Unexpected

When I first moved to Oregon, my ultimate goal was to live in downtown Portland and learn the ropes of the non-profit sector in an effort to start my own. For those of you who know the Portland job market, you're aware that it is an unforgiving beast of a process that most often leads to a dead-end time gobbling interview with employers who have made a plastic judgment about you five seconds after you've taken a seat in their conference room, sponsored by IKEA. By the time I entered the place that was to become my first professional home in the city, I was a battered little bunny rabbit that placed little stock in the possibility this employer would be any different from the other 7 from whom I'd already taken a beating. I would soon appreciate that being wrong can bring a comfort few have the pleasure to know.

On November 21, 2005, I started my career in the non-profit realm. I had much to learn, but my teachers were endlessly patient with my bottomless well of questions. It helped that they understood my loyalty wasn't some fly-by-night commodity, but a genuine commitment to the organization's mission, and they appreciated my willingness to learn, regardless of how annoying my tactics of knowledge acquisition might be.

I met remarkable people who wanted to make sure the past was preserved for future generations, and who wanted to ensure the Museums they maintain maximize the experience of the visitors and event revelers. Each person who works for this non-profit have one job title, but wear many uniforms. Not once have I heard "That's not my job" or "I don't feel like it." We were and are a team.

Over time, my role with the Museum has shifted and shaped itself from working full time as assistant to the Executive Director, David, to working part time as a technology caretaker and assistant to our Event Coordinator, Wynee. Every Sunday I look forward to hearing the organization news while I work through scheduling updates and technology clean-up. Wynee's tales are never dull, and always help the listener feel as if they were in the room when the story-worthy event happened.

I appreciate a person who knows how to laugh, and Wynee is one of those people. She's well aware that one of my biggest "things" is any sort of rodent in my immediate sphere of interaction, so one Sunday she sat me down to tell me a mouse wandered into her office the day before (the building is nestled on a wooded hillside) just to watch me jump ten feet in the air and let out a shriek of undelight. She was a merciful joker, though. She didn't let my fit go on for much longer than the immediate discontent, and settled me down with a cup of coffee and reassurance that she had already banished the little bastard back to its hillside domain.

Wynee died suddenly yesterday. I could say all of the standards about her: She was kind, hilarious, sweet, smart, professional, bawdy, and one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen, but it's all trite. None of those words, however apt, can do justice to the mother, friend, woman, who was Wynee. Every time I left the Museum she would ask me if I needed anything, sincerely wanted an answer, and would block the door until I gave it. We would part with a quick hug, a Hollywood air kiss, and a "Have a good week, Honey. Love you!"

Goodnight, Wynee. It has been an honor.