There is a particular and fierce attachment in unexpected friendships. And my friendship with Lynn Lundquist was both of those things–unexpected and fierce. We were separated by age, by geography, by political party. When we met, he was just entering his seventies. He was a Republican rancher from Central Oregon. I was–shall we say–none of those things. But we recognized each other as kindred spirits– lovers of Oregon, Jeffersonian dreamers, indulgers of dogs. David and I always loved the times when we got to settle in and visit with Lynn and his lovely wife, Barb. A few years ago, we spent the weekend at their ranch in Powell Butte, eating well and laughing hard.
And just a couple of weeks ago now, Lynn and I exchanged big hugs and promises for a longer visit this summer, when the weather was better and the roads were clearer. But today, suddenly, Lynn passed. I hope into better weather and clearer roads. But I already miss him, particularly and fiercely. And, here is a poem I wrote a few years ago, when we got back from that weekend in Powell Butte. I can’t remember if I ever showed it to him.
Lynn Lundquist
Citizen Lynn
for Lynn Lundquist, 1935-2013
They say the virtue’s in the conserving,
in declaiming what we’ve saved.
You’ve chosen a grandmother’s house,
with its walls milled thin
to sift want off the wind.
The outhouse is an uptick for certain—
cute as can be (according to your bride).
But the stovepipes are honest—
chimney rock and coffee cans
that blister ocher in the afternoon.
Mr. Speaker, you’re bowlegged
as a wagon wheel and Jefferson’s ideal
marriage of alfalfa and colloquy.
Don’t forget to take hold
by the smooth handle.
Answer me this:
what self-respecting Swede
drives East to sup on sauerkraut?
These days, you’re settled in –
a ladder leaning on the West wall
and a blue heeler in the house,
but you’re still chaffering
for reason and creating mountains
out of gravel. Where’s the middle now?
Union men know nothing about dust,
so we rely on the Fujita scale
to measure tornados and exhales.
What we can’t recall,
we hold together
like a cracked cup boiled in milk.
I’ll pray with you it’s not a half-treasure—
a doll sent two years late, packed and moved
one state to the next
because it’s too sad to admit
it missed the mark. Oh Lynn,
winter came over the fences
and the Finns built marvels of engineering.
Shell games can predict a baby’s sex
and the moon tells us when to plant peas.
But we’re left to dogtrot home
and whistle for virtue
to come in, come in, come home
out of the dark.
