Wednesday, December 13, 2017 The Nugget Newspaper, Sisters, Oregon
21
Commentary...
Ground
broken for
assisted
living
facility
Of a certain age…
By Sue Stafford
Columnist
The Lodge In Sisters, with
an anticipated opening of
Fall 2018, will bring 62 resi-
dent assisted units to Sisters.
Groundbreaking on the project
occurred last week.
“This is exciting for us
and the community. It is a
long-shared dream to help
our senior neighbors seeking
a local assisted-living option
to remain close to their fami-
lies, friends, and connections
in Sisters,” said Peter Hoover,
manager of Thrivify LLC.
Thrivify LLC, newly
formed and based in Central
Oregon, recently purchased
seven acres on Carpenter Lane
and secured rights to use the
building design and plans for
The Lodge In Sisters.
“We felt we could bring
this much-needed asset to
Sisters, and are elated that our
negotiations were successful,”
said Hoover.
The Lodge’s design by local
architect Mayes Architecture
and Planning Inc. of Sisters,
is warm and welcoming. In
addition to studio, one-, and
two-bedroom accommoda-
tions, residents will enjoy a
grand room, on-site library,
theater, dining room, cha-
pel, fitness center, massage
room, beauty salon, activi-
ties area, café, walking path,
and courtyards with gardens.
The location near the Post
Office is close to shopping,
restaurants, and medical
services.
“We look forward to part-
nering with the community
and local businesses to ensure
our residents’ needs and
desires are amply fulfilled,
and their experiences enriched
by the breadth of everything
Sisters offers,” said Hoover.
“Living in Sisters gives an
unmatched quality of life, and
The Lodge will reflect that
quality.”
I distinctly remember a
particular present from my
father the Christmas of my
freshman year in high school.
It sat tantalizingly under the
tree, in the recognizable red
dress box from Charles F.
Berg’s Dark Horse clothing
store in Beaverton, with the
gift tag indicating it was To
Susie From Daddy.
The Dark Horse was one
of those places I loved to
peruse, lusting after the Lanz
dresses located on a raised
level in the rear of the store.
They were beautifully made
in Austria, with charming
Tyrolean prints and crisp
white collars and cuffs. They
were generally beyond our
budget, and I was fortunate to
inherit a few from my cousin
when she tired of them.
The red box, rich with
promise, was a bit of a puz-
zle, as my dad generally left
the gift-buying to my mother.
But my hopes were as high as
my impatience for Christmas
morning. Without hesitation,
I ripped into the mysterious
red box and its anticipated
contents. As the lid came off,
tissue paper concealed what
I was certain was a spanking
new Lanz creation.
On top of the tissue paper
was a single sheet of white
paper covered with my
dad’s familiar script. How
sweet, he had written a note
to accompany the dress. By
the end of the second or third
line, my hopes of feminine
fashion were dashed. It was
a poem, about my dog, Mr.
Beagle, and his need for a
new food bowl.
With his usual dry wit,
my dad had crafted a humor-
ous ditty as though written
by the dog. It was clever and
thoughtful and accompa-
nied a really nice shiny new
bowl for Mr. Beagle. As a
self-centered 14-year-old,
my dad’s gesture was lost on
me. No Lanz dress was all I
could focus on. I am embar-
rassed to admit that today. I
am sure the disappointment
registered clearly on my
face. These many years later
I don’t remember what I said
or did but I’m sure it was less
than gracious.
What I would give now
to receive a handwritten note
from my father — accompa-
nied by nothing more than his
presence. One more chance to
tell him I loved him and how
I appreciated his thoughtful
originality.
My dad was a quiet man,
in some ways a stoic, who
went to work every day to a
job I doubt he really enjoyed.
What he loved was being in
nature, with his hound dogs,
building things from wood,
free from the constraints of a
suit and tie.
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He was a man born in the
wrong century who spent a
summer as a young single
man in the wild interior of
British Columbia hunting and
fishing with native Indians.
Another summer, he worked
on a tramp steamer that took
him to far ports in foreign
lands.
I helped him plant a huge
vegetable garden every sum-
mer, and together we built
a fence that was meant to
contain the horse I always
wanted and never had.
With two older broth-
ers and no sister, he always
referred to me as his favorite
daughter. My special place as
a little girl was on his lap in
front of the crackling fires he
so expertly built every winter
evening. When I was little
and growing rapidly, I expe-
rienced bad leg aches and he
would rub my aching legs
and tickle my feet.
I went on many excursions
into the woods with him
and the dogs. On one such
adventure, we returned with
an orphaned baby raccoon
wrapped in my sweatshirt,
which I bottle-raised on
Pablum and Similac. My love
of nature and appreciation of
the interconnectedness of all
living things is perhaps the
greatest gift my father gave
me – one that has endured
and colored my entire way of
being in the world.
My father died of cancer
at age 73 — the age I am
this Christmas. His birth-
day was December 4. Since
moving to Sisters 13 years
ago, I have often wished he
could visit me here. He loved
Central Oregon and we used
to camp along the Metolius
River before the days of RVs
and campers.
This Christmas I will
recall, with great fondness,
that shiny new dog bowl and
my dad’s handwritten poem.