Every time I talk to someone from back home I’m asked what I’m thinking about my return to Portland. It’s always a different thing that springs to mind. Today I’m thinking of my neighbor, Sherri.

Sherri passed away earlier in the year and it made me feel like a foundational part of my life disappeared. For my entire life, Sherri had always lived across from my parents. When I think of her, I think of home projects, endless Christmas cookies, Native Montanan bead belts, elaborate yard decorations, and a stern but loving attitude.

When I visited in September, I had my final conversation with Sherri. I was about to leave to do my classic springwater trail trip with Andrew when I stopped to talk with her for a while.

We caught up and she expressed support for my adventure and looking forward to my return. I asked about her projects and her grandkids. I must’ve stood there straddling my bike for about 30 minutes before I finally took off. I’m glad I took the time I did.

Sherri told me that when she was 15 years old, she punched her principal in the face. She said the principal was a mean lady but that Sherri had been pissed off at the world and was ready to take a swing at anybody. As it was, she ended up being a golden gloves boxer for a while. Sherri also worked in rodeo before she made it out to Portland.

She was a type of person whose personality conjured an optical illusion. She couldn’t have stood more than 5 feet tall but for the majority of my life well into my 20s, I swear to God she could stand toe to toe with anyone.

There was some innate sense of grit to her. A real “I’m gonna do my thing, do it well, and fuck you if you try to stop me.”

She kept a vigilant eye on the neighborhood. One of those characters that you don’t realize the depth and magnificence of until later. Which isn’t to say, she was not appreciated in her life. But it would be fair to say that she also had a certain roughness to her that could keep you at a distance before you saw all the warmth that lay underneath.

It’ll be weird to stand on the same sidewalks and notice her absent presence. I’m grateful for the time it was there. Of the small delights and earnest labors she brought to the world.