My mother makes pictures and has done all her life. Images come to her and hammer to get out. She's gone through many phases and styles and I've liked some work more than others, but they're all her. Or, so I thought.

A couple of years ago she became very ill. She was a smoker from a young age and was finally forced to stop with a diagnosis of emphysema and the need for supplemental oxygen. Her lungs began to fill up with fluid and the subsequent lack of oxygen caused hallucinations and several hospitalizations. She was so ill that my sisters and I thought she would soon die, and she thought the same.

Amazingly, she didn't, and after a long period of convalescence with two of my sisters she went home. Once there, she began to draw and pictures came out so fast that she barely got one finished before the next began to fill the paper. They were landscapes, wild with color, fantasy, memories, and stories. These were her unedited feelings, made for herself with the gratitude that comes after one shakes hands with death.

At some point I realized that each one is a part of her life and had a story to tell. My mom, Ellen, lives in Portland and I don't often get up there. But, I've managed to get down the stories from two of the pictures, and hope to capture more, because these stories are a way to know my mother better and to always remember her. Here is the first one I wrote as a ghostwriter in her voice. I hope you like it.

Ruth lived across the street for many years in adult foster care. She dressed in modest skirts, matching cardigans, pearls, and gloves. Our visits centered around tea, and, though Ruth’s current grasp of her situation had gone missing, her memories of earlier life were rich.

Ruth grew up in Portland and raised a family of her own there. We would sip tea and nibble on cookies. She might be in the midst of a story, suddenly look startled, look up at me and ask, “Is the meeting this afternoon?” “Yes, Ruth. It’s later.” “I hate to be late to Evening Star.” “We’ll be on time.”

Often, she would talk about her childhood. Ruth was a girl during the 1920s. Her mom would take Ruth’s sister and her to spend the hot part of summer on the Oregon coast, at Seaside where the weather was always cool and the breeze off the ocean was nearly constant. Seaside had a boardwalk at the edge of the sand, a main street full of taffy shops and activity, and a wide open stretch of beach inviting umbrellas and hours of lounging.

At that time, families would take up summer residence in Seaside. The fathers would spend the week in Portland working, and join their families for the week-ends. The railroad offered a special discount for this weekly travel. So many men joined their families on Friday evenings that the run was called “The Daddy Train.” Ruth often spoke of the excitement she and her sister felt on Friday evenings waiting for their father to arrive on the Daddy Train.

The Astoria and Columbia River Railroad (A&CR) line was completed in May 1898. It followed the shore of the Columbia River from Portland to Astoria, where it connected through to Seaside to the south on track completed at an earlier time. The line was built to haul freight, but passengers turned out to be more profitable.

Passenger travel on the Daddy Train continued until 1952. There have been several periodic revivals of the line. In 1960, my oldest daughter (also named Ruth) and my second daughter (who was four at the time) rode this train with their grandparents.

My picture “Papa Train to Seaside” celebrates this piece of Oregon history and my visits with Ruth and her rich memories.

Ellen