Rain hammers on the steel roof of my tiny house, over and over in its relentless erratic pattern. A podcaster drones between clips of Jack Smith’s deposition. I think, briefly, of just playing the whole thing but eight hours? It won’t change my mind. Soundbites will do, though I did listen to the entire opening statement. Its primary impact on me? It drew forth my longing to practice law again.

Earlier, I listened to another group talk about the waning year. They seemed to agree that events unfolded more starkly than they predicted yet they seemed hopeful. Each offered a unique point of view but all agreed that America had squandered her soft power, caused the death of thousands, and left millions without the ability to buy health insurance. What a mess, I thought, as I boiled potatoes and heated tempeh in my favorite little cast iron skillet.

The electric heater has quieted. In a minute, I will need to go wind its dial. I’ve been thinking of installing a different kind of heat — propane, possibly, or a small wood stove. I would put that in a corner of my sitting room and watch the flames as I wrapped myself in the shawl that I’ve carried from home to home since 1987. A weaver in Arkansas made it. I think of winter in those mountains, of the mud, and the snow, and the quiet hours with no television and howling wind. December in the Delta reminds me of the wintry Ozarks and I am a bit taken aback to think of how many years have fallen away since my time there.

I spent last week in Missouri, first in St. Louis and then across the state in KC. I spent several hours in Union with my brother Kevin and his sweet wife Melissa, in their cheerful, cozy home with original art and eclectic curios. My sister Joyce and I had a wonderful time thrift-shopping and talking over small plates in a restaurant at the hotel where I stayed, thanks to her largesse. Before heading west, I had breakfast with a high school friend and met her husband and grown children. Then off to 39th Street and Prospero’s Books, Rm 39, and the Plaza. Friend after friend greeted me with hugs and grins. Their enthusiasm shocked me. The five-day trip seemed to last five seconds. The list of people whom I could not see presses against my heart. At 70, I recognize that each trip home might be my last, or the last chance to spend time with any one of those kind souls who have enriched my life for decades.

I did not drive past my old house. I know the woman who bought it from me has made her own memories in it. She’s had a beautiful child, photos of whom I have seen on social media. I did not sell to the highest bidder. Instead, I chose someone whom I thought would love the place as much as I did. While I miss that bungalow, the fact that the new owner gets to raise her daughter there confirms the rightness of my selection.

Seeing those photos also solidifies my keen realization that while I will always be welcome in my Kansas City haunts, it is not truly my home any longer. This 200 square-foot rectangle and the rural area in which it sits fill that role now. I live among people with their own tiny houses and trailers, in the circle which surrounds the big meadow here, the old oaks, and the shady rows on the east side of the park. A ten-mile stretch of levee road defines our neighborhood. Around its curves, other parks and marinas form their own small hives. Boats navigate the sloughs and pull into slips, tie themselves to the dock with sturdy knots, and hunker down for the cold weeks ahead. The rain comes, and the wind blows, and the swans drift into the curves under the dying hyacinth.

Another year will dawn in four hours. I will likely fall asleep before that moment. I will wash the dishes, start a load of clothes, and drape my tired limbs in woolen blankets. The sound of the rain will be the last thing I hear before closing my eyes and surrendering to the satisfaction of sleep. When morning comes, I will embrace the prospect of a year to fill as I choose. As I wait for the kettle to boil so I can brew my coffee, I will, no doubt, make a reckless host of resolutions, some of which I might even keep.

Mugwumpishly tendered,

Corinne Corley

The Missouri Mugwump®