Why I stayed

Today I was in the front yard building a retaining wall of river rock and broken-up pieces of our old foundation that the contractors left for us--a job that began with a lot of sweat and ended with a brusied hip, several minorly squashed fingers, and impressive biceps.

While I was toiling away, dripping with sweat, a dirt smudge wiped across my cheek, looking totally frightening, no fewer than five people stopped to talk to me.

A couple complimented us on our new house color. One offered to help us fix our car. Another neighbor stopped to throw the ball for the dog, who he has called his girlfriend since he got divorced. His 80-year-old mother, who moved in before Christmas, shuffled by with her growling mop of a dog. The woman who lives at the end of the lane brought us begonias, a housewarming gift. A Jack Russell terrier came by for a sniff and a doggie smile.

This would never happen in Orange County. (Well, with the exception of the surfer neighbor who knocked on our door a couple times a week with Coronas and a smoke. Blaine, we love you and miss you sorely.)

And yes, one woman carried on a conversation with lit cigarette attached precariously to her lower lip. Another is a bit manic and missing some teeth. There is the veteran who saw too much in Vietnam; the one who just got out of jail; the teenager who throws loud parties and rides his Quad up and down the lane, driving us crazy with noise and dust. And, of course, the Bay Area transplants.

But every one of them is looking out for us--bringing over tomatoes; a wheelbarrow; tools to borrow; offers of help on the car, on the plumbing; congratulations, conversation...

There are no Joneses to keep up with, and that would never happen in Orange County.