One of my first social outings on returning to Fossil from three months of travel was to attend the funeral of one of the town’s noted characters, a true cowboy. This skinny-legged, weather-worn cowboy with sky-blue squinty eyes seemed older than his middle years. In poor health, his death was not entirely unexpected, but it did hit the community hard.
A few hundred persons came from far and near to attend this funeral – a staggering amount when one considers that Natty rarely left Fossil and was not exactly the outgoing type. His death seemed to be recognized as the end of an era as well as the loss of a quiet friend who truly reflected a more simple time, one that required saddling up for the day’s work.
Natty was well known to all and was one of the familiar faces of Fossil. His ancestors had founded the town. It was taken for granted that Natty would show up at all fundraisers, sports events, and other community gatherings. Natty always stood quietly off to the side, black cowboy hat in hand, snap-front shirt and Wrangler jeans freshly pressed, nodding politely to those who greeted him. He was noted for his refusal to sit down or to stay for very long.
Natty spent most of his life outdoors and had the manners of the Old West: extremely polite to women, most comfortable with horses and dog, and impatient with errant cattle and humans. He never married and while several women had tried to catch his attention, he had not dated anyone in the past few decades.
Partisan in life as well as in politics, he carried a strong sense of right from wrong that put him always in the right. When he did talk, his voice was surprisingly loud with an echo behind it, as if he had to muster it up from the depths of his being. One could tell just from listening to him that he didn’t use his voice all that often with people but instead put it to use primarily to call cow dogs and horses.
Although he lived in town and over the years had accumulated enough wealth from his cattle business to not have to work, Natty maintained a rigid schedule of tending his horses and cattle for most of each day and of taking care of routine errands in the afternoon. His unassuming house was situated on a side street, its furnishing austere. He dined on simple meals at the same hour each day, picked up his mail at the post office at an exact time, and stopped by the office of a local business each afternoon to sit quietly while the owner worked. Natty would look quietly over Main Street.
Natty had always been polite to me and had often said to call him if I needed a hand with anything. He sometimes stopped to exchange pleasantries for a few minutes on his routine walks around town if I was out in the yard, and seemed to eye me warily as an independent woman who could fly off the handle at any moment.
He had happened by last year right after I’d learned that I’d been accepted into a cultural exchange program and excitedly told him I would be traveling with a group throughout Iran for two weeks. This would be my first trip overseas.
“That’s downright foolish,” he stated loudly. “Why on earth would anyone want to do something like that?”
At the funeral service a few old-timers told stories of Natty’s accomplished handling of horses. They reminisced over Natty’s deep affection for his dog that had preceded him in death and would share his grave. Another friend remembered how Natty had declined taking a trip with him to the ocean, recounting how Natty had told him he’d seen the Pacific once years before and that was good enough.
A guitarist played a few mournful cowboy songs, which brought tears to many eyes. The mayor, also a friend to Natty, read a poem written by a local rancher. The words lamented the end of day when there was still much ranch work to be done in the fading light. Natty would have liked that.
He also would have liked the simple decorations in the century-old church, left over from recent Easter services. A cloth banner that hung on the pulpit had the words “He is Risen” embroidered on it. A similar banner hung on the railing close to Natty’s coffin and read “He is Dead” – direct and to the point, just as Natty lived his life.
Farewell, Natty
Fossil, Home Yet Different
My return to Oregon and then Fossil was wrought with culture shock, a condition I hadn’t anticipated. I came home alone as Pecos would be staying another three weeks to oversee completion of a storage building on our finca and to finalize building permits. After more than three months of constant togetherness, I would miss him.
Has anyone ever noticed how incredibly huge Portland International Airport really is? The ceilings alone are magnificent, and that paved highway out front – so smooth! I watched the other drivers actually stay in their lanes and abide within reasonable call of the speed limits. How orderly this seemed. Nonetheless, even as a passenger I kept turning from side to side and checking the mirrors to see who would cut us off or dart from the side to force us out of our lane. No one did such a thing.
Traffic was more dense and fast-paced than I remembered. I was happy to be chauffeured around for the few days I spent in Portland with my kids and grandkids. The restaurants were noisy; the stores crowded. It seemed best to just relax at my daughter’s house, perusing all of her books and movies – a seemingly vast selection, and all in English. Her family’s TV was overwhelming. I moved my chair to the rear of the room as the onslaught of large screen and turned-up volume seemed too much.
My drive to Fossil seemed endless. I edged along the Columbia Gorge for two hours, admiring the stunningly-beautiful National Scenic Area, yet I was surprised at the moderate heights of mountains that previously had seemed much taller. Turning off the interstate, only 70 miles remained to reach Fossil. I wound up and down the rolling foothills east of the Cascades. Never-ending wheatfields rolled to horizons, cleft by deep canyons. I drove on and on. I felt as if I had entered Idaho, then Montana, then the Great Plains. Perhaps Fossil had shifted east.
Dozens, or was it hundreds, of gigantic new windmills had been plunked on hilltops while we were gone. Their huge white blades whirred in the sunlight and it seemed as if these hills would rise up and float away. The highways to Fossil were pristine, as if they were brand new. How did the State of Oregon ever afford to construct and maintain such lovely roads? These roads surely are thoroughfares to another land, as no houses or squatters were setting near them. The wide open spaces of north central Oregon are truly vast.
I would need time to gather myself and rest at Fossil before seeing friends. That was my plan. Upon turning the corner to my house – how embarrassingly and unnecessarily large it seemed – a friend and her baby were strolling by. I was invited to dinner, to come in an hour. Since my teeth began chattering uncontrollably while talking to her – it was bone-chilling cold – I quickly said yes. Perhaps her house would be warm.
I managed to turn on the heat. Nonetheless, my house was c-o-l-d. I doubted it would warm up by summer. I emptied two laundry baskets full of sheets and towels on top of the quilts on my bed and spread two more quilts on top of that heap. Later that night, I crawled between the sheets wearing leg warmers and two cotton shirts, and dreamed of Pecos, who was probably sleeping peacefully under the mosquito net 3,000 miles away.
Each of my first days home brought friends to my door who were eager to hear of our Costa Rican experience and to see pictures. Many meals were shared, both here and at their homes. I couldn’t walk to the post office without townspeople stopping their vehicles on the middle of the main street and calling out greetings, blocking any potential traffic – all one or two cars that might have approached in the 15 minutes on Main Street.
Entering the Fossil Mercantile, I was taken aback by the grandness of the store and its dazzling displays and full shelves. I stood in front of the rows of freezers, surprised that there were so many different foods available. Why had I ever thought that selections were limited? Cheeses ranged from gorgonzola to brie – and there were no flattened insects inside the wrappers.
I thought of our village pulperia in Costa Rica and wondered what our local friends there would have thought to come in the Merc. The taxidermy and quilts hanging overhead would have likely fascinated them, and the grocery offerings would seem rather lavish. Why, even in this tiny Oregon town there are more choices of mayonnaise or ice cream than it seems that any one family would need to consider.
The few potholes in our streets are really nothing at all. Store facades are well kept; residents all have shoes and wear clothes of the right size.
Pecos has now arrived home safely and marvels too at the over-capacity of yards and dwellings and how our small town no longer seems quite so small or sparsely-populated. Fossil is a glorious place to be. Nonetheless, our sense of place has changed, and this town will never seem quite the same as before.