As fate would have it, the stars seem to align about once a year, nudging these two wandering souls back to where it all began. Back to our roots. Back to family.
In 2022, a broken water main in our old house in Battle Ground—now home to our eldest daughter, Amanda—pulled us home. What started as a plumbing disaster turned into a reunion. We returned to check on the kids and to avoid the over twenty thousand dollars we were getting in repair estimates.
Jackhammers echoed through the kitchen as we carved a three-foot hole into the floor. And when the dust settled, Kevin and our grandson tucked a time capsule into the earth. A quiet symbol of memory buried beneath the chaos.
In 2023, I flew alone to Georgia to help our middle daughter, Melissa. Kevin joined me a month later, and together we found ourselves wrapped in the sweetness of slow mornings and Easter egg hunts with our youngest granddaughter. That spring was gentle, healing, and full of laughter.
Then came 2024. We boarded a plane from Mexico to Japan—not for a destination wedding, but for something far more sacred. Our youngest daughter, Rachel invited us not out of obligation, but out of love. She made it clear: she respected our journey and would understand if we couldn’t come. But this wasn’t about appearances or parties. It was about culture, connection, and the quiet bond between two people. We booked our flights that day.
The wedding was intimate—just Kevin and me, the groom’s mother, and the photographer. The ceremony unfolded like a poem: from a temple bathed in morning light, to waterfalls whispering ancient blessings, to the lake at the foot of Mount Fuji. Finally, to the depths of an old-growth forest, where they stepped away and exchanged vows in private, out of earshot. It was perfect. It was theirs.
After Japan, we arranged a month-long layover in the Pacific Northwest, just in time to witness our oldest granddaughter’s high school graduation. Another milestone. Another moment stitched into the fabric of our family’s story.
And this time, in May 2025, we had stored Tomás—our home on wheels—in Costa Rica and made our way back once more. This time, not for repairs or ceremonies, but for life. Real, rich, miraculous life. The birth of Rachel and her husband, Otto’s first child. And the arrival of our second great grandchild.
After canceled flights and late-night layovers, we finally arrived at Amanda’s home around 4:30 a.m. We crept upstairs to a small room she had prepared for us—a landing, really, once a nursery, then a sewing room. But now, it was a sanctuary. I nearly cried when I stepped inside. The bedding, the decorations, the space for our belongings, the privacy curtain, every detail whispered love. It was perfect.
The first to arrive was our granddaughter, Raven Rain. Born in a birthing center, with only Rachel, Otto and the midwife present. Quiet. Sacred. Just like her parents.
Just four days later, Jack William joined our family. While the birth stories of the two moms and babies were vastly different—our grandson’s wife had to have an emergency C-section—both babies entered this world at the exact same weight (6lbs. 10oz.) and both arrived welcomed with love.
Our visit home this time was three months long and gave us time to reunite with loved ones in a way that short visits really can’t.
Kevin and I spent three days at my oldest sister’s beach cabin along with the rest of my siblings and their partners. We reminisced about our childhoods, played games until late in the evening, drank more wine than my liver appreciated and laughed until we peed ourselves—literally, we’re all that old now.
We spent time at an Airbnb located on a different beach in Oregon with our daughter, Melissa and her husband, Don and our granddaughter, Mary from Georgia, who had traveled back to the Northwest for the births as well. We flew kites, cooked meals together and became clam chowder connoisseurs.
Later we spent time at the river with all the kids, grandkids, and now great grandkids. One highlight was taking our son, Christian and his three children to sushi, their favorite. While most kids beg for pizza or burgers, these three always choose sushi.
When our Amanda invited us camping with her and the three kids still at home, I wasn’t sure I was still up to hike-in camping and sleeping on the ground in a tent. The thought of declining the invitation crossed my mind—briefly. I decided that a few days of back pain would be worth the time spent with them. We had camped like this quite often during our children’s formative years, and as “mom” I handled everything. Although it may seem like a small thing, I was overwhelmed with pride the way my daughter had not only taken on the role but surpassed my camp-organizer prowess by leaps and bounds. The weekend was filled with talks around campfires, stargazing, amazing food and lakeside picnics.
Many days were busy with visits from family and getting as much baby time as possible, but some were filled with easy walks at the park, lazily reading a book while listening to my grandson play guitar through the closed bedroom door. He is still learning and a bit shy about having an audience, but I didn’t mind. The quiet strumming and sweet melody that drifted through the wooden barrier between us made my heart swell with love and pride.
Our last weekend at “home” was the traditional local community celebration called “Harvest Days.” Since our house where our oldest lives is within walking distance of the festivities, our house had always been a gathering spot for family and friends. Now, as the new matriarch of the home, this was another tradition our daughter had continued seamlessly. Everyone gathered for BBQs and walked together to the parade, and carnival. While Kevin and I couldn’t hang with the young crowd long enough to watch the late-night fireworks display, we had the magical privilege of watching our twenty-month old great granddaughter squeal with awe and wonder at the bright lights, and sounds and smells of the carnival after dark. And I personally got the privilege of seeing the glee as my husband was coerced into riding The Zipper with the grandsons. He stepped off the ride with a countenance of the teenagers he had accompanied, but my daughter saw something else as she reached into her bag and pulled out a ginger ale, “Here dad, you look like you could use this.”
We are, as of this writing, back out on the road, currently in Panama and looking forward to shipping Tomás to South America to continue our quest.
And though I love this transient life we have chosen, I am always grateful when the stars align and these two travelers are sent back to our roots, back to the sweet smell of babies and the energy of love and family.
