I was born near Oakland and lived in that area until age 9. But then we moved to Mendocino, a little tourist town about four hours up the coast.
Recently, an aerial shot of Mendocino was shared on Facebook, which caused me to reminisce, which in turn resulted in me dragging you for a brief jaunt into my past.
We’d visited the place since I was born, first in a mobile home on a piece of property my grandparents had bought in nearby Little River, then in a lovely house that was built to replace it. So it was already a home away from home. But living there made it a big part of me.
It’s hard to even describe what it was like there, the raw beauty, the isolation, the intense connection to the ocean. The bonds that form living in a small town under those conditions.
I haven’t been back there since 2006 when we drove through briefly, just stopped long enough to see if my senior picture is still hanging up on the high school wall with all the other graduates since the school began in the late 1800’s. I haven’t been back there and actually stayed to enjoy the place since 1994. While I was there I wrote the following poem, which I can’t figure out how to properly format here to save my life:
Return to Mendocino
You are in my veins again—
Ebb and flow of
steel cold blue,
Desert green on a
dark gray cliff,
Creeping hiss of
white lace foam.
Cliff face chills
my resting bones,
My pulse makes time
with pounding tide,
Not home anymore. Home is wherever I am, and Mendocino is always with me, so we will always be home together.