WHAT ARE THE CHANCES?

       I figured I’d get flak from friends who don’t want me to kvetch about them not having time for me.  Quite a few, however, acknowledged they share my feelings, my desire to be included, and yearning to belong.   All think moving near my kids is right and tell me YES, I can do it; pull up roots and change my life, even at this stage of the game.

     What are the chances I’d open Craigslist and find someone wanting to exchange their
"Beautiful Victorian mansion in the heritage district of Vallejo," for a home in Los Angeles, for one week in the middle of December?  The stars guided me north.  I packed my feather duvet and cashmere sweaters and took off up the I-5 like a hungry penguin in search of fish.

      What are the chances I’d sit down next to a city council member in Java Jax my first day in town, who gave me the name of someone who might have a house to rent, and that person gave me the name of her neighbor who’s selling his house, and that a week later I’d make an offer on that house?  And while all this was going on I’d be invited to that neighborhood’s annual potluck Christmas party, where folks sat around the fireplace strumming guitars, picking on banjos, and singing in harmony with all their hearts?   Could I bear so much love?
     What are the chances everything would fall into place as though it was my destiny?

     It seems like everyone in Vallejo shows up at Moschetti’s regular Saturday morning coffee tasting.  We see friends, make new ones, and drink our fill of free delicious fresh brewed Joe.  Local artisans offer samples of homemade chocolates and pastries. 

     The atmosphere is lively – artists, political activists, mothers and fathers with kids, dowagers, curators, carpenters, chiropractors… live music! The chief coffee maker expounds with authority while offering tastes of the best coffees in the world, in addition to the dozen urns of Moschetti’s many blends.  The owner, a congenial Frenchman, chews the fat with one and all as his garage and trailer establishment overflows with conversation, neighborly good-will and discarded paper cups. 

I’ve talked to more people on two mornings at Moschetti’s than I do in Los Angeles in a year.  They tell me they love Vallejo in spite of its problems, and are glad I’m coming.  My unofficial poll reveals most have come for affordable real-estate, to be near family, and enjoy good climate.  I smile and nod my agreement.

     My home-exchangee turned out to be a kind, intelligent, gentleman real-estate investor/contractor who drew big black X’s on the city map over the areas I should not look for a home, and took me on a tour to show me where I should.  He introduced me to his realtor, who would help me buy the house I found that first day, in the part of town with the good neighbors who sing together.

     Last night a yellow full moon hung low over the mountains in the east.  And just now the ice-cream truck is driving by playing a familiar tune.  Is it the Catcher in the Rye? 

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