One For The Books

Have you ever seen an upright freezer the size of a fridge? It was a beautiful sight to behold that September morn — especially when you’re doing once-a-month long distance grocery hauls during a pandemic and there’s late autumn snow in the forecast. I’m not saying the freezer was the deciding factor as to why we rented that particular house, but I did have it clarifed in the lease that it was staying. When the owner decided to move back in a little over a year later, I was hoping he’d offer it up as a consolation prize. But alas, we were parted, but not before consuming a stockpile of Eggo Waffles and Fudgsicles.

It’s a strange feeling going into October and having done nothing to winterize our home — without needing to winterize our home. The threat of severe El Niño storms has persuaded us pick up a few extra essentials, but most of the preparation around our property is out of our hands, other than filling up some sandbags when they become available. All this can be done in a single afternoon.

It is, dare I say, boring.

Just a bit of backstory: the freezer house was the second home we rented in Bend, Oregon. It was snuggled in a forested neighborhood called Timber Ridge. Timber Ridge has charming cul-de-sac names like, Punk Ass Donkey. No, wait. Whistle Punk, Butt Rigging, and Donkey Sled. If you’re asking yourself, “What in the NSFW is going on?!” — just know you are not alone. It took me five years to discover these are logging terms. You know, timber…wood. In Timber Ridge, that meant large ponderosa pine trees with thick trunks and cones with curving prickles on the tips.

I’m starting to understand the whole lumberjack sub-genre on Bookstagram.

Anyway, the point I’m trying to make is that one should always be prepared.

Present day:

This early fall Sunday morning found me at the kitchen table, air conditioner humming in my ears, hot coffee in hand. I’d almost convinced myself it wasn’t really nearly 100°F outside before noon, again, for, what was it, the fifth day in a row? And according to the forecast, the heatwave had no end in sight. Sure, I’ve experienced worse temps in SoCal — even as much as 14 degrees higher during the past five decades. But this heat felt hotter. I figured I was still acclimating — until everyone else started noticing too. Turns out, we’ve been experiencing unusually high, even record-breaking, dew points in Southern California. In other words, our humidity has been high AF. Because of this, we don’t cool off overnight. Even going out for an evening walk — oh wait! We can’t even do that because we’re being constantly warned to stay indoors at night ’cause of disease-ridden mosquitoes in our neighborhood. So everybody is slathered with sunscreen, bug spray, and self-doubt. OK, maybe that last part is just me.

I take my last sip from my mug, gather up a bunch of long-saved coins, and text my next door neighbor who also happens to be my elder daughter, Marissa. I’m hoping to stock up on some winter read-alouds for her sister, Emilia, so we’re off to the library’s used bookstore. It occurs to me as we buckle up that I haven’t been behind the wheel in weeks. I mention this to Marissa, who sighs deeply. I had gotten lost several times within a five-mile radius of our apartment since April. Trips that should’ve taken no more than 10 minutes have turned into an hour of U-turns and backtracking. This would be understandable if I were in a new town, but these were destinations I could have driven with my eyes closed not that long ago. It’s as if an absent-minded city architect reconstructed Orange County from memory. That’s how it’s felt for me since moving back to Anaheim, like living in a Check…and Double Check page from Highlights Magazine — can you spot the differences? I’ve been explaining it as having a dream of your house, except it looks nothing like it in reality, but in your dream, you know it’s home. I wish I could talk to someone else who’s experienced this too — of returning somewhere you’ve spent the majority of your life, only for it to feel…off.

When I used to live in Downtown Anaheim, I’d often dip into the library after walking Marissa to the nearby bus stop for her ride to work at Disneyland. So what a relief when on this Sunday afternoon, arriving at the Anaheim Central Library via side streets and shortcuts, it felt like being on autopilot. Inside, I didn’t have that strange sensation of being slightly out of sync with everyone else around me. And I scored big time with two bags full of lucky finds for a total of five dollars — including the spines for some novel studies I hope to use this school year! I still have a big ol’ baggie of spare change, so I want to go again soon and look for some titles for myself, you know, in case we lose power.

Gotta be prepared.