Two men stood at the door to the shop yesterday, seemingly blocking access.  I pulled it open from inside, asking, May I help you?  One turned and gestured to his mastiff, lapping from the metal bowl of water at his feet.  I smiled and signaled comprehension.  

He told me that they had come with a photographer engaging in an effort to document the Delta.  His gaze shifted to someone on the opposite curb, crouching in front of the broad window of an abandoned storefront papered to guard against prying eyes.  He had aimed his lens through a torn spot and seemed to be documenting the emptiness.  

He finds the old buildings to be a fascinating indicia of the area’s decline, the dog owner told me.  I shook my head and turned to the other man, asking if he’d like to come see the art.  No, we’re good, he said, and then the two moved away, I suppose to join their friend with his fixation on failure.

As for myself, I prefer to think of our town as on the upswing.  The pandemic hit this place hard, as it did many small towns.  Artists moved away; businesses failed.  But some endured and others opened, and now we’re the stalwart few, staging a comeback, posting pictures of open signs, each other’s fare, and our own merchandise with clever quips.

Isleton sits in the southwestern edge of Sacramento County.  I spend three days a week here.   Monday through Thursdays, I work in Rio Vista, over the Sacramento River in Solano County.  It feels more generic there but it has fewer empty storefronts and more going concerns.  I cross the divide twice a day, traveling to and from my home.  I live in neither city; instead, I crouch among the eclectic folks who make their homes along the San Joaquin and the Mokelumne on the Delta Loop in RV parks that have seen, certainly, better days.  We call ourselves The Land of Broken Toys.

Now another day has dawned.  I sit on my green metal stool and eat a stale cookie that I anticipate I will regret.  Last night, I laid awake too long wondering why my new neighbor feels compelled to illuminate her porch 24/7/365 (at least, so far).  We have very little crime and mostly just light-fingered opportunism.  A boat might get vandalized or stolen in the slough, but our fifteen-acre park sees little stealth. 

But she might feel lonely.  Perhaps the light that tortures my sleep secures rest for her.  I do not know.  I’ve exchanged only a few dozen words with her, during which she told me what she does during the week and pointedly mentioned that my generator sits a foot over the lot line.  I studied its perch, around which weeds have grown in the five years since we settled it on the old concrete pad of the nearest sewer clean-out.  I told her that I would get someone to move it.  She spared me a crisp nod and went back into her tiny house, leaving me and my friend Michelle to ponder the newest challenge.

Out where I live, everything seems more difficult to manage and, somehow, simpler at the same time.  Is it muddy? Wear boots.  Need groceries?  Check with your neighbors for their list before you head to Lodi.  When we go anywhere, we gauge the travel time not in miles or minutes but in river-crossings.  A deep channel might delay the trip by half an hour or more, depending on your timing.  We sit and listen to our radios, watching for the ship.  Maybe we make a phone call or finish a podcast.  Tourists ogle.   Impatient locals post on social media as though they’ve never encountered a lift bridge before that moment.  Eventually, though,  the vessel passes; the bridge lowers or swings closed; and traffic moves.  It always does.  It always will.

Mugwumpishly tendered,

Corinne Corley

The Missouri Mugwump®

The little boy standing at my feet had dark hair compared with the blond curls of my own child.  He tugged at my jacket and urged me to lean closer so he could talk over the ruckus of the pre-school.

“Mrs. Patrick Corley’s Mommy,” he whispered.  “Can I come over to Patrick Corley’s house one day?”  

I patted his shoulder and smiled, saying that I would call his mother and we’d work something out.  He needed no more commitment to trigger a wide grin.  As the child scampered over to where Patrick stood, I felt a warm flush.  At 36, I had given birth to a golden bundle of unlimited joy.  At 40, I heard myself called something that I considered the greatest honor imaginable.

Mrs. Patrick Corley’s Mommy was not, in fact, married; nor would she ever have wanted to be known by the married woman’s title even when she was.  A devout feminist nonetheless burdened by a massive Cinderella complex, I’ve been a daughter, a sister, a lawyer, an advocate, and a wife.  But being a mother afforded an unshakeable and unexpected sense of worthiness. 

I had endured a difficult 34 weeks to bring my son into the world.  Early in the pregnancy, I learned that I would be a single mother with no co-parent.  Two months later, I found out that I had been carrying twins because I lost one of them.  My dysfunctional body shook and quivered as my uterus expanded.  I went into labor in a courtroom in Louisiana, the contractions intensifying as our pilot made a mad dash for home in a Cessna 206 chased by a spring thunderstorm. 

I went into even more intense labor two days before a scheduled C-section, an experience that I cherished for several hours.  Then I became hysterical, demanding that the midwife end the progression to delivery as midnight on July 07th struck and I realized that the child might be born on his biological progenitor’s birthday.  The midwife gently refused, leaning down to assess the situation and shaking her head.  I kept writhing in pain until she decided that the lack of dilation would necessitate calming the situation until the following day.

Accordingly, at 12:59 p.m. on 08 July 1991, I assumed a new, exhilarating role.  My little boy entered the world unblemished and laughing.  They laid him on my chest and my uncontrollable tears flowed.  My friend Laura leaned over my shoulder with an awestruck expression, lifting one timid finger to touch a breathtakingly precious tiny hand.  I had no idea how I would serve in the new role.  But smiles overtook my sobs as the child made his gentle sounds.  The noises of the delivery room rose unnoticed around me.  I heard nothing but him; I saw nothing but him.  When they gently lifted my child from me to take him for testing, the warmth of his small body lingered along with the heady scent that only a newborn baby emits.

I have never, and will never, forget that moment.  I recall my first words, Laura’s exclamation, the chatter of the doctor and midwife as they counted sutures and scalpels.  The brightness of the overhead lights; the cool touch of the surgical drapes; the smiles of the pediatric nurses:  Everything lives in a heavenly oasis in the otherwise grim swamps of my aging and weary brain.

Mrs. Patrick Corley’s Mommy.  In the three-and-a-half decades since his birth, my son has given me laughter in my darkest moments and wise words in some of my most confused hours.  He called 9-1-1 when I fell; got the neighbor when I broke my toes and couldn’t walk; and dragged a cover into the living room when I’d unknowingly had a TIA and couldn’t drag myself to the phone or my own bed.  I have boxes filled with lovely pictures that he drew in elementary school.  My windows sport laminated birds that he constructed out of crisp brown leaves in kindergarten and notes saying that he hopes I like what he could make for me at Christmas.  A binder holds his story of himself, written in careful block letters and thoughtful sentences.  I cherish it all.

We had some rough years, my son and I.  Decisions that seemed wise at the time proved foolish.  He rebelled in ways that astonished and frightened me.  But we made our way.  For the last decade or more, he’s walked a road of his own, with no guidance from me.  He has drawn from deep within himself to reveal a gentleness that I always saw, and I could not be more proud of him.  I do not know what the future holds for him but I know that he has navigated enough rocky waters with finesse to handle what life gleefully presents.

It is already July 09th where he lives though I have two more hours of his birth anniversary where I am.  I have not spoken to him today but I have confidence that whatever he chose to do, he embraced every moment of it.  I sent gifts, and a card with a dragon on it to honor that pre-school where, long ago, his friend begged for a playdate with my son.  One of my greatest joys lies in knowing that my son chooses his own path and has taken within himself the tools to put one foot in front of the other slowly, surely, and strongly.

I will always be Mrs. Patrick Corley’s Mommy, and I don’t suggest that a grown man doesn’t need his parental unit.  But I stand in the shadows now, watching him soar in the dazzling sunlight.  He might falter, he might fall, he might fail.  But he will always and ever make his mother proud, by the man that he is, by the kindness that he shows, and by the unrelenting grace that he radiates.

Happy birthday, my son.  May you have many more, and may they all give you as much happiness as being Mrs. Patrick Corley’s Mommy has brought to me.

Mugwumpishly tendered,

Corinne Corley

The Missouri Mugwump®

The high school religion teacher whom I most recall taught us to lie on our backs under trees and gaze into the sunlit branches.  I can’t do that anymore; my back would ache and I’d have to summon help to stand.  But I can tilt my head from the comfort of my porch and scan the oaks for birds.

Scores of them settle as evening falls.  Even more herald the rising sun.  I work on the layout of my little deck and think about mornings in Brookside, with our umbrella maple rising high and wide to catch the sweet rays of dawn.  That maple split in an ice storm one year.  Half of it fell across our porch.  We dealt with the mess, eventually; but the tree remained lopsided for the next decade.  You could see the sunset, filtered through its leaves and streaming through the open air on one side.

Whether I can see the horizon depends on who parks next to me at any given time.  For several years, my view of the western sky has been blocked by a blue tiny house.  But I’ve had an empty lot to the east followed by a small van for just as long, so I could see the dawn from my window if I focused on the skyline beyond the adjacent lots.  Whatever benefit comes from staring into the dappled leaves has inured to my benefit.  My soul stills and my psyche calms.

As I cruise into the last years of my earthly existence, sunrise and sunset become more significant.  Each day that I live brings possibility but now the moments radiate with the bittersweet tang of mild regret combined with gentle hope.  So I take every chance that I can to engage in the Jerry Curran tree therapy, sitting in my twenty-dollar porch rocker, surrounded by ivy and fluttering hummingbirds.  I rock, and I think, and I ruminate.  The breeze dances, the birds chatter, and the squirrel chases its mate.  I do not know if there is a God in a place called heaven but for the time being, at least, all is right with the world.

Mugwumpishly tendered,

Corinne Corley

The Missouri Mugwump®