House / Home

Every year the Delta winds batter the park in which my tiny house sits.  They came two nights ago.  Fierce, cold, and unrelenting, the winds hammered our houses and the meadow around which we squat.  Inside the dwellings of our community, we wrapped our bodies in wool and our hands around steaming mugs.  Occasionally one of us posted in the community group, expressions of trepidation or hopefulness.  We encouraged each other. 

At one point, a young couple dashed out to save my flag and my Black Lives Matter poster.  I heard the rattle under my feet as they stashed the flag and ran back to their own home through the storm.  I leaned against the love seat and looked around my little sitting room.  The wind rattled the windows; the floor shook; but the place held.  

Today I went into Stockton for another day of searching for a small dresser.  I made a list of thrift stores, furniture stores, and other places where I might find something suitable.  I understand the constraints of the cubby in which this chest will fit.  Narrow, low, and deep.  I can be patient until I find just the right item.

I started at the Habitat Restore.  I’d not brought a walking stick so I sidled into the building clutching the handrail of the ramp.  The woman at the counter sang a cheerful greeting.  She loaned me a measuring tape and I started my creep around the big room.  

I didn’t find a dresser.  But I spied a lovely oak cabinet which will far surpass the grey shelf in my bathroom, which is an open affair actually meant for spices.  It has served its purpose these three years, justifying the five dollars which I gave for it.  But now I will have something closed, made of oak, and acquired for ten dollars at a charity shop.  I stood by it, pleased with myself, but wondering  how I would get it from its perch.

I heard a voice behind me and turned.  A young man in a Habitat for Humanity cap stood in the aisle.  I noticed that he didn’t wear a mask; I saw his extraordinarily kind eyes and the soft pleasant curve of his smile.  We stood for a few minutes regarding one another.  I finally gestured to the cabinet on the shelf above me; and I asked him for help.  But I also asked if he would mind donning a mask.  My stomach flopped as I said it because I’ve not been absolutely reliable on this score myself.  The public space seemed to demand these concessions.

He nodded and walked towards the front of the store.  The cashier came back to carry my purchase while the gentleman slipped a mask over his cheerful grin.  He said, Do you want a Habitat for Humanity mug? and held out a box.   I took the offering.  I thanked him.  Then I thanked him again, for putting on his mask.  He shook his head.  No, thank you for reminding me.  I am not as good about that as I mean to be.  

And we stood, again, just looking at each other, for another easy moment.

I never found a chest of drawers.  I visited two thrift shops, a traditional furniture store, and a huge outdoor shopping complex.  I sat outside a defunct Bed, Bath, & Beyond for several moments before shrugging and turning my car towards the road to Highway 5.   A half-hour later, I parked outside my cedar-clad 198 sq. ft. tiny house on wheels.   I glanced at the cabinet in the back and the Habitat for Humanity mug on the seat beside me.  Not a bad day’s bounty.  I went inside to make a cup of tea.

It’s the twenty-ninth day of the eighty-fifth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

 

P.S.: Happy birthday to my niece, Lisa Corley Davis.  Rock on.

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