Oh, my misanthropy

I often tell stories, to myself and others, about my propensity for misanthropy. Our daily serving of information about the world, usually delivered to us by a cynical media, is heavy with destruction, hatred and unspeakable cruelty. It bums me out. This information poison makes me resent the entire human race as a blight on this rare world. On a more intimate scale, I frequently begrudge the presence of other humans when they inevitably intrude on the more sublime and solitary moments of my life: a beach walk with Harry in a quiet cove, photographing butterflies in the Elfin Forest, or searching for wildflowers in the chaparral hills. I have been known to call myself a grouch and a recluse. I am not particularly proud of this side of myself, nor am I apologetic. It just seems to be the way my thinking turns. So what am I to do to survive (and stay sane) in this crowded, crowded world?

One strategy that I am determined to try while on the road (and it's clear to me my road trip has begun even while my tires still rest in SLO county) is to allow myself to meet people. I want to have the chance to partake of their beauty, and share what beauty I have with them. When my inclination is to hide away, I want to offer my open hand. This week, while navigating the unpredictable waters of craigslist, I discovered that even the littlest bit of sharing between two strangers can invoke joy. This week a man sold me a camper, you see, and it was a lesson in goodness.

I first talked to my camper man Wednesday evening.  On the phone, he told me that someone else was coming to look at it and that he would call me later to let me know if it was still available. Then we had a conversation about my trip, and my truck and my dreams about the perfect camper. As we ended the call he said, "Well, I'm just going to talk this fella out of buying it, 'cause you seem like such a nice lady." And so he did. This was my first hint that this would not be a typical craigslist interaction.

Rick is retired at 70 and living in Oceano in a modest mobile home park with his wife and his shop and his collection of 1000 fishing rods (he doesn't fish). He is selling his dream of a camper because, as he said, "His body would no longer cooperate with what his mind wanted to do." His grandchildren were visiting---he beams when he speaks their names. He took trouble to practice the pronunciation of my name (this is a great gift in my world), listened as I told him my sister's, and frequently used both my name and Lisa's as he spoke. As he began to show us his camper, Rick explained how disappointed he had been by the reaction of potential buyers to the minor cosmetic flaws, so disappointed he'd taken down the ad and had just regained the courage to repost it yesterday. I think he could see that I would not be like those buyers before me---I was in love.

So Rick and Lisa and I spent the next few hours exploring the interior, taking and comparing measurements, wrestling with jacks, discussing beagles and fishing rods and, finally, lifting the camper off his truck and settling it on mine. The fit was perfect. Finally, after assuring me that he would not let me drive away until the camper was safely secured, he went to the hardware store to get the proper turnbuckles (that word makes me giggle), drilled, sawed, hammered, sweated and never once uttered the slightest word of complaint until the camper was firmly affixed.

"I think it was waiting for me." I said.
"I believe it was", said Rick.

I handed him cash---I did not haggle. I hugged instead.

Rick lowers the camper onto my truck bed while I hold my breath

Incubation

While my intent is surely already underway at a solid speed north on the splendid CA-1, my feet of flesh and bone are still firmly planted here in Cambria, and tonight I will sleep in my bed in the borrowed 35 ft.travel trailer, TARDIS (so named because it looks so much larger on the inside than would seem possible when knocking at the front door---Doctor Who fans will understand) on the wind blown bluff that has been my home for the last 21 months. Tonight, I will dream of long, straight roads across the prairie. Harry lies next to me, eyes riveted, awaiting the next decision. He reminds me to be here now---that to miss a single moment of this togetherness would be a tragedy.

There is still so much to do. I am coming out of a hibernation of sorts---my body refusing to spend even one more moment in the face of the great northwest winds, searching for wild sea otters along the central coast of California. I am retired from this, oh my yes, but still have a task ahead to put the work of the last 21 months to bed and address some projects long forgotten in the face of 10 hour field days. But all the while the Road Trip, my incubating baby, kicks for attention. Since reading Steinbeck's Travels with Charley at the age of 18 (I am now a seasoned 51) I have longed to explore the country coast to coast, as he did with his black poodle and curmudgeonly demeanor. Now, a state of being "job-free" together with a will to jettison belongings, a call to waken my sleeping soul and a matchless canine companion converge on serendipity, and I am on the brink of the dream: a cross country adventure from my bluff in California to the woods of New Jersey and back again, with my beagle, Harry, in the co-pilot's seat.

In the window of the bedroom of the TARDIS, between the louvered window pane and the screen, is the tidy nest of a pair of house finches. They took advantage of our week-long absence and a window conveniently left ajar, to construct a nest and lay their eggs. While they seem to be distressed upon our return that the spot was not as vacant as they hoped, they persist and the nest is full with five sky blue, speckled eggs. I looked up the typical incubation and fledging time frame for such passerines (that is to say, I Googled it) and it seems these birds will be the time keepers for our launch . Two weeks to hatching, two weeks to fledging and it will be mid-August and Harry and I will be poised to fly from our wild Cambrian bluff.