The drive from 105-degree weather in my town to 60-degree weather in my other town takes two hours, door to door, if I go during non-rush-hour times. I leave around ten and get to the other house by noon. It’s 120 minutes, unless there’s an accident, like a jack-knifed semi trailer or a church bus that has gone up on the bridge railing, or someone’s tire that came flying off the wheel and the truck stopped on a bridge sideways (all three things have happened to slow me down).
Highway 101 is where most of the stuff happens. It’s the most heavily traveled and sometimes has only two lanes of traffic.
The halfway point is in Morgan Hill, around Tenant Ave. I know this because my niece got married near there, and after her wedding, I had to choose which house to go to. I put both addresses in my GPS, and the mileage from that point to either house was identical. I ended up going north that Sunday night, to bring in my mail and to put out my garbage cans. The next day I drove back to Morgan Hill to pick up my mom and older sis at their hotel and drive them to Monterey so that they could have one last look at the ocean before they flew home to Iowa.
The joke is on all of us – they have both moved to California since then, but of course, we didn’t know that would happen at the time.
Somewhere near Tenant Ave, there is a triangle-shaped corral with three donkeys in it. They are often standing at the tiny corral corner closest to the highway. They are either clumped together as a trio, or one is away from the other two. I often wonder why that is. Mother and daughter? Mother and son?
Wait! Donkeys can’t have babies, so that argument is out the window. Oh, no, it’s mules that can’t have babies. Donkeys have little donklets (not really – I just made that up).
See? Don’t believe everything you read on the internet.
Back to my story. Wait. Did I have one? Yes, the weather. So now I’m in 60-degree weather, wearing four shirts (it’s damp) and admiring my new dishwasher that was just installed this morning. I expected the delivery and then separate installer to take all day, but it’s done, and it’s only 12:30. What should I do now?
Pull weeds? Not feeling it.
Keep reframing pictures? My shoulders are tired.
Go shopping? I don’t need anything.
Read a book? Maybe later.
Call East Bay Mud about a leak credit? Now I’m getting desperate.
The dishwasher installer told me that a small plane left the Monterey airport this morning and crashed into a house along Highway 68. I hope nobody was home.
Five people were murdered in Monterey County over the weekend. That’s a lot, if you ask me — another airbnb party turned violent.
Violence is up across the country. Too many pent-up partiers after a long lockdown, I guess. It is unfortunate that people are so stressed out.
The installer guy told me as he was leaving that he is fully vaccinated. It might’ve been a good thing to mention upfront. He didn’t really believe in it, but he wants to spend time with his mom, who is almost 80. I assured him that my scientist daughters believe in the vaccine and that he should ignore the rumors. I could tell that he didn’t want to go there. He’d already decided that the rumors might be true, but that this mom was so worth it.
Should I have tipped him? I mean with cash instead of scientific advice? I didn’t. I would have if my neighbor would’ve come out and yelled at him, like he did when my new oven was delivered a few years back. We share a driveway.
He doesn’t want big trucks wearing down his asphalt.
I know, right? As if.
I bet he didn’t get vaccinated, either.