The lilt in my step started this morning when my muse, Jake, queried, “Aren’t we going garage sailing?” And so, after a breakfast of blueberry pancakes we set sail.
Tara said, “Man after my own heart!” and called Sandor who suggested we pick him up. Weilding his iphone with garage sale app he proclaimed that there was really nothing going on. We found one small sale across from Los Bagels near Arcata square, and Jake made the only purchases: a tiny black china vase with gilt details. “It looks Greek to me. Don’t It would make a great present?”
I didn’t have the heart to point out the tiny Chinese character on the base.
Then he found a small antique leather bound journal with a map of the world on the inside backcover, a small gold pen and the words, “My Trip Abroad” at the top of every page. We walked around Arcata square ogling beautiful fresh produce: exotic eggplants, giant pink chard stems, heirloom tomatoes, drummers and flowerchildren. Jake and I trailed after a little sprite named Cassandra who stayed over last night. She’s eleven, Leila’s best friend. And she had several people to stop and hug throughout the market. Jake smelled meat and insisted on a hot dog. He piled it high with the works and announced it was the best dog he’s had since Mexico. Since he refused to note this in his journal, I knew I’d have to. But he did make a little movie about the Farmer's Market. Maybe I can convince him to share it on his blog....
We drove to Blue Lake. A little, slightly weary version of the American Victorian Village, the town is centered around a few small businesses. “Stardough,” an excellent small bakery and Dell'Arte School (of comedia dell'arte, physical theater) where Tara and the kids and I had previously enjoyed a most excellent production of Tartuffe while reclining on a lawn with wine and dessert.
But Jake was not impressed with Blue Lake. “This town is so small you could take it over in a minute with your average gang,” he announced. “You could have a smuggling ring completely under the radar and ship straight out to LA.”
“What are we talking about here?” I asked this young man who chose to be a Rastafarian for Halloween.
“Meth,” he said. We all sat in stunned silence. He continued,
“Places like these are so temporary,” he sighed, as we passed a beautifully aging windmill. “there’s probably maybe only two cops. You could get away with anything. I’ll tell you what,” he concluded, “I’m NOT moving here.”