dan

In the space under the house, I had the load all ready to go–trash bags stuffed with debris I’ve removed from the beach over the past year, a sizable stack of cheap inner tubes and other floaties, some of which needed a stroke from the machete to fully deflate, a couple of old TVs, and a bat of insulation left by the previous owner that got soaked in last winter’s flood.

With a little shoving, it all fit in the back of the pickup, and I rolled out toward Guerneville’s transfer station.

Which is in an odd location–it’s out on the windiest, narrowest section of the Pocket Canyon Highway (SR 116) between Guerneville and Forestville. Then, a turn at a sign that says (simply and somewhat inaccurately) “Refuse Disposal Area.” Then up a steep, windy 1-lane path, much like the ones I’m used to navigating by bicycle. Then around the edge of a forested subdivision, and into a clearing.

Having arrived, I had a fine experience–friendly staff, free recycling for the TVs, only $15 to dump the trash, and then I was quickly on my way back down the steep path, except that I had to back up quite a ways and fit into somebody’s driveway to let an incoming garbage truck pass.

However. What an odd, un-economic, and un-ecological location for a transfer station. I didn’t get to see one of the big semitrailers head fully loaded down the path, and I’m not sure I’d want to.

There are  a lot of undeveloped flat sites along, or close to, the main road through the Guerneville area. Some of those sites are unrecovered from the area’s legacy of foresting. Some are even publicly owned.

Certainly, over the years, the powers that be must have considered relocating the transfer station to one or more of these safer, more accessible sites. They must have taken into account the reduction in vehicle emissions from haulers and residents. The increased safety. The opportunity to move the facility away from a residential area and to restore the current site, which I’m guessing is an old landfill.

And I’m guessing they also took into account NIMBY opposition to any new site, and the potential for lawsuits and delays, and the limits on their powers of eminent domain.

The crippling of government power–which is synonymous with the undermining of democracy–has left our society unable to make sensible decisions that can improve quality of life and enhance environmental value.

That aside, I’m really going to enjoy future trips to the transfer station. It’s beautiful up there.

As I usually do on Wednesday nights, I picked up a little before I vacuumed and mopped the common areas. I like to leave things clean for the girls.

Then I packed my overnight bag and my work satchel. It was late, and the house was quiet. I couldn’t help making some noise opening and closing the garage door, and then the Mini Cooper was rolling through the familiar nightime streets that lead to the freeway and the bridge.

I set the cruise control and made myself relax. In an hour, I’d arrived at the river house and was on my way to bed.

The river behind the house.

In the morning, I got straight to work. About 5:30 pm, my project done and sent off to the client, I went down the stairs to check how the river was doing.

Returning, I stopped to dig, idly, at the roots of some English ivy that’s clambering up the redwoods at the corner of the house.

That’s when I realized I wasn’t alone.

I don’t know why the two young men were hanging out in the backyard, a little on my side of the line, standing in the bushes. I didn’t really care. The neighbors’ house is full of activity, and I purposefully give little mind to the comings and goings. I don’t bother them, they don’t bother me, except for the cars and trucks and travel trailers parked everywhere in and around the lot. And the derilect washing machines waiting to be taken to the dump. And the occasional explosion. And the loud knocking every weekday morning at 5:00.

Live and let live, I say.

We exchanged greetings, though the bushes, without really being able to see each other.

“How you doin’ man?”

“Good, how are you?”

I went back inside and took that hot shower I’d been wanting all day. I put on a sweater and started out on my 20-minute stroll to the pub.

It’s a nice walk–only a little of it is on the shoulder of busy River Road, and part of it goes through a County beach park. And you can look down at the river from the historic Hacienda Bridge (an unusual camelback truss, built in 1914).

When I got to the pub, the bartendress asked if I wanted my usual pint, and I looked around for a table.

And there were my two young neighbors.

I sat at the table next to them, as it was the only one open. We exchanged small talk about canoeing the river–where to put in and take out, and how you can canoe down to the Blues Festival and watch the acts from the river without having to pay.

I thought it was nice that they knew the bartendress. After a while she stopped by their table to say she was ready to check out what they had, and they all went out into the parking lot to do some business.

When they returned, my neighbors’ take-out order was ready.

Me, I ordered another beer and watched the Giants get beat by a run, and then walked back up the road in the dark.

Ever cringed at an annoying noise that just goes on and on? Ever wished some Act of God would occur to silence it–suddenly and decisively?

When I arrived at the river house, last night around 11:30, there was a party going on next door.

My neighbors seem like perfectly nice people. When I arrived at a similar time, just a few weeks ago, and found the street in  front of our houses flooded, one of these folks got in a canoe and came over to paddle me across. Another time, their two girls came over to introduce themselves to Zoe.

Still, they park in front of my garage door, blocking me out (or in). There’s a trailer parked in the driveway between our houses, and the occupants cut a hole in the roof of it to install a wood stove, and it belches clouds of smoke.

And then there’s the noise. TVs on loud after midnight, and again before 6 AM. Occasional shouting and carrying on.

Last night it was heavy metal rock music. It didn’t bother me for the hour after I arrived, while I unwound with a whiskey and read the paper in the living room. But when I got into bed, I heard it plenty loud. Enough to keep me up. It was still going at 12:30. At 1:00.

I got up and found my bluetooth earbuds. I downloaded a white noise app, and listened to a canned rainstorm, hissing over the thump, thump, thump, of the bass.

About 1:30, I took out the earbuds and tried sleeping with my head between two pillows. I was, in fact, dozing fitfully when a mighty explosion shook the bed.

And then all was blissfully silent. I looked over to see what time this blessed event had occurred, and the bedside clock was dark.

As was the rest of the house.

What the hell. I listened for screams, and hearing none, gratefully dozed off until the first of their cars, many of which lack mufflers, roared to life about 5:15.

In the morning, I lit the gas stove manually. I took my cup of coffee and strolled down the block to where workers were cutting up a mighty bay laurel which had fallen across the road–and the power line.