I’ve long since told you about my introduction to graduate school at the University of Oregon: deaf landlady, garret room with a naked lightbulb, one refrigerator shelf, reading assignments triple those that I’d experienced in college, rain, more rain, frighteningly vicious anxiety, the dead certainty that I’d bomb out. Yes, I found a graduate student counselor and a family with five children who needed a babysitter and took me under their capacious wing. Still that first semester in Eugene ranks as one of the darkest spells of my young life.
But that fall, heading toward Thanksgiving, I received an invitation from Nick and Chloe Nichols to join them in Astoria. Nick had been a park ranger at Gettysburg during my first seasonal stint there and Chloe was his ever-so-delicate and efficient Southern wife. As I headed to graduate school, Nick transferred to Fort Clatsop National Historic Park. Which is an absolutely godforsaken spot on the Oregon coast where the remnants of the Lewis and Clark Expedition wintered in 1805-1806. One baby, one dog, one woman, and 32 men. Who spent the winter building a crude shelter, reducing sea water to salt, hunting, and tanning leather before they returned east. Nick watched over a replica “fort.”
I accepted the Nichols’ invitation and took the bus up. It was an awkward but sweet respite in spite of the howling rain-filled wind that beat on their house the whole three days. Certainly, Chloe figured out just how lonely and distressed I was and did all she could to be welcoming. And shortly after I returned to Eugene, I got a small package from her. It contained a single, stemmed etched-glass dessert/sherbet goblet.
I understood the gift right away. Meant not at all for daily use or socializing. But as a gift of grace and beauty and loveliness in those daunting winter days. Likely a thrift store find, maybe Depression era, alone without any table mates. But all the more exquisite as a solitary treasure. And yes, I’ve wrapped it gently and kept it with me these 60 years later. Still unscratched and iridescent.
In 1968, the goblet brought light into that garret room filled only with books and clothes. No keepsakes. No memories. Not even posters. In recent times, I’ve tried to find similar gifts for friends in tough spots. And never really succeeded in the way that Chloe did. Our lives are so rich or crammed with belongings now that a single stunning dish or graceful figurine or a delicate embroidered piece might be a nuisance not a gem.
But the wish, the impulse still resonates. Maybe more now than ever, we may all need to seek small unexpected delights. And give them away. ©
PS: I just looked. Emmet (Nick) Nichols died this June. Dr. Chloe Nichols preceded him in death. Nick was the Gettysburg ranger who sent me home to redo my hair when I arrived at work with a new, odd coiffure. Chloe was the sensible National Park Service wife who urged me to find one signature but easy recipe to make for all potlucks. Hers was cream puffs.
