This February past, I embarked on a pretty epic 89 mile
journey up US 101. I left my home on the
outskirts of Petaluma, about 10:AM. I
got on the freeway heading north. I
drove through Cotati, Rohnert Park, and Santa Rosa. All places I frequent regularly since my
return to Northern California, more than four years ago. The only difference is this time, I drove
past the Guerneville exit. I kept
going. Past Windsor. Past Healdsburg. It started raining as I drove through
Hopland. I was convinced that it was a sign and I should probably turn
around. Something inside me forced me
through it. I finally stopped in
Ukiah. Because I had to pee. Really bad.
In case you were wondering, gas stations in Ukiah don’t have public
restrooms. So, I found a Jack in the Box
that had one. Turned out they only had
one if you bought food. So, I bought a
monster taco and a diet coke. I peed,
grabbed my food and got back on the 101.
For another six miles. Then I
finally exited the freeway at the “HWY 20/Upper Lake” off ramp.
I drove past Lake Mendocino.
As the lake passed me on the right, I noticed that it was lower than I
had ever remembered seeing it. Then I drove the stretch of road I learned to
drive on. I passed the buffalo ranch. I
drove past the Potter Valley turn off.
Passed Blue Lakes Lodge. I
thought of making the right on to Scotts Valley Road, just to see if it felt as
liberating as it did when I was shifting gears in the Karmann Ghia at seventeen,
with my girlfriends riding with me, singing along to Fleetwood Mac. I didn’t do it. I don’t know if it was because I didn’t want
to be disappointed to realize that it isn’t as cool as it used to be or if it
was because I needed to see the streets of Small Town America that I grew up
on.
Whatever it was, I didn’t make that sharp right off HWY
20. I continued down the road. As I approached Upper Lake, I saw that the
miles of Walnut and Pear trees had been replaced with acres, upon acres, of
wine grapes. I was upset that the deep forests
of antiquated nut farms were so quickly turned into “vineyards.” The road looked the same, but the landscape
told a different of my adolescence. When
I finally reached the junction of CA-20 and CA-29, that little crossroad right
outside of Upper Lake, I saw something so foreign, so unimaginable that it
literally made me panic. Right there
where 20 meets 29, was a Chevron/Carl’s Jr. franchise.
I thought that I wanted to turn around back in Hopland when
the rain started coming down. When I saw
that violation of my childhood by corporate America, I wanted to find my way
back to 101 south even more.
I didn’t go back, though.
I did decide against perusing the streets of Upper Lake and made a very
deliberate right onto the road into Lakeport.
I got off at 11th street.
As I pulled into the Safeway parking lot, I realized it was like any
other strip mall in the bay area. I sat
in the car for a few minutes, then decided to go to the local grocery store instead. When I pulled up to Bruno’s, I had to take a
minute to compose myself. I felt like I
was walking into a memory. I was sitting
in a Ford Focus with a purple CoExist sticker on the bumper. The car wore Alaska plates and I was
listening to Bruce Springsteen, crying like a baby. The whole situation made the good people of
Lakeport very uncomfortable. I know
because I got a lot of really hateful looks from drivers of mini vans and the moms
who veered their children out of my path as I walked into the store, red faced
and mascara running down my face.
At that point, I had gone too far to leave. But the hostile looks I received from the
first few faced I had encountered in my hometown, made me want to take the
quickest road out of there. Instead, I walked across the parking lot, grabbled
a cart and headed to the produce section.
I bought avocados, tomatoes and onions.
I cruised down the wine aisle and picked up a couple of “good” bottles. I went and got cheese and bread. I checked out. Still, with mascara running down my face, the
lady at the checkout said “You aren’t from here, I guess?” As she gave me the receipt, I said “No. I’m not from here. I only grew up here.”
I left Bruno’s and drove to Deanna’s. We had a lovely day together talking and
drinking and cooking. Later, Sara and
Katie came over. We drank and ate some
more. We all sat on the porch and
listened to the rain fall down around us.
As the dark of night met the yellow glow of the front porch light, I
forgot all of the anxiety that had kept me from visiting this place, those
people, for more than ten years. It
finally occurred to me that the place I was so afraid of visiting, was closer
and more accepting than I had realized.
Those women who came to sit and talk and visit over drinks and tacos and
guacamole where the same people I didn’t want to face for fear of
retribution.
So, maybe you are wondering what milestones and mountains have
to do with this story? There is a very
simple answer: milestones are marked
when you are learning who you are and where you are going. Mountains are climbed when you go back to where
you came from and who you will be be when you get there.
-Inner Peas
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