East of the Mountains

“You from east of the mountains?” That’s what the checkout person at Ace Hardware asked me. He was putting my phone number in their system and was taken aback by my 509 area code. Not 206 or 425, the common ones. There’s a book called “East of the Mountains” and I really liked it. It was made into a movie with the same name but the movie was disappointing. Seemed like too much had to be left out to make it fit in an hour and a half or so. The actual story was much deeper and richer than the cinema version. But I thought the guy at the cash register was asking if I was from east of the Rockies. I still think of those as “the mountains”. I tend to forget how clearly delineated Washington State is by the Cascade range. I was more aware of it when for 30 years, I did live “east of the mountains”. The mountains were a huge issue in the winter whenever we had plans to visit Seattle and I-90 would close for hours or sometimes even days. I’m even more aware of the divide in the state now that I live on the west side. I loved the high desert of eastern Washington. I loved the people, I loved the dry landscape. I loved the wide open spaces. Now I appreciate being on the other side and living close to the Pacific. I love the mild climate, the smell of salt water, the maritime feel of the air. I love the non-homogenous population, the variety of ethnic restaurants, the museums and trying to eavesdrop on different languages though I understand none of what people are saying. Seattle is known as “The Emerald City”. It’s beautiful. I adore the Douglas firs, the red-bark of the huge Madrona trees, the tangled greenery everywhere. But like the Emperor in the movie “Amadeus” tells Mozart that his composition has “too many notes”, I every now and than think there may be just a few too many trees.

High desert photo courtesy shinybutton on Pixabay.com