My father lives in a small town called Ferndale (actually, just outside Ferndale in unincorporated County land). It’s about 30 minutes from the Canadian border, and just North of Bellingham. I lived there, briefly, just after high school, and I am very fond of the place. I’d love to retire there, although I’m not sure how happy my wife would be.
There is a special quality to the light, I think, when the sky is covered with layers of clouds, and the greens of the moss and hemlocks seem to glow from within. The damp seems to seep into everything, and life flourishes in surprising places. Mushrooms of all shapes, colors, and sizes pop up in fields, woods, and through the floor boards. Black and green slug families, large enough to ride, glide in single file across the ground.
Winters tend to be mild, with occasional dustings of snow.
Spring is, perhaps, the most shocking season for one who has lived so long in the unseasonal environment of Southern California. I remember going to bed one night with the world wrapped in the blanket of Winter, the trees bare, the ground brown and tan. Seemingly, the next morning, the entire world had transformed into an explosion of green.
Summer comes, mild at first, then gets surprsingly warm. After the flurry of rebirth, things seem to mellow a bit, enjoying the long, and I mean LONG, days of warm full sun. Berries ripen and, as the days stretch toward fall, it seems almost impossible that this idyllic world will soon fade.
