When I was a teenager and suffering typical teenage angst and general confusion, this is the place I imagined to locate calm in my heart. The “beach house” belonged to my grandfather and his third wife Genevieve, who was a weaver like me. It was the widowed and remarried Genevieve who willed the property back into my family through me, in hope that Gary and I would move home to Oregon and start a family. And that is precisely what we did. Both Gary and I had grown up with wild places all around—forest and desert (Gary’s seven years in Arizona) and riding for miles on our bikes. This was the childhood we wanted for our own children. The property made children possible.