August 17

The house seems larger than I remember, which I suppose doesn't normally happen when you step foot in a place you were last in as a 12 year old. We're right near Driscoll's farm, from whence I remember even in Pennsylvania growing up always seeing strawberries marked "Watsonville, California".

"Do you have any deer out here?" I asked, just in the off chance there were (not that I'd have any idea where they'd live). "No," Grandma said. "Maybe mountain lions though." This was as we drove the last few minutes to their place from the airport an hour away.

The walls are covered in what I can only describe as tasteful kitsch. A section for miniature sheep, some Texaco memorabilia (my grandfather ran a Texaco gas station decades ago), the cupboard of fancy china, those famous images of the bearded man praying over a loaf of bread and Jesus knocking at a door. Pictures of chickens and eggs. Framed poems my grandmother wrote decades ago. A whiteboard note from my mother (she and Tom visited without me) three? years ago stays on the wall as if it were written last week.

Certain smells of the house, of the garden dirt, bring me back to my previous visits here in 2010 and 2006? and 2003. It's a peaceful place. The garden has tomatoes and avacados and squash and basil and dill.

My grandparents are reading through the Bible, a chapter a day or something like that. They're up to 2 Samuel. Apparently there's been some drama with King David mourning the death of Absolam, but today's selection was just a writing of David that honestly seemed out of place outside Psalms. I don't know I've seen this particular type of spiritual synchronicity in an older couple before.

I drove my grandparents' new Subaru—rather herky-jerkily I'm afraid—into town with Grandpa for a brief excursion to the grocery store and Harbor Freight for an HDMI cord. Prices here in California are going to give me a heart attack. That novelty half-moon shaped mug that says "California was so expensive I could only afford half a cup!" wasn't kidding.

My grandfather knows something about coffee. Has Starbucks beans he grinds himself for the morning coffee, Folgers grounds for his 3pm coffee. Has a device to make it in the pour-over fashion, although maybe there's a different name.

My previously unverified memory based on a fleeting jolt of recognition in 2010 was correct: the family photo albums, Grandma says, do in fact have pictures of dead children. Maybe dead adults too. I suppose it's not illogical to photograph people in caskets. But I didn't check those pictures out yet. I was looking at the fading ones from the 60s. Grandma, despite having done work in family genealogy, told me she didn't see the point in digitizing them. But I think she'll let me try.

It's like 60° and a little rainy, and driving back from the store I could see a cloud coming low and obscuring a hill. So much for California being the land of sun, especially coming from Lancaster, which is above 80° today.

It's interesting to see the creative craftsmanship of my uncle's metalworking around the house too. I'm getting excited to see him. Not that we have a timeframe for that yet. He's in the area, I believe.

I feel tired. Chalk it up to jet lag somehow, I guess.