Stories of Home - #4
Preface:
I will say that I am writing this for my children, hence the catalog of images and the 13 minute read. As I was sorting old pictures a few years ago, I found a letter I had written John thanking him for a surprise parcel full of gifts that he sent to us during one of the many summers in Roads End without him. I cried. This was not typically John, yet in the chasm of my recent broken heart, God had gifted me with so many memories and stories of our life that were blessings. John never complained that he had to work most summers, day in and day out, in the heat, because that was the season for electrical work that kept the bills paid. He wasn’t much different to the early trail walkers and riders that landed in Roads End. The difference was he didn’t get to look up from the sweat on his brow and see the ocean and his children grew up into adulthood with amazing memories. He came a few times, for a shorter visit, to take us home and, of course… there was Christmas twice.
“The deepest joys and blessings in life are associated with family, parenthood, and sacrifice.” - Ezra Taft Benson
I remember it like it was yesterday. Standing on our porch in Upland, with a three and near five year old. The old RV all packed up and ready to pull out of our driveway on Orchard Lane. Saying goodbye to their Agoura Hills home of 14 years, with one last visit to us, in the opposite direction. There were many “drive safes,” and tearful goodbyes from the front porch, if not a few Jewish goodbyes (you know the ones where you have one more thing to say, then one more, then you run along the side of the vehicle, with one more thing to say…). At least that’s what they were called when I was growing up among my Jewish friends.
Mom and dad were moving to the coast of Oregon. I was happy for them, but I couldn’t envision the distance, although they were already a few hours away by car and both had worked full-time… it was time to go. To leave the rat-race, smog and traffic. They were wise, selling out in an inflated economy and investing a little over $100k into a 1927 magical Hansel and Gretel style home, built by D.N. Hendricks and his wife, that came with a rich history and a little girl for a ghost.
It was 1992. I remember mom saying (many times), “I didn’t want to go, but we found somewhere that the children would remember for the rest of their lives.” “We’d love it if you could eventually come live here, but this place is so special it will give you and the kids beautiful holidays.” Mom was right, and I, always a dutiful daughter, agreed, early on in my married-with-kids-life, that they had done their job and deserved to go wherever they wanted and focus on each other again. After all, I was the one that moved away first and they certainly weren’t going to leave one congested valley for another. As a child, during the war, it was the seaside that was good for her asthma and Mom was headed “home” to a place where she could breath.
They had discovered the area on a road trip, a few years prior and saw this house. In a half intentional venture they stepped into a local realty office and inquired about the home, saying “please let us know if it ever goes on the market.”
It didn’t seem far-fetched considering their American dream to begin with.
A few years later they got the call. It was 1987, the year of our firstborn. The home came with tenants named “The Dunns.” My parents were The Gunns and they agreed to let the Dunns stay until they could sell their home in Portland, which took a few years and gave mom and dad time to plan, consolidate and prepare us. Dad was signing paperwork when “Max” was born, most tragically, (Underwater Birth story) and drove his VW Rabbit, only stopping for necessary things, 16 hours straight to the hospital.
When the day came and reality hit, off they went venturing like modern day pioneers into the unknown, hoping for a third act that would bring them joy as they worked on the two-acre property, bringing back the original beauty and garden that once held Gatsby-style tea parties.
Filled with the allure of sea air, a meandering beach trail to match any great fairytale, agate collecting, lemonade stands, afternoon naps, tea in the garden, reading, crafting, whale watching, venturing to other seaside towns and blackberry picking, it was pure enchantment. I can still see my third-born, sitting up at 7 months old, touching sand for the first time, with his little fingers, on that beach, while his older siblings looked for agates, driftwood and seashells, running breathy, flying kites in the cool windy air.
We collected reams of beach treasures, including sea glass. After John built my gutter garden and I was done planting it, I took out the bags, saved all these years, and scattered them among the flowers and succulents for my own grandchildren to touch and feel. They are in jelly jars, plant pots and old ceramic dishes. Knowing that their parents spent summers on Roads End, walking that beach, brings those memories back as I feel them tap me on my legs, excitedly, asking for a baggie, so they can choose their favorites and take them home.
These are my stories and they unknowingly hold a piece of that in their hands, if only briefly. How grateful was I to have this place, and my husband’s sacrifice, in the long hard working summers ahead. We were blessed.
“Nana, what’s this? Nana, what is sea glass? Nana, listen to this in your ear. Nana, why is the rock red? Nana, what is an agate?”
The Old Elk Trail, leading from the valley to the coast ended at the beach now called Roads End, later known as the Salmon River Trail, (or Wagon Trail, as the white men used it to settle), was made by Native American Indians.
Part of the land which forms the present town-site of Roads End was first owned by Lolla Widgeon, an American Native woman, and first resident of the area. She obtained the land in 1894, in the form of a 25 year trust patent from President Grover Cleveland and eventually sold her land to other Native families and speculators. Abraham and Louisa Logan were one of the longest remaining Native American families to stay on their land for five decades, hence the name of the main road, Logan Road. They farmed portions of their land and kept mostly sheep and dairy cows. They had 16 children and sadly only eight of them grew into adulthood.
Another owner of the Lolla Widgeon property would be A.N. Lowe, a professor, and his wife. Sadly, Mrs. Lowe died as a result of falling down the inside stairway of their house. An early tragedy for this small town.
Let me tell you the magical staircase that went straight up, if not backwards as you climbed, in mom and dad’s home, was like climbing a straight-up ladder into a tree house. I often wondered how none of us fell down it. The top opened into a quaint children’s bedroom with twin beds and desks for coloring just below the two windows looking out to the ocean. Mom and dad loved creating this magical space for their grandchildren.
One year my brother and I would meet there, (minus children!) sleep in their room, like big kids, compare our awful toes (don’t ask!) and surprise my Granddad Nichols (mom’s dad), who made the journey in his later years, alone, all the way from England with a long stop in Dallas. He cried big tears as we greeted him. Before that, it was our family reunion in the late 70’s and he made one trip to America with his wife, in the 80’s, that was rather hard and awkward for my nana, although she embraced it. There was a lot of catching up, tea, great food, walks on the beach and love. It would be about 9 years later I’d take mom home to see him again, without knowing that would be the last time. You will find that story in my longest story here > A War of Forgiveness.
A large part of the property was a 10-acre parcel purchased by D.N. Hendricks when he came to Roads End in May of 1926. His land had been proved upon by another land owner early on in 1904. He would begin to build his home that same year, completing it in 1927. The home that mom and dad would purchase exactly 60 years later, in 1987.
It was said that Mr. and Mrs. Hendricks’ little girl had Elephant Man Disease. Mr. Hendricks took her everywhere to find a cure, even traveling far distances. No one knew how long she lived, however both my parents, who took the idea of “ghosts” with a grain of salt, as they learned the local history, physically felt tiny arms hugging, saw dashes of a child with patent shoes, tights and a skirt and one time mom said all of the pictures of the grandchildren on the mantle were completely turned around facing the brick. Only they were home at the time…
Beginning in 1855, all of Lincoln County was part of the Coast Reservation, an area with 100 miles of coastline designated by the U.S. government. Ancestors of the Siletz had lived along the coast for generations, but the government forced Natives from other regions to relocate here and eventually pioneers would make their way. They lived in harmony for decades, often moving back to sacred land, or moving on. As generational farms sold, economies and life circumstances changed, others would arrive and in the 1970’s an improvement committee would be formed to preserve it’s uniqueness and the land around it, raising money and keeping the area out of Lincoln City politics. The little town attracted artists and those who craved the quiet and relatively unknown affordability of the coastline. Without any businesses allowed, Roads End, a captive enclave, was truly observed as something out of another time and place. For many years there was only one known rental home allowed across from the main beach access and one little fish ‘n chips restaurant, at the Recreation Site, (as tourists enter Roads End). “Dory’s Cove” opened in the 1940’s and we enjoyed some great meals there before it burned down not long after mom and dad moved.
With the encroaching big city ideas and nonstop water rights furies and threats, the Roads End Committee decided to leave it that way. If you wanted to eat out you ventured onto Highway 1. It’s still that way. My parents were on the committee and they valued the independence and history of Roads End, as hard a fight as it was.
In 2010, forced annexation of Roads End and it’s 715 properties, in exchange for continued water supply, basically a “legal” threat, has now resulted in well over 50% of Roads End swallowed up by corporate vacation firms, as older residents passed on, and others left due to the increase in property values. Although it still holds it’s gorgeous beauty and has the rural beach character that makes one feel alive.
At the end of this year, we will fulfill a dream and gather as a family to ring in 2024. Upon securing a week-long rental, with mixed feelings, I left a personal note in the space provided, where I expressed our excitement and family history in Roads End. It was answered by “auto-response” a week later.
What meant the world to us is merely monetary to some, but the takeaway is something that money cannot buy. I hear the old Mastercard “Priceless” commercial that rang in my head when I took my mom home to England that one time.
This will be another one time, as I’m sure many more who visit this special place will attest to for years to come and maybe even share collections in their garden.
In a way, as I think about the history and the story of man, nothing has changed. It’s just packaged differently. The original owner of Roads End, an American Native, saw profit in her land and turned it over to the white man, and other Native Americans, who respected the land, as she had once enjoyed and cultivated. As those generations blossomed, nothing became new under the sun…
As T.S. Eliott says, “Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.” I hung these words in my present home when we moved in. I had no idea how far I could go. Many have gone far and for dad, he went to heaven long before he arrived.
The sun, that broke through the fog, opening up to the vast glistening ocean view, and fairy tale home on a hill, with all of it’s history and stories. The hike up God’s Thumb, determined, with a freshly torn knee, only to see the gift given below, wiping away all the pain. The storms of winter beating on the windows, reminding us of God’s powerful creation. The smell of breakfast and warm coffee in hand at Christmas, with a rare winter snow on the ground. Deer walking on the beach and through the garden. My children’s happiness…
Forever etched into the walls of my heart will be a season of uncommon grace.
With the initial promise of preservation, the home was eventually torn down, due to mold, which is often a coastal enemy of time. Part of Dad’s long wooden fence is still there reminding us of him and how much he and mom loved and treasured this once-in-a-life-time adventure.
How lovely! What wonderful memories. What an enchanted place. Thank you, Deb. It’s on my bucket list now!
Loved your story. Enjoyed your pictures. Wonderful read. Thanks Deborah.