We drove

north, spending the night in a town called Roseburg, eating at the Roadhouse - which advertised a year's worth of weekly dinners if you purchased one of three houses, all under $200,000 dollars. We declined.

My mom and I woke up early to run. She pointed out the rhododendrons and magnolias (yellow is aparantly rare). The dirt in Oregon isn't the clay from the Bay Area, but this rich, flakey heaven that smells just like it did when I was little. The ants are the size of black widow spiders; slugs make the ground slick.

On Vashon Island, the place where my Grandma is going to be buried, we met with Lisa at the Island Funeral Home. The first thing she said to my father was, "You look just like a Frombach!" Nineteen children - my Grandma was the youngest of nineteen children - who made an indelible impression on the island.

Vashon Island farmers grew strawberries.

We saw where Aunt Anita was buried. Apparently, some people like to be buried with their first wives or the wives of their children. Anita's husband is still alive and remarried, but there's a place waiting for him in the family plot.

Did I mention that when it finally stops raining and the sun comes out in Seattle that it's actually possible to believe in god? The pacific ocean shoots up toward the sun in patterns that churn your soul. The evergreens lift their naked armpits in excitement and release their stench - a mild, moldy smell from the moss that grows underneath. The air is chilly and bites your lungs. Kids dressed in black wearing Marilyn Manson make-up sit on the damp grass and uncover their knees. If you're lucky, someone might smile at you on the street. Wait, not that last one - I exaggerate too much.

Kurt Cobain changed Seattle, even though he was from Aberdeen, which is 111 miles away. Public bathrooms in Seattle have syringe drops. There's one right before you get onto the ferry. It creeps me out to sit on the toilet seat and envision the person who sat their before me injecting themselves before walking onto the boat. Although, I'm sure it feels fantastic to ride that ferry while high. My dad grew up a few blocks from the ferry terminal. My dad's dad was a drinker. My dad's mom developed dementia. My dad remembers the day Kurt Cobain died.

It's changed so much, but it's my city. When I go back, I remember who I am. I never knew we had a family plot.