My friend Rebecca was going away for a couple of weeks and asked if I would stay at her house while she was gone. I said sure—even though she lives in Santa Rosa, a place I’ve never thought of as a destination. But Becca has a nice house and a lovely garden, and the thought of having a place to myself for a few weeks was very appealing. (Sometimes the hobo life gets a little wearisome.) So I packed up the van—I love this van—and cruised over to Santa Rosa to settle in.
My stay was reminiscent of the good old days, when I used to have a house. I had a kitchen, a garden with vegetables growing in it, a nice comfy bed to crawl into at night, a bicycle and the same place to come home to. It was exactly what the doctor ordered. And I was so happy I didn’t even care about the traffic outside. I cooked all kinds of yummy meals; I could walk out the door to the garden, pick some kale and make my favorite salad. Lemons and mint made a pitcher of mint lemonade.
I also loved being able to take the cruiser bicycle to the store, the post office, a friend’s house or the park. Luwanda the Van sat in the driveway, relaxing and sunbathing, while I bicycled all over town. The bike has a big cushy seat—I call it the fat-butt bike—and it fit me perfectly. Many of the streets have bicycle lanes (how civilized!) and the ones that don’t, well, I found I could just ride on the sidewalk if it got crowded on the street. No one else uses the sidewalks, anyway.
(Who walks anymore? I counted about one pedestrian for every 10 blocks. So I no longer call them sidewalks; I now call them side-rides.)
I had a great couple of weeks. I worked, hung out with friends and family, went hiking in the parks, frequented the farmer’s market, browsed the bookstore, went out for dinner and for ice cream, and visited the See’s Candy store, of course. In short, I felt like I had a life. And I have to say that although I don’t think of myself as a town girl, it was a nice change.
I saved the best for last. On one of my bike rides through the park, I noticed a boat rental place by the lake. Yay, boats! I immediately started trying to recruit someone to go out in one of those dorky—but really fun—paddle-boats with me. I had no luck. (I need dumber friends, I think.) So on my last day here, I decided, “Fine, I’ll go by myself.”
It was a hot summer day in March (can you say “climate change?”) when I biked over to the lake and perused the boat rental menu. The paddle-boat thing is not a solo activity, so I decided to take a little kayak out, even though it was a kayak, which is down near the bottom of my favorite-boats list. (In fact, I don’t think it’s even on the list.)
The guy warned me I would get wet. Duh, it’s a kayak; that’s one of the things I don’t like about them. But on such a hot day, getting wet actually sounded pretty good. I’d have been tempted to jump into the lake if it had been allowed. So I got in the tiny kayak, and immediately did get wet—there were holes in the bottom of the boat! It was like sitting in a little floating bathtub.
So off I went around the lake, which was populated by paddle-boaters, geese, swans and various types of ducks. I took photos, talked to a guy on the shore about some nesting swans and wondered what else to do, as it’s not a very big lake. A couple of stray balloons came floating along, escapees from a nearby birthday party. I gathered them up and brought them to a group of little kids in a paddle-boat.
I paddled around some more in the sunshine, and it was nice. Then I hauled my wet self out of the kayak and rode home on my wet fat-butt bike. I had fun pedaling and paddling; I guess we can say I am easily amused.
I started wondering what the heck I was going to do next when Rebecca came home and wanted her house back. (Lock all the doors? Just kidding.) I got the brilliant idea to post a notice—Free House-sitting!—on our local electronic bulletin board, and immediately got several takers. Hey, that was easy. Why didn’t I think of it before?
My summer is now looking like a nice patchwork of house-sitting and traveling. Whenever I don’t have a house, I can just hit the road in my new home on wheels and go visiting or camping. I’ll still be looking for a place of my own, but with a little less urgency.
Someday my house will come, I suppose. Meanwhile, I continue to be a rolling stone, gathering no moss. I don’t really want any moss anyway. I looked up that proverb—“A rolling stone gathers no moss”—just for kicks, wondering what it’s actually supposed to mean, and found that people have different opinions. Everything from, “People who are always moving, with no roots in one place, avoid responsibilities and cares” (I wish!) to, “Those who keep moving are never lacking for fresh ideas or creativity” (that would be nice).
The one I liked best was an old definition: “A rolling stone, one that does nought but runne here and there, trot up and downe, rogue all the country over.” Welcome to my world.
Ingrid Noyes is a musician from Marshall. She’s been writing about her travels since losing her house last summer. She is also available for house-sitting. Call her at (415) 663.1342.