Paduca and Gore had me over for dinner the other night. Paddy was on one of her health- food kicks again. Every now and then, when she gets feeling too heavy, Paddy punishes Gore and me by making us eat some bizarre, disgusting concoction that she read about in Reader’s Digest or Gourmand de la Mort that would make her thin.

Just the other day I was toodling along the beach, way down below my house, when I came upon a woman we call “The Sea Vegetable Lady.” Her real name is Amethyst Whitlamore, but nobody calls her that. In fact, none of us is sure she even remembers her real name, but that may be from the brain-faded condition she seems to have always lived in.

This morning as I negotiated the insanely steep doubletrack about five hundred feet above the coast highway on my morning hike, faithful Goober at my side (faithful until a rabbit comes along), I noticed, under a tall pine tree poking out of the misty marine layer (it was high this morning), a lone supine figure, appearing to be either meditating or expired.

Perhaps at this juncture you’re thinking, “Fine! These people are here, they do these things, they don’t do those things, and they’re…quirky. But what happens?! Do they just exist? Don’t they do anything other than live their life out there on the edge of the world?

We have our naked church-goers, yes, but we also have other interesting folks who happen by our little slice of coastal paradise. Just last week an event happened that became the talk of every interested person in the community. That person would be Bobby Winkelman.

Though we are on the edge of everything out here, we aren’t without our cultural amenities. For instance, about once a month we’re visited by a food truck that wends its way up the coast, selling hot Mexican goodies to otherwise culinarily-bereft cliff dwellers such as ourselves.

One of the perks of living out here in the middle of the end of the continent is that we’re usually oblivious to the harsh weather endured by citizens of most other states and regions. We don’t have snowstorms or tornadoes or hurricanes or monsoons or sleet or desiccating desert heat.

Today was one of those days where a person just has to wonder about the vagaries of the universe. On the average day I generally spend little time ruminating on life’s oddities, but earlier I was treated to a tale told by a man of unusual occupation, a tale that needs, nay, demands, disseminating.

Schmedly Doogle’s my name, and tidepoolin’s my game. I spend an inordinate amount of time trolling the pools for aquatic life, not, as the mythical Doc in Cannery Row did—to collect specimens to sell—but to simply enjoy the simple pleasures of simple creatures doing their simple thing in the simply amazing world of tidepools.

When Hamilton Pluck—Samuel—moved here a few years ago, still imbued with metropolitan energy and tastes, he tried to drum up support for a new enterprise in downtown. Keep in mind here that downtown isn’t much more than a few buildings that house essential and / or novel businesses, and there isn’t generally much interest in anything new and frivolous.

What makes a community a community? What makes each community different? What rites and rituals make a community singular? Why am I asking these questions?

And speaking of tidepools…there I was again, downcliffs, wandering around in and around my favorite tidepools with my faithful salty dog, Goober, admiring the wonders of God’s creation and pondering the interconnectedness of all life forms, etc. Well, Goober wasn’t admiring anything.

The breadth of provenance of our drive-throughs, ride-throughs, bike-throughs, and walk- throughs is wide, and the depth of the oddity of the aforementioned is…uh, deep. One of the drive-throughs, who turned into a stop-in, which turned into a let-me-tell-you, was a man we’ll call Movie Star Dude or MSD.

Perhaps at this juncture (and what a word that is…sounds like it could have something to do with junk, or perhaps a surgical term, or maybe even something pertaining to road construction)…where was I? Oh yes, at the juncture of…something…

Off and on throughout these ramblings, you’ve heard mention of the town’s only café. Yet you haven’t heard of its owner / operator. I shall remedy that oversight now. Many years ago, the café was run by Dyson Clay, one of the old timers who had laid claim to land here and thought opening an eating establishment in the middle of the end of the continent was a grand idea.

Occasionally, people ask one of us residents, ‘What does it take to live out here (in the middle of the end of the continent)?” A fair question, since this isn’t suburban thriving or urban surviving. It’s relatively remote, location-wise, pretty challenging, weather-wise, and quite unusual, people-wise.

Now and then I find myself pondering my own sanity. Okay, more than now and then. These episodes seem to coincide with the arrival of some interesting character in town, with whom I seem to always interact. Am I approachable, or do I just have too much time on my hands and am in town a lot?

As previously noted, our community receives its share of unique visitors (the uniqueness…uniqosity…uniqueishness…whatever…of its residents is open to your interpretation of the word ‘unique.’ We tend to think of ourselves as highly individualistic).

There we were, Phanny, Oscar, Gore, Burleigh, Bat, the Rev, and I, sitting outside Oscar’s World of Laundry, which was empty save for a couple of loads of Burleigh’s in the dryer, discussing music (we, not Burleigh’s clothes).

Long ago, back in days of yore (your what? you might rightly ask), began the bacchanal known as Feast Day. I believe it was initiated by Burleigh Grimes, who recounted the ritual from his college days. The way it was practiced by college boys back then is similar to how we do it today, but with key differences.

It was one of those softly sunny, gently breezy, temperately temperate, fabulously fabulous, perfectly perfect spring days for which this community is known (known as far as the north end of town and the south end of town).

Being where we are, in the middle of the end of the continent, we tend to have somewhat fewer instances of what one might call ‘random acts of madness.’ But on occasion we get one of them, and today was one of those days. And, to be honest, it’s stuff like this that makes me want to stay here.

Evening time around here is the golden hour, or what Steinbeck called purple dusk, and both are apt descriptions of the wonderful climatic conditions we find here at the middle of the end of the continent.

Samuel (jeans, plaid flannel shirt, Knobby’s Bar trucker hat), Phanny (spandex, lavender fleece pullover, hair scrunchie), and I (regular old boring tan fishing shirt and pants, rubber- banded pony tail) were slouching in folding chairs on the concrete slab next to the cannon one cool, foggy late afternoon, sipping hot chocolate (Ha! You thought I was going to say Bailey’s!), and musing (which we do a lot) about the various maladies that seem to afflict the famous to a degree far above that of the general population.

One of the unique and wonderful features of our little part of the coastline is the coast range. It’s a multi-faceted layer of mountains, sometimes as deep as three distinct ridgelines and valleys, each with its own vegetation and animal life.

I live in a scenic place. People come from all over the world to drive the coast highway, and our part of it is not only scenic but inaccessible, as far as the beach is concerned, other than in a couple of places, none of which are right near Here.

Have I mentioned that we here in Here are generally untroubled by many of the so-called issues that seem to plague the minds of those more ‘plugged in’ than we are? I have? Okay, then…so I guess I have nothing to say here…juuuuuuust kidding!