Oak Springs, Oregon was entirely economically dependent on summer eco-tourism. People came from all corners of the country to experience the rugged coastlines and towering redwoods of the west coast. To pay her mortgage, Merida worked busy summers at an upscale restaurant downtown. In the winter, the town slowed down. Kids went to school, parents’ hours were severely cut, and everyone generally nestled into the coziness of doing nothing. Winter was Merida’s favorite time of year. She worked one shift a week, which gave her the rest of her days to spend in her cottage, surrounded by her things.
From the outside, the cottage Merida lived in was nicely groomed, with a mowed lawn, a fresh coat of baby blue paint, and a well maintained greenhouse. Inside would be described by a visitor as peculiar, slightly overcrowded. To Merida, it was a dream.
Merida had spent years collecting bits and pieces of a cohesive life. In total, Merida had lived in eight countries, twelve states, and thirty seven apartments before settling into her cottage. Everywhere she went she collected: objects, memories, mementos, she saved it all. When she turned 55 she made her final move, putting a down payment on a place where she could be all parts of herself, all at once. She had to visit five different storage units and three relatives to collect all of her stuff.
Walking through the cottage was like taking a trip through a museum of Merida’s brain, each corner organized by hobby, location, or profession. On the doors of her bedroom closet were drawings from school children in all different foreign languages. In the living room, next to the ornate window overlooking the ocean, sat a stunning grand piano, a cello, and a broken guitar. Arguably the most impressive part of the house was the library room, filled with books on all different topics.
Merida spent many happy winters alone in her cottage, allowing herself to be absorbed by all of her stuff. Each time she returned to a different interest, she found herself reverted to the person she was when she first discovered her passion for the task in front of her. On sunny days when she could take her baton outside, it was like she was back in her college marching band, twirling away in front of thousands of fans. Then she’d sit at the piano, and suddenly she was nine years old, taking lessons from the neighbor whose voice simultaneously created her deep love for music and frightened her into practicing her scales. She’d wander into the kitchen and bake the most delicious croissants, a relic from the years she spent in France teaching English for a visa, and going to pastry school for the love of a good baked treat. Merida was unphased by the loneliness and restlessness that plagued much of the rest of the town each winter. In her cottage, she was at least ten versions of herself, and how many more friends did a girl really need?
When Merida passed away, no one touched the cottage for five years. Her family’s grief slowly morphed into negligence for the estate, and eventually the government took possession of the property. Adrienne bought the place for dirt cheap. As a recent transplant to the small west coast town, she had no idea about the history of the property’s owner, and neither did the other residents.
The cottage sat up on a hill, nestled slightly out of the way from the hustle and bustle of summers downtown. There were only three immediate neighbors. All three neighbors knew the basics of Merida’s personhood. She was kind. They liked to visit her during her shifts at the restaurant. She always said hello when she walked down the street or saw someone from her greenhouse. No one knew much else.
As the heat of the summer turned to the crisp fall Adrienne began cleaning, sorting through Merida’s life like a rummage sale. Completely overwhelmed by the sheer amount of stuff, she called her friend Alicia to fly in and help.
“Thank you so much for coming in to help me,” Adrienne said to Alicia as she pulled in for a hug at the airport terminal.
“Anything for a friend. The free plane ticket really didn’t hurt.”
“I don’t think you quite understand what you’re getting yourself into. There’s so much junk just lying around. Like, nice junk though. It’s so weird. I can’t figure out where it came from.”
“Sounds like she’s a hoarder. Or maybe an antique store owner? These Oregonians are kinda weird right?”
“’Kind of’ is an understatement. I don’t think she was a hoarder though. Hoarders keep trash and shit. You might be onto something with the antiques,” Adrienne answered, unable to explain the property she’d adopted.
Approximately two hours later, the girls pulled into the driveway of the cottage.
“This is GORGEOUS,” Alicia gasped.
“Wait until you see the inside,” Adrienne smiled.
The pair walked up the steps and opened the door.
“Do you want a tour, or do you want to explore for yourself?” Adrienne asked her friend, who was clearly not expecting what she had just walked into.
“It’s not even dirty? What are we supposed to do with this stuff?”
“I have no clue.”
Alicia began to wander through the rooms of the house, and as Adrienne followed she noticed her friend’s eyes light up and her nose scrunch with each new discovery. She scanned the books in different languages, wiped the dust off the piano keys with her fingertip, and pondered the overabundance of niche baking tools in the cupboards of the kitchen. Adrienne had been so stressed about getting the house cleaned up and making it her own. The wonderment in her friend’s eyes allowed her to see the situation in a whole new light. Alicia always walked through the world with a childlike curiosity that Adrienne couldn’t quite replicate now matter how hard she tried. Deep in the back of the bedroom closet, Alicia reached up and found a dusty scrapbook.
“Look, this must be the woman who owned the place before.”
They sank into the couch and opened the book. The first page had the scribblings of a name: Merida Myers. The pages were filled with handwritten notes and photo prints all hastily hot glued together.
There were pictures of a baby in the suburbs of the midwest, a college kid in the marching band at Notre Dame, a young woman traveling around the world. Suddenly, the random possessions started to make sense. The last few pages of the book were dedicated to the cottage, with pictures of Merida at the beach, working in the greenhouse, and a rare photo of the cottage in the snow.
When Alicia closed the last page of the book, she stared off into space for quite a long time. This was unusual for the highly opinionated friend, whom Adrienne was sure would have a whole slew of commentary on the series of pictures that told the story of this stranger’s life.
“She knew she was going to die,” Alicia finally broke the silence.
“What?”
“She knew. Who else casually makes a book in chronological order of their entire life? She knew and she wanted to be remembered, or to reflect, or I don’t know. But she definitely knew she was dying.”
Adrienne didn’t respond. Together, the girls sat looking out at the water.
Alicia spoke once more, “She must’ve died alone out here. Why else would all of this stuff still be around? That’s so sad, to have all of this beautiful stuff, and this beautiful view in this beautiful house, but be all alone.”
After a long deliberation, Adrienne responded, “Is it really so lonely to be alone?”
Alicia faintly smiled, “I don’t know.” She got up off the couch and began to walk away, “You coming? We’ve got a lot of cleaning to do.”
It took the friends seven days to sort through everything in the house. They found buyers for the niche items and donated a few things to the local museum. Adrienne kept the piano, and the majority of the books. She also kept the scrapbook. Over the years the cottage became her own, and though life was much slower on the west coast, she never felt lonely. She said hello to her neighbors, worked busy summers at an upscale hotel downtown, and learned to love the winters all on her own.