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Returning to the once tranquil site

Paul & Verleen George

Paul and Verleen George hold an article I'd written about them.
Photo by Oscar Roloff.

Oscar Roloff by Oscar Roloff
I'd traveled to a pleasant place near Duvall I'd first seen thirty years ago. Upon arrival, a 30-ish lady looked at me and said, "I haven't seen you in three decades. I was seven years old then. You came out to see my parents Paul and Verleen George."
   True. What an excellent memory. Out of embarrassment, I didn't tell her I couldn't remember her.
   Sitting at a table in the George home, I asked how the once-beautiful wooded site was doing. Wondered if it had completely gone back to nature's bosom.
   Once it was a splendid sight to behold when Theodore Smith had arrived from Germany, bought the forested land, and began a lovely project to cleave a number of winding paths here and there, install concrete benches and concrete water fountains being furnished water from several winding placid streams chock-a-block with trout. Then deer still abounded, and birds of all kinds were seen and fed by Theodore, etc.
   When I arrived there 30 years ago, I saw what the man had carved and admired his work. He had a huge log cabin that has since succumbed.
   The "glen" to one side will remain the same, Paul said, and no bulldozer blade will ever touch the now forest-protected site. For one thing, Theodore's brother-in-law's remains are there in a small concrete container or urn. It's untouchable. They know where it is, and I know, but no one will ever bother it. It's where he asked to be buried.
   Pertaining to the accompanying photo, the couple said they'd never seen my article. Often they take long journeys here and there and miss a paper or two.
   It was in 1961 that the couple had purchased the "glen" and adjoining land and left Theodore's "creation" to be received to return to Mother Nature. The site reminds me of how Gold Creek Park of Woodinville used to be when created by a German immigrant who had seen a similar "Park" in Germany. I'd interviewed the immigrant's granddaughter who furnished me the original information and background.
   As I finished my coffee, I casually mentioned that all of the water witchers I'd written about have since witched their last wands. I added, "Only I, the writer, remain."
   Whereupon they said that not too long ago, they had a water witcher come out, and his wand failed to find water. "What's his name?" I asked, adding, "I'll do a story on him."
   They told me and added that the witcher's cousin has a very famous name. When I heard his name, I agreed. I'd met him once. Rather than mention it now, I'll get in touch with the man and do my own story on him. Thus other writers won't be able to get a scoop on me.
   Play it close to my vest is my motto. I called and arranged to do an article on him.