The month eases to a close.  As I drove the levee road today, a lone egret rose from a muddy bank beside a silent tractor.  I watched the broad sweep of its wings and the easy bend of its legs tucked beneath its torso.  My car slowed.  Within its confines, I closed my eyes to feel the wind that the bird must feel; the roll of air, the rush of scent; the caress of warmth from the morning sun.  

I lowered the windows.  Gentle sounds penetrated the small space.  A bee drifted through, ignoring the clumsy human straining to keep out of its path.  A few weeks ago, on another road, at another hour, a small bat got lost in my car, landing on the mess of my Lebanese curls.  Panic rose in this city-girl’s heart as we two creatures flailed in the seconds of the unexpected meeting.  Eventually the bat escaped and my heart’s wild beat subsided.  The incident left its impression, though; and I do not tarry long in evening hours.

Winter seems to approach.  Workers raised dust clouds around me as they hastened to finish the harvest.  They tied canvas strings under their chins to secure wide-brimmed hats against their brows, aware that September’s cool evenings with their hint of early rain do not tell the full picture of autumn weather.  Truckloads of tomatoes lumber past, taking the bountiful yield to some faraway plant where it will become bottles of catsup and cans of sauce.   

Eventually,  I eased my foot from the brake,  but not before a memory flashed by, a glimpse of my son sitting on that very ground beside the field of green tomatoes.  I halted again, experiencing once more the rough contours of the irrigation ditch beneath my clumsy feet, watching my boy settle on a mound of dirt to open his pack.  We shared a snack of cold water, fresh fruit, and generous swaths of sunbutter on sourdough bread.  Along with this simple fare, we joined in moments of silence as the sun set over the turbines near Rio Vista.  I can still taste the sweetness of the near-ripe banana. I can still feel the rush of love for which I had no words.

It’s the twenty-eighth day of the one-hundred and twenty-ninth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

 

When my son arrived on the 29th of August, I thought we had an eternity in which to reacquaint ourselves.  We had an amazing weekend at the Russian River and then returned to my ‘real’ life and his temporarily relocated existence.  Time stood still; time accelerated; I luxuriated in this chance to see my son as an adult and found myself aghast when the seventeen days dissolved into tissue on the floor.

We walked, we talked, we laughed, we cried.  I do not pretend to speak for him.  As for Patrick Corley’s mother, I challenged myself to undertake any expedition that he proposed.  We went where he wanted; watched videos that he eagerly recommended; and ignored my self-imposed limitations.  We went to a park and choose the farthest picnic table.  I eased myself down to sit on rocks adjacent to a lake in the foothills.  I watched birds peck at the cliff in front of me and sank within the folds of unexpected joy.  I grasped the walking stick that my son bought for me many years ago at the Ren Fest and hauled myself from that lakeside, dusty and tired but exhilarated.  We drove an hour so that I, a vegetarian, could eat catfish fillet and hush puppies while he sampled perch and potato salad.  The chef beamed at us.  We felt like we’d gone back to the streets of Kansas City, to a simpler time and a smaller place.

Perhaps we yearned for somewhere that we had never actually been; a place that we only imagined as home.

On the evening before his flight back to Chicago, we cleaned the cabin that the park manager had let him use.  We packed his clothes and personal items.  We stowed anything I had brought for him to use in the back of my car.  We dined on leftover fish and a mushroom frittata.  More words flowed.  Hope danced in the clean corners.  From the southern window, we watched the moon rise and shared a long, silent breath.  

In the morning, we walked across the park to the community room.  A few last introductions happened; a few more conversations unfolded; a few more turns on the gravel road saw the slow, easy step of our feet.  We carried his packs outside and locked the door of the cabin seconds before his ride pulled into the lot behind my car.  He wrapped his arms around me.  He cradled a small succulent in a clay pot in his hand to carry back with him.  Renee opened her trunk and he swung his bags over its edge.  The car door opened. He smiled over his shoulder.  And then, with a backwards glance and a gleam in his eye, he left me standing on the wooden steps of an old park model in a former KOA on the banks of the San Joaquin River.

It’s the eighteenth day of the one-hundred and twenty-ninth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

For the last four days, I consumed food that I know, for certain, that my body despises.  At the end of the weekend, I paid the price.  Everything that I should have avoided, I embraced with glee; and everything that I should have sought, I disdained.  I know the forfeit; I suffered it; and I began my work week with no small measure of trepidation.

Otherwise, the launch of my birthday week held joy.  My son landed in California on Thursday.  After a day at the shop, we headed north by northwest to an Airbnb in Duncans’ Mills.  As with many encounters between geographically distant adult children and their parental units, the first few hours lapsed into that delicate dance. 

Will she accept my life-choices? 

Will he begrudge mine? 

Will four days in a studio override any progress made during the three-hour drive?  

Inquiring minds wish to know.

We saw the sunset from ten miles inland.  The vehicle crested the Pacific Coast Highway as dusk rose around us.  We turned north, passing Goat Rock State Park and the defunct Russian Club, the erstwhile location of which boasted a “Coming Soon” banner announcing the impending arrival of a restaurant planning to serve what it modestly described as “real food”.  This provided some amusement and the attempt at a long-winded retelling of my experience at the Russian Club.

I interrupted the narrative to provide verbal navigation three miles inland on 116 to the rental unit.  Night had claimed the Russian River so marveling over its splendor had to be delayed until morning.  We stowed the food, selected our sleeping corners, and wished each other refreshing sleep.  Good night, John Boy.

After breakfast and a couple hours of scene appreciation, we tried for elevenses at Cafe Aquitica in Jenner but one glance at the long lines sent us continuing northward, towards Ocean Cove Bar and Grill where my friend Randy Carey would be idling at the counter with his beautiful wife Kimi awaiting our arrival.   I think he half-expected that I would actually come.   Cell reception eluded us, so only my promise of two or three days’ prior stood to assure him.  When we walked into the restaurant, the hostess asked if she could help.  I sang out, “I’m looking for RANNNNNDYYYYYYY CARRREYYYYYYYYYYYYYY,” and the man himself turned toward the door.  We hugged.  We named names all around.  My boy greeted them; and we all sat for food.  A few hours later, we had been honored to hear the man sing, chatted with his wife, made a few memories, and gazed at the ocean in the distance. 

On Sunday, Patrick and I headed to Goat Rock State Park and the rock that I call the Eyeball.  We walked on the beach.  We talked about driftwood.  I found a sea anemone shell and slipped it into my pocket.  We ate sunflower seed sandwiches, chopped yellow peppers, and fruit sitting on a rock watching small birds glide above the waves.  When we had had our fill, we drove to our little rented studio on the river and enjoyed a dinner that I threw together.

We filled Monday morning with labor — breakfast dishes, cleaning out the refrigerator, straightening the house, and packing.  My son indulged me in a slight detour to check on the sticker which I had placed on a pillar at the River’s End Restaurant.  The wind had claimed it, but I’ve messaged the mother of the young man whom it honors, asking her to send more of the X-in-a-heart that symbolizes her murdered son and Eric, another mourned lost child.  She sends them out into the world so their dead boys can see in spirit all the places that their bodies will never journey.  I explained all this to Patrick as he helped me search the fence posts.

Afterwards, we contemplated our route.  As we drove down Route 1, we gazed at the sea, we stopped for coffee, we admired homes with fabulous views.  Then our mood shifted, and we craved one more grand adventure to lift our spirits.  I told him about the Point Reyes Lighthouse and we hungrily committed to the detour.

I’ve always wanted to walk the half-mile from the parking lot to the Point above the historic lighthouse.  The building itself crouches in the sea.  Visitors cannot climb down and enter, but they can gawk.  On a windy day four years ago, I tried to make the trek but couldn’t bring myself to go alone.  I’ve waited for this day.  Never mind that halfway there yesterday, a car made its way towards us.  The window rolled down.  A rumbly voice spoke: You know you can drive up there if you’re disabled, right?  Every state park, yes, ma’am.

I had not known.  We persisted, though; and my wild heart acclaimed the glory.  We even walked the entire way back, though I struggled.  With pounding heart, dancing tachycardia, and screaming muscles, I made it.  Exhausted, victorious, and grateful, we turned eastward for home.

It’s the third day of the one-hundred and twenty-ninth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.