Do you remember what a drag it was back in grade school days of yore when everyone would exchange valentines and you wouldn’t get one, or at least maybe not the one you were secretly hoping for? Well, valentines come in all shapes and sizes and forms. And this is mine. To you.
My name is Emily. I’m that relatively new person to Lopez you might have seen around town. The one who teaches Italian and has partially purple hair, both of which tend to separate me from the herd.
Everyone I encounter asks me where I’m from, and how did I come to Lopez. I’ve largely avoided answering those questions, not really knowing how to explain the details entirely truthfully without sounding like a total wack-job.
Lopez has taught me that choosing to “fly one’s freak flag is actually a red badge of courage. As is any good valentine, if you stop to think about it. So: You’ve been asking? Okay; I’m finally answering:
I encountered a man and his dog one day, a couple of years ago, at some rocks overlooking the Atlantic Ocean not far from my house in New England. He was an older photographer, just returned from the Himalayas.
I was still a younger woman then, despite being recently returned from two arduous years in the Balkans, which left me manifestly third-world traumatized. More or less mute, in fact as hard as that is to believe, for those of you who know me now.
The photographer was the first person I’d spoken to in quite some time, for his having asked all the right questions and none of the usual ones. We commenced an amorous relationship, falling in love — to varying degrees — with one another.
I was studying Italian cinema, literature and language at a university in Boston those days, going to his home not far from school after class.
There was only one way I knew to get from Kenmore, where I lived, to Union Squares, where he lived: down an avenue taking me past a specific progression of side streets bearing old-fashioned black-on-white street signs which read in succession “Emily,” “Lopez,” “Pacific,” and “Valentine.”
There was even a “Decatur”—apparently also a part of your history having to do with Lopez Sound, making the series of signs that much more difficult to ultimately dismiss.
Aside from my very own first name being at the lead, the continuum of street signs didn’t seem immediately significant to me until, shortly thereafter, the photographer explained he was leaving town for a longer than usual time—during my October birthday, in fact—to go visit good friends in the Pacific Northwest.
He hoped I’d understand. Upon returning, he showed me his most wondrous photographs of a magical green place with trees that glowed red in the sunset: your madrona. He’d been on the island of Lopez.
Driving down that avenue to the photographer’s home to find and reconnect with him again after such a lengthy absence—this time—those black and white street signs practically leapt off their poles at me
That was back then, and this is now, of course. I used to tell myself that one day, I would find me, Emily, on Lopez, in the Pacific, with my valentine, the photographer.
That was back then, and this is now, of course. I used to tell myself that one day, I would find me, Emily, on Lopez, in the Pacific, with my valentine, the photographer. I couldn’t have known then it would instead come to mean that Emily would be living alone on Lopez in the Pacific Northwest before the very next Valentine’s Day. Trying valiantly to escape the inescapable and comprehend the incomprehensible.
And I still don’t understand. Not a single solitary blessed thing. But? This is where those street signs led me to come and celebrate my 50th birthday back in October, all by myself, thinking that Lopez would make a splendid birthday gift to mark the occasion. As it turns out, however, beyond being a present, Lopez is a valentine. A sweet sentiment to be freely given and kindly received, full of as much love as the recipient is willing to see, participate and partake in, experience and give back—to oneself; to one’s community; to each other. Having lived a whole lot of everywhere, I can confidently report that there’s no place quite like it on earth. And: more so than even the lovely madrona, do the remarkable people here glow brighter still. Happy V-Day, homies. Now you know. Valentine will you be mine?
Emily Matthews resides on the south end of Lopez and teaches Italian when not practicing yoga, pilates and/or cooking up a storm. She laughs too loud; swears, eats and drinks too much; wears entirely too much make-up and perfume; drives way too fast; and generally has an absolute ball (broken heart notwithstanding.) Every day, she drives past “Funny Valentine Lane,” a further coincidental street signpost irony not the least bit lost upon her.
