Listening to jazz, remembering a house between Astoria and Portland. A turn of the century home, from the early 1900s. The owners were playing jazz from the 50s: bebop, cool jazz man! This place sticks in my memory. It was dark, evening, and our journey was taking us to Portland. But that was later. At this moment we sat there, talking, listening, and drinking coffee. None of had lots of money, but there was enough. Humble, and beautiful.
I’ve lost all connection to that place. My travelling companion lost his battle with cancer over a decade ago. I don’t remember which of the small towns it was. They all blur into each other.
Perhaps it’s better that way. Blended together, my connection spreads all along the river. Any of the towns could be “it”.Perhaps they all area.
