The Fog-Shroud of Memory

We were lost.

We were driving through a foreign city.  Eugene, Oregon.  It was a city foreign to our present, but so familiar in our past.  Nearly 30 years ago, Jean and I had lived here, worked here, gone to school here, given birth to two children here.  Why did nothing look familiar?  Had the city changed, or was it us?  Our memories were blurred by the soft, unfocused fog-shroud of memory, as omnipresent as the clammy mist which blankets western Oregon.

We'd ju...