I like my life — please make no mistake about that. Though I’ve had challenges, losses, and sorrows, I have some damn fine friends and I’ve had a long wonderful run in Kansas City.
I have no complaints, despite those challenges, despite those losses, despite those sorrows.
But I have known for my entire life that I did not really belonging in the flatlands, land-locked and stifled. My brothers gave me rocks for Christmas during our childhood because I talked so much about the mountains. Thirty years ago, I had my chart read and turned out to be a water woman. While the Atlantic never charmed me, Lake Michigan started my love affair with endless expanses of variegated blue. When I saw the Pacific for the first time, on Highway 1 just south of Half Moon Bay, my heart knew without any doubt that it had come home.
My tiny house headed for California yesterday. I rushed to get insurance, to pack the modest collection of belongings with which I will furnish it, and to get the beautiful cherry table made by Sheldon Vogt installed before the launch. It all meshed; insurance got bound, stuff got stowed, table found its way to a wooden bracket on the side of a cabinet in the house which I’m calling Angels’ Haven. Kevin and Kim Kitsmuller, my fabulous builder and his enormously kind, lovely, and talented baker / home-decorator wife, left Missouri for parts west yesterday towing Angels’ Haven.
Here and there in the Holmes house, the Brookside airplane bungalow in which I raised my son, I stumble on piles of stuff that got swept out of furniture as it departed. I’ll have to sort those piles next week. But today’s tasks take me out of the house, to a school to visit children for whom I am guardian, to the pharmacy, to the vet. I’ll gather what I need to travel and I’ll get the dog situated. I’ll pack a small suitcase and load my computer bag. At noon tomorrow, I’ll board a plane for the last flight which I’ll take to California as a full-time Midwesterner.
I’m moving 2,879 klicks west of where I’ve been. Hold onto your hats. It’s going to be a wild ride.
It’s the eighth day of the forty-seventh month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.