My Hometown in 500 Words

Photo by Miranda Ward

The rats are in the walls again. I can hear them at night; the rhythms of their feet permeate my dreams.

In the morning we discuss what’s to be done about it. I point out that at least they’re not in the cars, eating the wires, as they’ve been known to do before. My father is fed up with setting traps and catching nothing; my mother is reluctant to let her morning be ruled by rodents.

He says, “Maybe they’ll like crunchy peanut butter better than smooth peanut butter.”
She says, “I don’t know, I can’t talk about this until I’ve had some coffee.”
So we put the kettle on again.

It’s the start of one of those blue midsummer days. The hills are parched and golden. There’s been no rain for months, and everything smells sweet and burnt. Maybe there’s ash in the air from a wildfire somewhere up north. But here the sky is still and clear. This is where the northern California ecosystem meets the southern California ecosystem, where rare things are in abundance – endangered species, intertidal areas, migrating birds.

I’m home after a long period away. I’d forgotten about the beauty here – its hypnotic properties, its ability to fuel endless daydreams.

The counterpoint is the isolation. At midday, tired of listening to nothing but the bees in the macadamia orchard, I decide to make the 45-minute long trip into town.

“I’ll get more peanut butter for the rat traps,” I say.

The main road mirrors the coastline, which curves in such a way that means the ocean is to the south, not the west. Several times I have to honk at a group of cattle standing in the road; they scatter and run for the hillsides. Looking west, I can see Point Conception – traditionally an opening into the celestial world. The Chumash called it Humqaq, the Western Gate; now it’s forbidden territory still, part of Vandenberg Air Force Base.

Ten minutes into my journey, something – a movement, a sound – captures my attention, and I turn to find a rat on the passenger seat. I pull over. It inches towards me so I get out of the car and open the doors.

A car approaches from the other direction. Inside is Josh, a legendary surfer I’ve known for years. He pulls over. He has surfboards stacked in the bed of his truck and I can smell the coconut of the wax.

“Are you okay?” he says.
“Fine,” I say. “It’s just that there’s a rat in my car, and I’m waiting for it to leave.”
He smiles.
“Ah, you’ll be fine then,” he says. “You’re a ranch girl.”
And he drives away, and as he does the rat leaps out, and I can continue my journey.

Later, in the pure dark you get in a place that has never known streetlights, I lie awake listening to the urgent movements of the rats in the walls. But it’s as Josh says – I’ll be fine, I’m a ranch girl.