Until I moved to California, I had drifted through years of discontent without being fully aware. Now, here, in this place, my need for permanence has revealed itself. Yet I live in a house on wheels, the most insubstantial of dwellings, on a lot that I do not own, below sea level on acreage that has seen levees savaged by the rushing waters, the unrelenting rage of fire and earthquakes, and the battering ram of the perennial fierce winds. Still, I crave the solid home that I sold seven years ago to make start the odyssey of my last decades.
When duties abate, however brief the window, I head to the ocean. My river home comforts me, but the Pacific’s voice lures me westward. I cannot camp, or hike, or kayak but I can drive. My car takes me from spot to spot, places that I have visited often enough to have my own memories. Seven years slipped away before I realized the full impact of my move to the Delta.
The Russian River hits the sea just south of Jenner, flowing under the Coastal Highway a half mile south of there. A restaurant sits above the River near the intersection of Highway 116. When I first moved to California, a Russian Club occupied the spot. During the pandemic, you could stop for bootleg tea and sit outside. The silent, somber waitstaff took your cash and brought steaming pots of fragrant brew. Warm eyes squinting over masks signified welcome, even as everyone tacitly acknowledged that none of us should be there.
Now the place has become relentlessly cheerful, sporting a big sign promising real food. The menu clarifies that you’ve come to Jilly’s Roadhouse, where you can get a hamburger, mac-and-cheese, and a few other items that most folks would find hearty, even delectable. I sat by the window and studied the river, before ordering lemonade and the only thing that I could vaguely consider eating, a beet salad with candied walnuts, hold the cheese, and please make sure that the nuts do not have honey. The waitress checked; in an earnest tone, she assured me of my general safety. She placed a plate of sourdough bread and a ramekin of onion jam next to my salad, and quietly withdrew, leaving me to my book and my solemn gaze downriver.
In my first year as a Californian, that half year when I had one foot on the banks of the Missouri still, I drove this way and found myself on a flooded road behind a mudslide. On this Sunday, in mid-August of my seventh year as a California resident, I drove the same route after lunch, heading inland. I studied the stretch of green to the south of the roadway and wondering if 2018’s terrifying floods had enriched the soil. My car filled with the heady fragrance of summer, pine needles, rich earth, and ripening stone fruit. I thought I might be right; I spied a tree that stood in water that day, as I sat in traffic watching roadcrews shovel silt.
Driving home last weekend, I passed through towns clustered on the river’s edge. I pulled into each turn-out as I headed east to let a cluster of impatient cars rush past. I stopped only once, to wander through a roadside sale in Guerneville. There I declined to pay fifty dollars for a brass box that its seller touted as a vintage stamp-roll holder. I guess she took me for an easier mark than I actually proved to be. A patchwork jumper tempted me until I saw its rayon content. I do not need to own anything that requires special care. I considered it, though; before remembering that I only have 21 inches of hanging space already jam-packed with dresses. Surely I did not need another one. No one sees the dozen which I already own with sufficient frequency to spark familiarity.
Miles of two-lane blacktop fell behind me as my vehicle made its way back to the banks of yet another California waterway. I pulled into the park not long before twilight. I tarried, as I nearly always do, listening to the metal of my engine cool. Warm sunlight filled the western sky, spreading its orange glow on the billowing clouds. Hours and days loomed before me, moments when inevitable choices between happiness and gloom would present themselves. A twinge in my chest reminded me of the approaching fortieth anniversary of my mother’s death. Unanswered emails and unopened texts foretold of other obligations, some pleasant, some daunting. Eventually I made my way onto the stairs of my porch, backpack slung over my left shoulder. One Sunday in between barely suffices to restore my flagging soul. I made the best of it, though, then came back home, to the tiny house called Angel’s Haven, where worries and wonder waited beside each other in the gathering gloom of a summer’s night.
Mugwumpishly tendered,
Corinne Corley
The Missouri Mugwump®
