I went away for a day. It was just a harmless daytrip to a land north of here. I chose the warmest, bluest, golden day. Trippy. The dogs stayed home. Packed up and put the Tundra into 'drive' and didn't stop at the rest stop at the top of the Jenner Grade (where usually I would have to stop and let the dogs out to pee); had my usual cry as I passed the vet where I had taken Roo after she was torn apart by Mama and Yogi and where those dogs met their sudden end two days later; passed the turnoff to the dirt road to Aida's house and felt a lump in my throat. Oscar had always leapt to alertness as we made that turn from asphalt to gravel and clambered onto my lap and headed for the open window, snout resting firmly on the window sill and ears flapping in the breeze; cruised into the small town and headed to the Inn overlooking the cove where Candye was getting ready for her gig at the little 200 seat theatre with the red velvet plush seats and the over 40's crowd, with their feather boas and pork pie hats handed out at the box office. Haven't seen this woman in a long while, since long before she battled pancreatic cancer; I always joke about the time that I took her on a cold and foggy evening to the pet cemetery in the Presidio in San Francisco and she is always very gracious about it, and reminds me that I took a beautiful photo of her on a nude beach on the San Mateo coast on a day that feels much like this one - a California dreamin' kind of day. I am reminded of how much time has passed. The band sounds great, after dinner at the Phoenix where I greet people I have come to know in this small town over the years.
Laura Chavez on guitar sort of fixates me, it's not just the strange, almost spiralling howling sound but that it is really hard to see where the instrument begins and she ends. It's visual, every bit as aural - unusual for me. I wanna take her picture is all I can think. Candye, smaller in sheer numbers and bigger in spirit than ever before is just as I remember - a pioneer. My friend Bronwyn dances all evening and when the evening winds down we all say goodnight and I drive the dirt roads to where I am staying, to Shannon's and her bully dogs posturing through the glass doors as I try to sneak quietly to the little hideaway below the house where I climb between cool sheets and fall asleep to the sound of nothing as the barks subside upstairs and the gentlest of light from a sliver moon sneaking through slanted blinds. I wake to ravens arguing loudly and shower yesterdays excitement from me, and wander upstairs. Shannon and the dogs greet me, Rosie the reddy brown pit and her companion Pono, a ripped brindle and white American bulldog. I have seen Shannon in weaker times, as she beat back the cancer that assaulted her, I had photographed her while in treatment; without hair but always with certainty of her own strength. She makes us a wonderful breakfast and we talk of my desire to spend more time - perhaps too much time - in the small town. After Shannon leaves for work, I simply stare out across the trees and sky to the simmering Pacific and give thanks.
For where I am. At that very moment. I am at that moment in a state of perfect. Slowly I get ready to leave to head back to town to say goodbye to Candye; the band is getting packed up, food eaten, coffee drunk, and we sit around a weathered table.
Candye and I wander off and take a few pictures, she puts her arm around me and gives me relationship advice. The band is heading down Highway 1 and I head off to the land to visit Bron and play a bit of cricket - though thankfully (given I have not held a cricket bat for 28 years) it is good it is a practice day and not a game day where I could humiliate myself in front of a small crowd of enthusiasts sitting in the little pavillion cheering on the 'leg before wickets'. Cricket on a sunny day in a small town in northern California, on land bought by southern California runaways decades ago and sitting pretty on the Garcia river and under the redwoods. It's becoming late afternoon and my daytrip meanders to a close. I am warm with pleasure and sweaty with the exertion of chasing balls hit into the long grasses beyond the mown field and the cat watching with bored familiarity.
Bron says goodbye, don't forget to play your scrabble turns online, the Tundra roars up the dirt road to Ten Mile; I hang a left to take the backroad to Gualala and Highway 1.
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