The
publication of Katie Gale: A Coast Salish
Woman’s Life on Oyster Bay is the happy product of many years of work.
Katie Gale’s story started in the mid-nineteenth century. My path to her began
in the early 1970s when I was searching for a house and a little land. I didn’t
want anything fancy, just a basic structure; one I could live in while making
improvements. It had to have a well and power. That would save me money and
inconvenience, and I could get right on fixing up the place. Of course, it had
to have a road. I didn’t care about waterfront or a view. I had a partner then
who had built a house in the New Hampshire woods. We believed we could tackle
the humblest little dwelling and the most rugged of circumstances.
My real estate agent was a soft-spoken elegant woman with a
slight German accent that attested to her origins. She wore her blonde hair in
a sophisticated frenchtwist, walked like chilled champagne, and drove a bright
yellow Cadillac in which she transported clients for a look at her listings. I
had Janis Joplin hair, wore jeans and safari boots, and had a faculty position
at a brand-new, controversial local college. I had managed to buy a house in
Olympia with most of the first year of my salary. It was an okay house, but my
new friend wanted to live in the woods. She had already jumped her first local
ship for a loft in a barn out on rural Steamboat Island Road. I thought, having
no particular ties and being ready for adventure, why not make a move? I called
the real estate agent, and we began the search.
When we drove to the house I ultimately purchased, the
lovely, classy blonde behind the wheel was nervously apologetic. This property
was not something she would normally show or be caught dead in. The main
structure was all but smothered by locust trees, Douglas firs, and Himalayan
blackberry vines. Indeed, there was no hint of a view or Puget Sound, much less
Mount Rainier. All these yet-to-be-discovered perks of the place were well
hidden and not even known to my agent. Several goats were dancing around in a
barely fenced bit of land next to a large but shabby shed built on a framework
of logs. There was nothing but mud between the shed and the house, which was a
simple thirty-by-thirty-foot square. It was heated by an oil stove, the misuse
of which had stained the ceiling badly. But that was of no concern because the
rest of the ceiling and walls were covered with moss—or was it mildew? The
bathtub was settled into the sagging, termite-infested floor by several inches.
In my enthusiasm, I declared the house perfect.
Continue reading “From the desk of LLyn De Danaan”
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