By Kaitlyn Hardwick, Community Development Coordinator, City of Drain
On a Wednesday in July, I woke up in a cabin on the McKenzie River. The air was brisk and the sun won’t begin to rise for another hour. I’m sunburned from the previous day, so I try to enjoy the cool air while it lasts. This day will become very important to me, though at this early hour I’m unaware that it will bear any significance. In fact, at this early hour I’m not really aware of much at all, let alone something significant that’s coming my way. Right now, all my body knows is where to perfectly lay my head on my pillow for maximum comfort and coolness, and the subsequent sound of my alarm clock to crush those dreams. Did I mention it’s early?
I wake up early so I can have a few hours to myself before starting a busy day. Though rural work moves slowly, it’s not at all lacking the hustle and bustle of work in the city. Rural work moves slowly because we work thoughtfully. The stakes are higher because the people feeling the impact of the work are your neighbors, or the barista at the coffee place down the road, or the familiar stranger you see at the grocery store every Saturday. Though, my early rising on this particular day is not to prepare for a busy day of rural service, it’s to prepare for an emotional final day with the RARE members that I spent the previous 11 months with.
After forcing myself awake at a quarter to 5, I went down to the communal kitchen and reheated my leftover pizza, a decision that would ultimately leave me with a chipped tooth —but a warm belly — on this cold morning. I hiked back up the stairs in the dark with my pizza, trying not to wake any of the other sleeping RARE members on our last day of service. On this trek back up to my room, I was blissfully unaware that this pizza would bear any significance. This particular day has become very important to not only me, but also my dentist, because me and my chipped tooth are keeping her in business. After many months and many appointments, I’m still not able to chew on the right side of my jaw. I know what you’re thinking: … a chipped tooth? Well, that tooth was probably bound to chip anyway, it was just by chance that it was when I was eating pizza. Nonetheless, that ended up being a very expensive piece of pizza.
On this cold, early morning, I spent a few quiet hours by myself. While I was unknowingly enjoying the last few minutes of my life with 28-fully-intact teeth, I reflected on my year, my work, and my life. I spent my service year in Drain working on a stormwater quality program and a park development plan. The park development plan was a beast in itself: it gnawed at me all year; it was there when I turned corners; it was hiding in my closet and under my bed while I slept; it lurked in the dark until I was no longer afraid of it. The work felt important, but it’s difficult to see impact when you’re just planning, not building. Detailed planning is important to any big project, but detailed planning doesn’t always turn into big projects. Especially if your funding is not guaranteed, it’s a gamble that’s tough to grapple with.
This is a fear I had from the start: what if I spend 1700 hours of my life working on a park plan and it never happens? What if my project plan isn’t as good as I think it is and I’m unable to secure funding? Will I be satisfied with the work I did if the project doesn’t come to fruition? I didn’t plan for failure. I don’t mean that in a cocky way, I simply wouldn’t be capable of moving forward with park planning if I were to accept the idea that all this work could be for nothing.
During my quiet reflection on this cold, early morning, I contemplated how I’d move forward if I was faced with this disappointment. A skill that I just can’t seem to kick is my impressive ability to think and think and think, until I’m spiraling. I spiraled all the way into my email, where I’ve been obsessively checking to see if my project will receive $1 million in grant funding from the state. I’ve checked my email at all hours for the last 6 weeks, anxiously waiting to either be disappointed, or to be awarded such a large sum of money that I’d feel like I’m floating. This day, and this very cold and early
morning along the McKenzie River where I chipped my tooth, would become a significant moment in my life. On that morning before the sun came up, with the sound of the river rushing right outside my window, I checked my email and floated away. I floated so high that the words “CONGRATULATIONS” were no longer profound enough to reach the height at which I was soaring. To find such an email in my inbox on the last day of my service term was nothing short of kismet.
I came back down to earth, back to my room in the cabin along the McKenzie, and waltzed downstairs to the once-quiet kitchen, now bustling with RARE members who’d awoken sometime between my chipped tooth and my million-dollar flight. I shared my news and our RARE cohort shared a big moment of joy. The first few hours of my day had such a profound impact on my life, how was the rest of the day supposed to live up to that? Well, it didn’t, and that is something I’m content with. That Wednesday in July is memorialized by its early morning, my chipped tooth, and a million dollars to build a park.
About the author, Kaitlyn Hardwick: Kaitlyn was born and raised in West Linn, OR. She received her Bachelor of Science in Earth Science and Environmental Science from the University of Oregon in 2022. During her time at the UO, Kaity participated in undergraduate research for the City of Eugene that sought to identify the most effective fuel-treatments to prepare for a prescribed fire in at-risk oak and prairie ecosystems. Kaitlyn is currently completing her second year of service with the RARE AmeriCorps program and is passionate about the work she is doing for the City of Drain.