Ada Unraveled Read Free Page B

rare in the fall. Tonight the
clouds were supposed to evolve into a drenching storm, an event
that could turn the recent fear of fires into fear of mudslides. My
winding hour-long drive would take me through Julian to I-13, and
then on south into Cleveland County.
    Dusk was just settling in under the thick
blanket of clouds as I found my next turn. I passed the ashes of
several burned out neighborhoods, small groups of what were once
homes but now were reduced to lone chimneys sticking up here and
there like giant grave markers. They reminded me of the burned tree
spires at Applepine where we’d stumbled upon a corpse.
    I bore right onto I-13 and quickly found the
turnoff to Iguana. I spotted the next sign, a local product far
less welcoming than the one on the freeway. This one needed a coat
of paint, and was a warning not a welcome.
     
IGUANA:
Population small and meant to stay that
way.
     
    Lovely. But not an unusual sentiment for
over-crowded Southern California.
    I passed through a hamlet of meager stores
and starving restaurants, a gas station so old I wondered if it was
up to code with today’s green laws. And finally a small wooden
church, which made me pray I would beat the rain to the front door
of this event. It was going to be a close race. I kept searching
for the elusive dirt road I’d been instructed to find a little past
the old town—something about a low rock wall entrance with the name
in Mexican tiles on it: Stowall.
    Finally, there it was. I gratefully pulled
to a stop just inside the long driveway. I needed a moment to
compose my slightly panicky brain. I gazed at the house before me,
now feeling completely time-warped back to the thirties and
teleported to the Appalachians—sans the green woods.
    Ahead of me lay a sprawling one-story wood
frame structure, fully lit from one end to the other (obviously no
fear of electric bills here) with spotlighting on a few crippled
looking shrubs that hugged the oddly shaped perimeter. A strange
landscaping choice that was immediately compounded by a large pile
of boulders on the right, also lighted and planted in a bed of
dried weeds and grasses.
    The junkyard-slash-geological grouping was
either a miserable attempt at outdoor statuary or perhaps someone’s
idea of what to do with the heavy trash. Decorate the yard.
    A flash of light and clap of thunder warned
me to speed it up or prepare to muck-swim my way to the front
door.
    The crooked home seemed to have been built
over a period of years, some sections with wood facing, some with
stucco, huge and disjointed. I concluded the Stowalls must be a
large family, the rooms having been added as the family added
children.
    Grapes of Wrath , came to mind. To
Kill a Mockingbird . A librarian’s habit, to relate in book
titles. But this scene was more than strange. I would have turned
tail and run except there were already several cars parked in a
helter-skelter gathering in front of the house—no doubt the other
quilters. The cars gave me courage. Most of them were new, much
newer than my own. Beyond the cars the dirt road faded away, taking
my fears with it around the back of the odd house.
    I opened my door and placed a tentative
foot—wearing a comfortable burnt orange Moc--down on the half
gravel, half dirt road. I was dressed in yellows and oranges
tonight, something cheerful I hoped would help keep me awake. A
rousing breeze played with my hair. The storm was arriving. I
hurried.
    Someone within the house was watching me. I
could feel their eyes although I saw no one at the dirty windows as
I scurried toward the door. I raised my hand to knock feeling
slightly winded. Altitude, I lied to my brain. We’re up a
mile . Yeah, sure, brain answered.
    The door swung open.
    “Victoria wanted to welcome everyone with
lots of lights. Thus the garish display of electric wealth.”
    I looked back at the smiling middle-aged
woman, about my height. Hannah. I’d know that voice anywhere. She
was unpretentious, with