who raised my father, who managed Lloyd Center, who loved my grandmother until the very end. I’ll never have the opportunity to get to know him as the woman I am today, but he still remains alive in my memory, he is still available in my imagination. And of course, he’s always with me on the train.