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®
