a farewell to Paso

Cowboy boots.

Buy yourself a pair.

 

I must have looked skeptical. Because I was.  

 

Tri-tip and Trump flags and rodeos. In California?!

I had been warned by an old friend, a native.

 

California’s Central Coast seemed an anathema.

A political unicorn nestled among their MAGA vineyards.

 

And to there, the military sent us in 2020.

 

Well. It’s never as simple as that.

 

Driving cross country with four (!) kids in a mid-size SUV is basically SEAL training.

I’ve done it four times. For fun. *wink*

 

And now I believe in the gospel AND melatonin. With almost equal conviction.

 

I digress.

J was stationed at Ft. Hunter Liggett.

*sigh*

A desert-like training facility described as “primitive.” 

Boasting more rattlesnakes than people.

 

I mean, I don’t actually need Starbucks.

But, I’m a little insistent about food for the kids.  

 

So, we hoped to live further out in this cute little Hallmark movie town, Paso Robles.

Closer to Starbucks. And the grocers. 

But also the wineries.  

 

HOWEVER. 

Initially, there were ZERO houses on the rental market when we were to head west from Hilton Head.

Under an August moon.

Hotter than a jalapeno’s armpit.

Praying for a Hail Mary. 

(Like my mom fired up her prayer squad for this one)

 ZERO. HOUSES. IN. PASO. 

…When suddenly a 4-bedroom rental home hit Craigslist and we were the first of 20 applicants.  TWENTY.

Miracle.

 

Granted.  We survived two years with THE worst slumlords.

BUT.

They were *our* slumlords.

And we were grateful.  

 

Two years have passed in a blink.

Like a grand romance on the big screen, we all fell in love fast and furious.

 

Small town America.

I thought I would absolutely abhor it.

With my stilettos. Season orchestra tix. And dislike of Kohls.

 

But it’s unwittingly seductive.

 

Much like Cheers- small town North County.  

Everyone knows your name.

Everywhere.

 

The baseball field.

The check-out line.

The tasting room.

The school yard.

The worship center.  

 

There is an organic sense of community that can’t be artificially constructed.

 And I fell in love with it all.

 

While I never bought the cowboy boots.

I never grilled a tri-tip. 

And I never flew a MAGA flag.

 

I did meet THE finest people.

And they became beloved family.  

 

Two years was not enough.

 

Not enough summer nights at Venteux. Drinking wine, listening to Bare Market Riot. Dancing with our babies under the stars.

Not enough rigorous hikes (yes, Kimberly) up to Cerro Alto or to Avila Bay Ridge.

Not enough long, lazy days at Avila Beach.

Not enough crisp, fall evenings watching soccer practice with Amber, sipping prosecco and talking until the stars came out and those pesky children demanded dinner.

Not enough Hector & Caroline’s famous grilled tri-trip enjoyed under inky skies.

Not enough front porch sitting in the Spear’s historic, hospitable ever welcoming home.

Not enough time with my favorite stylist literally in the entire world, Lindsey, a talented magician and friend. 

Not enough Bunco Girl’s nights where the stakes are low but the laughter is loud.

Not enough wine tastings overlooking verdant, leafy vines, and sumptuous charcuterie. 

Not enough provocative book club discussions that convict and compel. Thanks, Chelsea, Jess and Tiffany and Shellie and Rebecca and Deb. 

Not enough ski trips to China Peak with my kids where I don’t nearly die.

And not enough staggering sunsets washing over lingering dinner conversations while our kids play capture the flag and baseball and football until the moon hangs high and time is forgotten.

Never enough. Until then. 

C. S. Lewis quips. Perfectly.  “All joy reminds.”

I have known great joy (and aching laughter) in Paso.

This joy, the reminder of eternity. The hope of glory.

 

Otherwise, I would be super sad.

Not just a little sad, but like weepy, snotty sad, to say goodbye.

 

As we say in the military, but also for the believer, it must be  “see you later.”

Truly. Thank God

 My sweet friend Jen feted me with the loveliest garden party to wish me farewell. Her gift of hospitality is quite exceptional. 

Everyone should get a friend like Jen.

 

*Update*

Our next adventure continues in the great state of South Carolina.

 Happily. I have been polishing this antebellum accent for 15+ years.  

 Sadly. My otherwise “polite” children are THE rudest people south of the Mason Dixon.

We are working round the clock until they breathe “Sir“ and “Mam.”

 

PSA: Central Coast CA friends, please relocate here before Newsom outlaws it.

 

Y’all come back for the updates. 

See, I am basically Scarlett.