May 24, Scotts Valley.
Here's some of the less good part. We left in a 36-feet trailer with two slide-outs, came back in a ten years older, 6 feet shorter one with no slides, total square footage around 150. It's nice and cozy.
It was my home in southern California, a few years back when I was working as a newspaper photojournalist there. I just loved living in it, went crazy decorating it, painstakingly planted a garden in the pocket-size patch of solid-packed dirt in front (neighbors told me the last renter was a car mechanic who used it as a shop.) Coach RV and Mobile Home Park in Rubidoux (gotta love the name) became my little piece of paradise, a unique community of odd people bound by a common worry (the cost of rent in the area) that went from a Vietnam vet and his disabled son to a retired country singer. I only regret not having taken the time to do a story about them while I was there.
It was my little paradise and mine only then; there's four of us living in the trailer now. Most days it looks more like hell than paradise.
In the evenings Duracell-Dylan often starts running the length of the trailer's "living-room," about 15 feet, back and forth, back and forth, banging against the cabinet door at one end and me at the other, and it's rather obvious he'd be happy with a lot more space, although I'm not sure it would make any difference in his behavior an hour later.
(From left) Vanessa, Alexela, Yvonne and Pablo on the boardwalk in Santa Cruz this morning (mimicking Dylan.)
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