The Meadow Literary and Art Journal 2012

Beyond the Sea by Nancy O’Connell First Place, Non-Fiction Award I live just east of Eden. Not all the way east but far enough to appreci- ate the miracle of refrigerated transport. Life without lettuce, orange juice and a smooth, cool avocado would be grim indeed. At first glance, it’s an odd place to call paradise. On this side of the majestic Sierra Nevada Mountains, the foothills sit in a rain shadow and here begins a vast high mountain desert covering most of the state. Once, we were on the edge of the forest. The lingering snow pack provided enough moisture for the pines and cedars to survive two months of blistering heat. Then came the railroads, gold and silver mines. The trees are coming back slowly, but my life in and near this part of the world bears witness to the span of time it takes to grow a stand of timber. Horses, cows, sheep, goats, llamas and emus share the land in this part of town. The flock of feral peacocks nearby manages to survive despite the coyotes still roaming free. I have a small patch of lawn but most of my property is covered with wild purple sage. Trees provide some shade for the roses but the dirt here will tell you the west is still just a little wild. The land is still raw and unkempt in places. We’ve tamed the horses, we sleep on soft beds and revel in the luxury of indoor plumb- ing, but not so long ago, not very far away, it was a different story. Louis L’Amour’s Comstock Lode is just over the ridge. Mark Twain slept there and it’s still easy to imagine Marshall Dillon and Miss Kitty at the Bucket o’ Blood saloon. The snowpack lingers on Mount Rose while July temperatures on the valley floor hit triple digits. Just about every night, I sit on my porch in a big oversized white rocking chair and watch the world move from day to night. Sometimes with a cup of tea, other times with a nice merlot. In the evening, the sun dips behind the mountains and shadows march down the eastern slope, across the valley floor and up the foothills on the other side. The deep red clay dirt fades to a softer peach then to pale pink. The sky moves from clear blue to periwinkle and finally an indigo that deepens to ink as the stars come out. I’m discovering the things I thought I knew about myself, only to realize the fantasy has nothing to do with reality. I have, for example, always maintained I had to be either on the shore or in the mountains. It’s a great concept, really, but bears little validation by the life I live now. When I moved here, my friends thought I’d lost my mind. Richard is in Manhattan in an elegant 2,000 square foot loft in SoHo living a charm- ing, trendy, well-dressed life. Michael is in the Hollywood Hills, his home featured in the June 2010 issue of Architectural Digest, tanned, fabu- lous and driving a vintage white convertible Porsche down Doheney Way. Kathleen is in Seattle on Mercer Island. She takes a boat to work every the Meadow 11