I’m on the mezzanine in my writing loft. Across the way and a foot or two higher, Patrick surfs the internet from the second floor. We’ve just had our first experience with backyard parties, delta style. Lots of sugar, spiked coffee, and hot buttered rum. Little dogs in sweaters mingled with retired ladies and young husbands. Everybody cooed over my tiny house, my son, and the fact that I’m almost finished unpacking after only five days.
We walked home at ten, four hours after first braving the gravel road with flashlight in hand. That’s how you get around in Park Delta Bay. You carry a flashlight in your pocket, which works for me because I’ve got one in every bag. When you live alone, you can’t take chances.
Richard, boyfriend of the hostess’s granddaughter, told us about a Japanese tea garden in passionate tones. Joe the handy-man drank cup after cup of unadulterated coffee. The construction worker from Indiana showed pictures of the buildings on which he has worked in downtown San Francisco. The fire crackled, and the air stirred, alive with the bite of dry wood from the park pile.
I asked Patrick if this was as enjoyable as it seemed, or if he’d rather be elsewhere. He replied that he could think of one or two other places but this was just fine. I wrapped my Taos shawl tighter around my shoulders and stretched my legs closer to the flames. I’ll regret eating the fudge long before the fragrance of smoke fades from my clothes. But in the moment, it seemed like the perfect bite.
It’s the twenty-third day of the forty-eighth month of My Year Without Complaining. From the Delta, I bid you good evening. Life continues.