Hey, I’m a published author now and I’m supposed to be blogging, right? And supposedly what I have to say now is more important than before I was a published author, right? Or at least that’s what the world believes, right?
The funny thing is, people do treat me differently now that I’m a “published author.” It seems they listen closer and seem more interested in what I have to say. Maybe it’s more about them than me. Maybe they want to hang out with someone who is more “popular” than the average person. Sounds to me like high school, where the most “popular” kids were the ones who had the most friends or did what the rest of the kids thought was “cool” or were the “big man on campus.” Just sayin…
For a guy who wasn’t listened to as a kid, this popularity is a pretty good deal. I’ve pretty much moved past the “not being heard” thing but it’s still nice to be heard, acknowledged and valued for what I have to offer, maybe just even for who I am without having anything to offer; but that’s another whole conversation.
So here’s my contribution this morning, as I sit in the front window of our home in our new home town of Petaluma, loving it. The cars whiz down North McDowell road, a scant block away but there’s a peace and serenity here, in our new little mobile home park, that drowns out the noise.
We downsized back in October, 2012 after we tired of paying exorbitant rent for an apartment in Novato. Don’t get me wrong, it was a beautiful home, close by a creek and with a huge oak tree overhanging our front porch. Once we made the decision to move, all matter of “normal miracles” started happening. We had no idea where we were going to move to. We had always liked Petaluma and it’s folksy downtown and aliveness.
One night I shared with the men in my group about our wanting to move, downsize, pay less rent and simplify. So Geoff, one of my group brothers, who happens to be a realtor, said that he knows of a mobile home that we might like. He just happened to be the executor of the estate of a friend of his who passed away and the mobile home was part of the estate.
Mobile home? Come on now. Me and my wife, “trailer trash?”
The rest is water under the bridge. We’re lovin’ it here, we have a community like none I’ve ever been a part of. The day we moved here, Steve from across the street, walked over with a jar of apricot preserves in his hand and gave it to us. (I’ve been bugging him ever since for another jar)
A few days later, Cindy came over with a freshly baked batch of brownies. Since then, we’ve become good friends with Cindy’s sister, Geralyn, who provides us with fresh, naturally raised, chicken eggs from her farm a couple of miles away. If you’ve never had fresh, delicious, natural, chicken eggs with bright yellow yolks, you’re missing something. Come on up and we’ll point you where to get them.
The men and women in the park meet weekly. There is community here unlike most neighborhoods, which seem to lack the true definition of “neighbor.”
So for a guy who’s been pretty “mobile” all his life this mobile home park is a pretty nice place to land…