A ROAD RUNS THROUGH IT

      A squad of sea lions hoots and honks in front of my house, luring me out of my kitchen to the living room window that faces the river.  Sex, I think: hanging up my apron.  What else?  A shiny black head explodes out of the water with a fish in its mouth, dives back under, and returns to the air yelping and chewing his dinner with complete abandon.  Ahhh, food, of course; why didn’t I think of that?  Hopeful after-work wanna-be fishermen gather behind the railing and watch the swimmer with and admiration; their pails are empty. 

     Hot pink and orange clouds are tinged with gold; the color intensifies while I watch the blinding sun veil itself behind the cranes of Mare Island.  Once again, the infinite azure shamelessly shows its divine unique masterpiece at the end of the day.  I step out onto the patio, alone in the world; just me and the sky and the river.  The wind picks up and my new ten foot parasols, bought on sale at BBandBeyond tremble like billowing sails; the glistening water turns into a million peaks like frosting on a cake.  A great flock rises and swoops across the canvas like a flying carpet.

     I’m loving it, obviously.  There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, and the road, with its traffic, noise and dust is the price I pay for this thrilling ritual that plays out every evening on the banks of the Napa River right in front of my house.  I’m taking a Zen attitude and accepting what IS; paying it no attention to motor vehicles.  I hardly hear them now, except for the buses; don’t get me started on them.   I’m living in the right place, and the right space, in spite of the road that runs through it – and the dusty field beside it that no one cares to clean up.

     I’m learning how to be a home owner.  Mainly, it involves regular trips to Home Depot and running up big credit card balances.  I’m nearly settled in now, getting more established in my home, dealing with smaller details, organizing closets and shelves, although it still feels surreal when I think that a mere three months ago I lived in a glamorous West Hollywood rent-controlled apartment, near Trader Joe's, Crossroads Trading, and the Korean Spa I loved so much. 

     I finally found a reliable handyman to put up shelves, and a mobile welder to fix my thrift-shop patio chairs – both fellows were on Craigslist and live in Vallejo -- but got screwed by a nasty crook (also from Vallejo) mentioned earlier, who finagled money out of me, never showed up, and hung me up for more than a month.  I’m afraid to do anything about it for fear he’ll drop a load of manure on my patio.  My neighbor assures me Karma will take care of him.   

     In a futile attempt to block some of the road noise, I filled the gaps under the patio walls with bricks.  Like a warm-hued baseboard, it looked so good I decided to put bricks around the whole house and inside the patio walls, thereby cheering up the hitherto prison-yard appearance of the cold stony space that surrounds my house.

     When we had our only day of rain last week I rolled down the umbrellas and covered seat cushions with those giant plastic BBandB bags, saved just for the purpose.  Clear bags would look better.  A good neighbor suggested I hang my doormats upside down over the chairs, so they’ll be dry when the rain stops.  This neighbor also laid the bricks and planted plants, whose names I know not, in my new barrel planters, creating a beautiful space to sit and enjoy the river, while ignoring the noisy road.