The temperature reached 81 today. At present, it hovers below 60. I sit in my writing loft with darkness beyond the windows. I ought to have turned off the ceiling fan. It still whirs, wafting chilled air in my direction. I shiver and glance longingly at my sweater hanging on the back of the door.
In our Community Garden, the beets which had flagged beneath the bright sun have revived with two days of being covered by a twin sheet from my cupboard. The mornings hang light with dew and a glimmer of tule fog over the cornfields. Autumn whispers, I’m coming to the Delta. I begin to wonder if I have enough warm clothing. I didn’t think I would need it. I forgot about the far-reaching drift of sea-going breezes.
I laid in a supply of groceries to combat the four days during which we will not easily leave Andrus Island. The reconstruction of HIghway 12 reaches its final phase this weekend. The only route to somewhere else will be over Twitchell Island Road and out the back way. We can get to Antioch, to the long stretch of bridge which takes us to Highway 4. But all other roads will be foreclosed to us. Some of us will no doubt begin to feel anxious after a couple of days.
But I’m set. My little camera arrived from the internet. I’ll be able to take pictures, make videos, and amuse myself photographing the peppers as they ripen in the raised beds. I’m halfway through a longish piece of writing that might be something worthwhile. If I get overly bored, I can always look for job openings to which I can send my resume, even though I no longer truly expect any results.
The wind rises across the meadow, down from the river, wild through the trees. Crickets still call, restless and wakeful. My house grows cold; soon I will have to close the windows against the night air. But not just yet. For a few minutes more, I’ll listen to the sounds of night: Rustling in the grass; the occasional coo of a mourning dove as she settles; and the wind. Here, the wind remains an endless presence so much like the sea that I can almost smell her salty breath and feel the sweet eternal kiss of her rolling waves.
It’s the fourteenth day of the fifty-sixth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.