Finding Home

If I was asked why I felt at home here, the answer doesn’t seem to suffice. Never have I lived in these quaint, clapboard Victorians that are still standing on the salty little bluff or fled from the picket-fenced elementary school to walk down the wonderful, worn, wooden stairs to Big River Beach just down the block. I missed the chance to walk to Mendosa’s Market on the daily lunch break from the high school like my mother and my aunts and my uncle and my grandfather and my cousins. Plenty of people have driven by such a map dot; only the fortunate have explored the couple of blocks of community. Mendocino, this little town totaling in only 824 people, will never be my home, but always have my heart.
Standing at the Love Bench, constructed of local driftwood dragged off the beach only 154 feet below and carved with names and initials of all the lovers who have stolen a moment here, it is easy to get swept away. The vast Pacific Ocean shimmers in the sunlight, such a bright teal considering that it had been snowed over and gray yesterday. And yet today, only a brisk breeze reminded me that it was only February, and that it wouldn’t be higher than 50 degrees for several more months. I can see a couple, old in age and young in love, coming nearer and know my time on this Bench is dwindling. I spin away from the breathtaking, picturesque view, where the ocean meets the evergreen forest, and can see town from here; Main Street to be exact. I have a pang of envy toward the rest of my family, my mother who is hopping through the underbrush and acting as photographer, who got to grow here. My memories are limited to special occasions and summer days.
We walk back to the road from the edge of the bluff and continue adventuring along Main. The sidewalk alternates between raised asphalt that matches the road and planks forming ten-foot strips of boardwalk, no doubt covering any mishaps in the walkway. Every single shop is home grown, and the actual owner sits in a store front window to smile as you pass by; to find a Starbucks or gas station you’d have to go one town over to Fort Bragg. All these humble businesses are two-story buildings, the store anchoring their home above.
Small stops are made along the way. We walk. We stop. We walk again. My mother stops in at the only hotel in the two-point-two miles that make up town and makes reservations for her wedding this September. It’s awkward the think about the future here. Mendocino has a tendency to make one forget about time or tomorrows and the people help with that. Everyone knows each other and is genuinely thrilled to be here, passing by, smiling at me, as they go. It’s a fleeting gesture nowadays, even on a high school campus, let alone an entire city, but here, smiles are unlimited and endless.
More smiles as we stop in at a small sweet shop to pick up some freshly made Raspberry Bark for my aunt. We make small talk with the baker, who has moved on to prepping caramel for dipping apples. We decide to leave as two elderly ladies shuffle their way in past the tinkling bell on the door and officially make the occupancy count five and the narrow store claustrophobic. We head farther down the street, passing tourists who stick out sorely in their modest, neutral clothing. Through colors- bright tie dye swirls and button-down plaids, neon hair-dos and deliberate dreadlocks, funky clothing and loud individuality- can you sort the authentic residents from the visitors.
We round the corner onto Lansing Street, home of the volunteer fire house, coffee shop, and super market. As we pass by the numerous little alleyways snaked through town for pedestrians, the fire horn blares painfully loud and within the second whoop, a caravan of volunteers have appeared and pile into the truck. Something about Mendo that gets over looked in the books, is the style of community; how the town runs itself with one another. As we cross an intersection (stop sign, obviously, since the only stoplight is on the highway) I notice the recycling bin overflows and the garbage is almost a ghost town of debris. I smile, charmed by the morals of these people, and walk into Mendosa’s Market. It’s quaint, to say the least. There can’t be more than eight aisles, all wooden floors. Four checkout lines are like podiums between the two entry ways. Lining the wall are the fruits and vegetables, all with organic labels and woven baskets. I would be lying to say I wasn’t hoping he’d be here and sure enough, my cousin, Josh, is putting some fruits into their bowls, smiling at customers with miniscule carts going by. We need not disrupt him from his work, so we grab want we want for lunch, give him a squeeze, and go to check out.
Upon exiting, I knew it must be time to head home. Not to-my-house-home, but to somebody’s. Whether that be my aunt’s or grandpa’s or another family member’s, I began to realize, this is my home. Not because I have a bedroom in one of the 529 houses in town, but because I’ve grown here. Somewhere between here and Main Street, I’ve collected memories. We were finally nearing our car, parked off the road on some loose gravel, when I finally comprehended the meaning of this place to me. I inhaled the pure air before I was obligated to step into the car and be whisked away from this place. A little sign, yellow to match the directional one above that, had a heart on it, divided into four like a peace sign. Smiling at the thoughtfulness, I got into the Prius and watched the ocean until it was hidden behind stores and watched stores until they were hidden behind the forest. Home is where the heart is. -Ashley