A customer in the shop today asked how long I have been in California.  I glibly answered, Oh, just a few years, as an explanation for not knowing the location of his home town.  After he paid and left, I found myself frozen for a few seconds, thinking, Six.  Six years.  No.  Six and a half.  

It actually depends on how you could.  My house arrived in November of 2017.  The local propane tech connected a leased tank in early December.  The RAV4, a friend, and I headed west on December 17th, and by New Year’s Day, I had taken my visiting son back to the airport from his Help-Mom-Settle-Into-Her-New-Digs-For-Christmas visit.

I spend 2018 flying to and from Kansas City closing out cases.  I tried my last one that November.  Some time along the way, homeless in Kansas City, I got a driver’s license and became a registered California voter. In March of 2019, two months after my Missouri plates expired, I paid for California ones and officially stopped excusing my intermittent trespass to gawk on being from out of town.

But I associate moving here with winter, with the waning of daylight hours and the turning of the leaves.  I lean backwards and strain for the sight of migrating birds as their ruckus precedes them into the airspace over Andrus Island.  My porch has tripled in size from the original one built before my actual move by a long-gone neighbor.  Having arrived without plants as dictated by the guard at the state line, I’ve acquired a plethora of succulents that thrive despite my hapless care of them.  You might say that I’ve settled into Delta life.

In case it’s not apparent, my nesting tendencies did not abate with my move west.  My walls burgeon with paintings, small shelves filled with knick-knacks, and dangling ornaments.  Like the swell of potted cacti on the wood rails outside, my stairwells boast an accumulation of baubles on haphazardly implanted hooks.  I like a cozy house, though recently an urge to purge has reawakened within me.  I whittle away at a list of tasks prompted by the approach of our yearly open house.

So October comes, and winter looms.  Whether I count my anniversary from my house’s arrival In November 2017 or the fateful day  on which I got my picture taken at the DMV in Vacaville, my tenure here stretches past a half-decade.  It feels too late to turn back now.  My only remaining options take me forward, into the undefined last third of my life.  I do not know what the future holds.  But the air feels sweet and clean on my uplifted face, and I’ve never had more hope.

It’s the sixth day of the one-hundred and thirtieth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

Angel’s Haven, October 2024. Mural by Alex Loesch, restoration by Rachel Warren of Magical Alchemy Designs, Rio Vista, California

P.S.  One small announcement:  I am the official owner of The Missouri Mugwump®.  It’s been a long journey, made more expensive by inadequate legal counsel (resulting in a chance of representation).  But I made it.  More official announcements at themissourimugwump.com in the coming weeks.