Leaving Breadcrumbs

My wife and I drive past a facility that specializes in memory care. The sign encourages passersby to Call Today, and we joke, adding, “Before you forget.” We know, all too well, that before long, we’ll be amongst those whose memories have faded.

This week, I pulled a large plastic bin from the bottom shelf in the garage. I’ve been meaning to go through that bin for several years, and this was the week to tackle it. The bin contained photo albums from days long ago.

Some albums were automatically deemed keepers: Those of my son, those of family celebrations with aunts, uncles, cousins, and my Babas. Without a doubt, these photos will stay. I’ll never forget family, I tell myself.

The thinner albums – dated 1972 to 1998 – were marked with the names of colleges I’ve attended, places where I’ve been employed, and newspaper clippings of events and people. The more recent were the most familiar. I smiled as I turned the pages. Most of the photos did not have names written on the backs, because when they were set into those peel‑and‑stick albums, I KNEW everyone.

As I turned another page, I felt a small tug of unease. I recognized the curve of a smile, the tilt of a head, the way someone held a beer can at a party — but the names hovered just out of reach. It startled me. These were people I once laughed with, confided in, maybe even loved in the way young people love their companions in passing seasons. The faces stared up at me, patient and expectant, as though waiting for me to call them by name. I whispered an apology to the ones I couldn’t place. “I knew you once,” I said. “I promise I did.”

Maybe this is how forgetting begins — not with the big things, but with the edges softening first. The outlines blur long before the center gives way.

My wife wandered in and peered over my shoulder. “Who’s that?” she asked.

I laughed at myself — the woman who swore she’d never forget a face, now squinting at a photo of a girl wearing a sundress and a straw hat, her arm draped around my shoulders.

“No idea,” I said. “But we obviously knew each other.”

We both laughed, but it wasn’t the same kind of laugh as the one we shared when we passed the memory care sign. This one had a tremor in it, as if realizing that we noticed the changes in our memories, and acknowledging—lightly—that time is moving.

 I thought of my mother, who used to flip through her own albums, tapping a finger on faces she could no longer name. “Good people,” she would say, when the names escaped her. “All good people.”  I used to think it was sad that she had forgotten so much. But now, I realized she hadn’t lost everything. She remembered the feeling of them. The warmth. The goodness.

Maybe that’s what lasts longest — not the names, but the way someone made you feel in the brief season you shared.

I wondered who would open these albums after me. Would my son flip through them someday, trying to piece together the woman I was before he knew me? Would he recognize the girl in the bell-bottoms? Would he care?

After several hours of reminiscing, I set the plastic bin filled with photo albums back on the shelf in the garage.

Maybe that’s why we take photos — not to remember the people in them, but to leave breadcrumbs for the ones who come after us.

Echoes of Ancient Travelers

The tour bus approached a hand-painted sign that read “Dinosaur Tracks Ahead.” A Navajo woman met us at the end of a dusty road. The vast area beyond was mostly level: no commercial signs or neon lights. No gift shops. We were on Navajo land--the outskirts of Tuba City, Arizona.

As we walked, our guide pointed to large clumps of fossilized dinosaur dung lining part of the walkway across the sandstone. We knelt to examine several fossilized dinosaur eggs partially protruding from the hardened ground. Our guide identified three‑toed carnivorous dinosaur footprints -- theropod footprints (most often attributed to Dilophosaurus, one of the early Jurassic predators known to have lived in this region).

The area was not fenced. I asked, “Who preserves and protects this area? Who manages it?” Our guide answered, "Mother Earth,” and pointed to a set of theropod tracks explaining that those tracks were not visible when she was a girl. As if on cue, a gust of wind moved across the open space. She continued, “The wind and rain will reshape the landscape over time. Some tracks will disappear and some new tracks will appear. But my people will never interfere with the land. The land will reveal what it chooses, when it chooses.”

She also said that American archeologists in search of fossilized bones were turned away. “Someday, many years from now, the bones may be visible -- in Mother Earth’s time, not man’s time.”

She smiled and pointed to a sequence of prints suggesting the dinosaur’s movement. She jokingly stretched her arms and leapt forward, imitating the dinosaur’s jump and its probable sliding in a muddy floodplain millions of years ago.  Then she pointed to imprints of another creature’s tail and wing.

The land is not scenery but a living relative. Navajo teachings emphasize harmony with Mother Earth, Father Sky, and all beings.

As I walked toward the tour bus, I knew I would leave with more than photographs. Something in the stillness of that open land—and a trust that Mother Earth reveals what she chooses—had settled into me. I felt lighter, quieter, more aware of the responsibility we all share to walk gently on the ground that holds our stories.

A Lighter Winter

I’ve lived in the Pacific Northwest for eight years, following 18 years in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, and before that, Northeast Pennsylvania was home.  The winter season in Washington State has proved to be the gentlest.

Even though the region is famous for its blanket of gray and rain, the PNW winter is temperate and quiet.

The darkness is soft, not harsh. PNW winters are dominated by cloud cover rather than deep cold. Instead of sharp contrasts or blinding brightness, the region gets a diffuse, even light all day long. Thick cloud layers scatter sunlight, creating a soft, low‑contrast environment that is calming rather than oppressive.

Mild temperatures make winter feel less severe, even though they are cool and wet. Unlike much of the U.S., the PNW rarely experiences extreme cold with harsh storms and deep freezes.  December through March feels like a long autumn. I have found the winter season enjoyable, and don’t mind an outdoor walk in the drizzle under a gray sky. My energy level does not shift into the ‘high’ gear of the spring and summer seasons, I'm more relaxed. And, the evergreen landscapes keep the world visually alive as they keep color and texture year-round, unlike many other regions where the winter strips the landscape bare.

Oh, and have I mentioned snow? The PNW mountains are snow-covered in the wintertime; however, I think my city owns one snowplow 'just in case.' Snow is high-maintenance and immobilizing. Rain is a gentle background noise and a refreshing rinse. We don't have to plow the rain.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve loved each of the places I’ve lived. Each season in each place had defining features.

So while I may miss the postcard beauty of a fresh snowfall, I don’t miss the shoveling, slipping, or strategizing required to survive it. I’ll happily take my drizzle, my moss, and my gray‑sky strolls. And every once in a while, like today, for instance, the last day of January, the sky is blue with a few white clouds, the sun is shining,and the temperature at 1 pm is a pleasant 56 degrees.

In the PNW, even winter seems to know how to take it easy—and I’m learning to do the same.