This is Carla, From Seattle

Am I feeling responsible? accused? Am I freezing?

Being introverted comes naturally to me. My great grandfather moved his father, wife, and children here after the Seattle fire. He was a hungry, huffing-puffing pioneer who never stopped working and spoke, if at all, in Swedish.

My dad was a man of few words, too. He loved talking with people, but was made of the woods and rivers and the peace and quiet that made them.

My suburb of Seattle was covered with sticker bushes, fruit trees, and horse chestnuts. Like other kids, we built forts and drank from the hose. By junior high, we got away from the mall by taking the # 52 bus to the U District or downtown to the Market or the Army-Navy Surplus. We wore Mexican tops, Swedish clogs, Cowichan sweaters, and 13-button Navy wool pants. We carried our books in African baskets to our big-world, small-town, high-school. We were made of this place.

I don’t feel cold. But, I admit, a chill comes over me each time I learn that another Californian has outbid a house for sale. Or a dot-com boomer brags about living here for 25 years, like he owns the place. Or a new mom describes how she’s lived everywhere, but this place has “just the right combination,” a perfectly shaken cocktail for her drinking tastes.

The Cle Elum Bakery cashier grips the counter as you drive through the entrance with your friends from New York and their three-wheeled baby stroller. I slow down and my eyes forget about donuts and rest upon the only person in the place. I thank her, ask how it’s going today, realizing that a lot of people from a lot of places have discovered and descended upon her friendly, warm world. Her whole being melts me. We smile, relieved that we are not you.