Coast Chronicles: Losing a beloved friend and other spring news

Published 8:13 am Monday, June 13, 2022

“In one sense there is no death. The life of a soul on earth lasts beyond his departure. You will always feel that life touching yours, that voice speaking to you.”

—Angelo Patri

No mow May

No-mow-May has turned, OMG, into jungle-June in my yard. The grass has grown up past my waist and some weeds as high as my shoulders. Jackson totally disappears when we venture to the lower lot, except in the rounded places where the deer have bedded down. I actually have a scythe in the garage; I wonder if I can work it?

OK, I was warned by OSU extension guy, Weston Miller (“Leaving your grass to grow unchecked for a month will make it more difficult to mow once you do start”). But, to tell the truth, I love watching nature take over. There are way too many places where we’ve beaten nature back on the Peninsula. We used to be off the beaten path, a gem in the rough; but now that we’ve been discovered, we need to be on maximum alert so we don’t lose what is most precious to us about where we live. For me that’s big trees, wildlife, pristine waterways, rural landscapes, and views. (I like some humans too!)

More and more house lots are simply being leveled. We can only keep what we love if we create a vision and plan for ourselves and our county. We need to create legislation to protect our beaches (no fireworks), our lands (requirements for planting or saving existing trees), our wildlife (support for wildlife rescue). It will take courage and consistency by all us citizens, our governmental representatives, and agencies. But we could do it. We must do it! Or, before we know it, we’ll look like Seaside.

Now to another sadness

We lost Nyel Stevens last week. Crazy writers, we always try to talk about loss when there are never words sufficient to carry the grief, the emptiness, the absence of the unique personality who’s left us behind on earth. But we continue to try. So I’ll try here to talk about my friend Nyel.

He was a quiet gem of a guy. He hitched his star to his beloved wife Sydney and they both blazed brilliantly in different ways. Nyel was a star in the kitchen. I sat with them at their dining room table many times — for casual dinners, for Thanksgiving meals, for meals I brought or collaborated on. Even from his wheelchair, Nyel was still a master in the kitchen, always looking for some new recipe to challenge himself.

One day last week, Sydney mentioned to Nyel, “We seem to have a lot of apples…” And a couple mornings ago Sydney called me to say, “I riffled through Nyel’s papers and the notes he left on the kitchen table and I found a recipe for ‘Apple Pan Dowdy.’” She could tell by the time and date stamp, that Nyel had gotten up early on the morning before he died to find and print that recipe. I took a copy of it — I’m counting it as one of Nyel’s last memos to the world. And for me, a child of Yakima Valley’s apple country, it’s almost sacred.

Obsidian

Another memory I cherish is the time Nyel called and said, “Do you want to come with us to find obsidian?” I said “Sure thing!” Then I hung up the phone and thought, “What?!” This was just after Aaron Webster’s demonstration of flint knapping for the Community Historian group; and the Ilwaco Museum display of his beautiful obsidian spear tips and fish in various poses.

Pull Quote

“Those of us who knew and loved Nyel will never forget him — tall and handsome, committed and loyal, meticulous and multi-talented — he was a man of few words, but when he spoke, such a straight talker.’

So, inspired by our expedition leader, Sydney and I readied ourselves — sturdy shoes, buckets, snacks, water, pry bar, protective goggles, bug spray — and we headed for central Oregon. Nyel had gotten a special treasure map from Aaron on the best obsidian fields (Glass Buttes in Deschutes National Forest between Bend and Riley). We pulled into the Prineville BLM office and got our permits (we could each gather 250 pounds!) and headed for our hotel.

The next morning found us out in the dry grasslands east of Bend bumping along on dirt roads trying to decipher Aaron’s map. “Stop!” I yelled. Looking out the window I’d seen black sparkles gleaming from the roadbed we were on. So we hopped out and dispersed, each returning for lunch under a big tree with buckets of shiny black obsidian. Nyel totally looked the part of a Wild West prospector with a rustic well-worn cowboy hat, striped shirt and suspenders, carrying his pickaxe. We had a blast. Sydney drove home, Nyel was co-pilot. I napped in the backseat.

Lunch with Nyel

Recently I had the opportunity to lunch with Nyel — just the two of us. (I brought potato leak soup — friend Kathy Lattin’s recipe — and spinach salad.) Our conversation covered a lot of ground: the changes in Oysterville, the current political climate as well as the weather, friends we had in common, and all things cuisine-related. I’ve since discovered that Nyel’s mother Muriel worked in a restaurant where he often ate and probably learned some cooking techniques. That may have planted the seeds for his interest and accomplishments in the kitchen.

Another revelation that fits my picture of Nyel is the fact that he loved tools and equipment. (He would have known how to use that scythe!) And he had a penchant for unusual historical activities. Sydney talked about the time they secured a deer hide and Nyel said he also needed a cow brain to tan it. (That brain resided in the freezer for some time.)

Also as Oysterville’s sesquicentennial approached in 2004, Nyel wanted to replace Oysterville’s cannon that had long ago been blown to smithereens by overly-enthusiastic oyster boys. After a trip to Gettysburg, Sydney and Nyel conceived of the idea to form The Honorary Oysterville Militia (T.H.O.M.) and sell commissions in order to purchase a replica 1841 Mountain Howitzer. Nyel was General of T.H.O.M. and presided over every cannon firing right up to the one this past Memorial Day.

“For Nyel, fun was the operative word,” says Sydney. Who could argue with that? Nyel was Sydney’s partner-in-crime for all manner of festive gatherings, on stage frivolities, and reasons for rounding up friends and family in party mode. The 150th year birthday party for their house — the H.A. Espy family home — where he and Sydney lived since 1999, was such an event. Nyel was present in tux, spats, boots, gloves, and hat, and many guests were in era-appropriate garb as well. (Nyel always liked a “dressy-uppy” affair.)

The Stevens’ Christmas parties are renowned: every room of the house was always booming with conversation and good cheer, and, not far away, good eats and a full bar. How many connections were made, stories told, plans devised, harmonious songs sung, creative ventures hatched in their gracious home? Innumerable! — and Nyel was at the center of it all.

For the last several years, Nyel and Sydney hosted Friday night gatherings (they only shut down during the height of covid). Last Friday, the first gathering without Nyel in his captain’s chair, Sydney hosted the standard get-together and a record-topping 20 friends showed up to hear about Nyel’s passing, celebrate his life, and circle Sydney with love.

The Oystershell Telegraph

We talked about how we all found out about Nyel’s death — it was a perfect example of the Oystershell Telegraph and small town communications. Tucker and Carol Wachsmuth were there in Oysterville when the EMTs arrived; soon Cyndy Hayward came calling. Sydney called her kids. She got in touch with my sis (I missed her first call) and Starla called me. I texted friends. Word got to audience members at the sold-out performance of the Oyster Crackers at PAC in Long Beach. (Bette Lu dedicated a song to Nyel from the stage.) More texts and phone calls rippled out. Nansen Malin got calls for flowers and passed the word around Seaview. Within hours of Nyel’s death, our close-knit community was responding with love, condolences, offers of help, and whatever else was needed.

Yes, life goes on. But those of us who knew and loved Nyel will never forget him — tall and handsome, committed and loyal, meticulous and multi-talented — he was a man of few words, but when he spoke, such a straight talker. He was the quiet hub around which an unusually vibrant whirl-windy life spun and sparkled.