Gathering her reticule and valise, Joy followed other passengers in disembarking. With the assistance of a porter, she descended the portable stairs onto Oregon ground. The depot bustled with people calling greetings and rushing to and fro. She inhaled deeply, glancing around. A tall, elderly man, with an equally tall woman beside him, stood a few paces from her.
The gentleman called, "Excuse me, Miss, but is your name Joy Ryder?" He smiled slightly as he said her name.
"Yes, sir, it is. Are you Mr. Jake Jerome?"
"I am one and the same, and this is my wife Pauline."
The couple, with the wife's hand tucked in her husband's elbow, approached until they were directly in front of Joy.
Mrs. Jerome said, "It's so lovely having you here. When your uncle contacted us about opening our home to you so you could paint our lovely countryside, we couldn't have been happier. Welcome to 'The End of the Trail'!"
Joy felt relief replace her previous apprehension over meeting her new hosts.
Mr. Jerome said, "Why don't we locate the loading dock so you can point out your trunk?"
While the small trunk was being unloaded and carted to the running-board luggage rack of Mr. Jerome's shiny vehicle, Mrs. Jerome said, "Now, Joy, you must call us by our first names. None of this formal stuff. We're just simple, country folk. Speaking of which, we'd like to treat you to lunch at our favorite country diner before heading home. As for our property, it's rural and lovely and will give you many hours of painting pleasure. We're about an hour west of town."
The diner Mrs. Jerome was so fond of was appropriately named, "Trail's End," and after a delicious meal of fried chicken, potato salad, corn bread, and apple cobbler for dessert, they began their journey in a vehicle Mr. Jerome proudly said was a 1915 Ford Model T. Although there were buckboards pulled by horses clogging the roadways, he exclaimed, "Automobiles are the wave of the future. One day all these horse-drawn vehicles will be replaced by the horseless carriage. You mark my words."
Mrs. Jerome turned to smile at Joy in the backseat. "And Jake is never wrong. Why twenty years ago he predicted that women would receive the right to vote. And now it's upon us."
Mr. Jerome smiled lovingly at his wife. To Joy, he said, "If we can do anything to make your stay more comfortable, you just let us know."
Joy replied, "Thank you for your kindness in taking me into your home. I know I shall be perfectly content."
Jake said, "Your Uncle Luke is a good friend and when he contacted us about hosting you for several weeks, we were thrilled at the prospect. Meeting your uncle has been one of the highlights of our lives. Several years ago he came here seeking interviews with folks who had traveled the Oregon Trail so he could incorporate that bit of history into his adventure stories. Of course, I didn't travel the trail, but my dear wife did and lost her parents to cholera. She was taken in by the Prudence Pittance Orphanage here in Oregon City. In fact, the orphanage was founded by a woman who traveled on the same wagon train as my father and stepmother back in the late sixties. Their journey began in Westport Landing, Missouri, and ended here in Oregon City. It's quite a story. My father was contacted by a widow with a young son and asked to drive her oxen on a cross country trip that could take as long as five months or more. He was reluctant because he'd just returned from the Civil War—of course at that time it was called The War of the States—but his conscience finally made him accept the job. Over the course of their travels, they fell in love and later married. My father and birthmother had divorced when I was a baby, even though that was unheard of at the time, and I hadn't seen my father since the age of three, that is until he came to visit me in Texas when I was fifteen. At the age of eighteen, I traveled to Oregon, mostly by rail, and fell in love with the state. And if I hadn't already decided to make it my home, I certainly would have when I met Pauline at a local hoedown when I was nineteen."
Pauline grinned at Joy. "Before we reach home, my husband will have told you our entire history. I think that's why he and Luke get along so well. They both like to tell stories."
Jake laughed. "When Luke was here I introduced him to my father and stepmother and they gladly described their journey along the trail that was traveled by an estimated 400,000 people. Imagine that. There's even a portion of the track passing through our property with the ruts of wagon wheels etched like scars into the landscape. And I don't mean that in a bad way. Scars are nature's way of healing so we don't forget what's gone on before. Some are deep and visible, others tiny and almost imperceptible. My dear Pauline lost her parents and her scars are deep…but healed. She often talks about her mother and father and shares her memories. For a long time, she couldn't do that, but now it's as if her parents are just down the road from our home."
Joy pondered his words. "I think I know what you mean. My grandmother Abby traveled from Philadelphia to Texas to become a mail order bride. After a time of getting to know each other, she and my grandfather fell deeply in love. My grandfather had three children, Luke, Jenny, and Ty, and my Grammy Abby loved his children like her own, and when Ty died of pneumonia only a few months after her marriage to my grandfather, it almost killed her. The way she tells it, she was unable to function even in the smallest way. It was only through much love from her family that she was finally able to go on. I have often heard her talk about Ty and the funny things he would do. I believe her scar runs deep, but just like Pauline's, it's healed, and sometimes I imagine I see little Ty holding the skirts of my grammy's dress just like he did when she was young." Joy became silent and wondered if she had spoken too much of her personal thoughts aloud.
Pauline reached into the back seat and patted her knee. "My dear, you shall become a great artist because you have the gift of seeing what others cannot. I swear that I can also see my parents at times, just as you see little Ty."
The remainder of the drive was filled with conversation punctuated by Jake pointing out the different flora and fauna of the land he so obviously loved: reddish-orange Indian paintbrush, purple Oregon iris, pink rhododendron, and the State Flower, Oregon grape, whose yellow flowers in summer would become bluish-black berries in the fall. Joy's hands itched to replicate such beauty on canvas. She imagined interspersing the flowers with the many species of ferns, and painting them beneath a canopy of conifers, poplars, maples, and alders. Yes, Oregon was heaven on earth.