One June day in the late seventies a tour bus pulled up in front of the River Inn in Big Sur and disgorged its gaggle of first time visitors to the west coast. After the low hanging overcast coming south from Carmel, the sudden appearance of bright sunlight upon entering the Big Sur River valley lifted the spirits of the travelers and opened their eyes to the wonders around them, the hills jutting straight up, the towering redwoods and the sparkling river flowing behind the lodge.

Lucy, a New York native, on her first trip west, newly widowed, her three children grown, her career winding down, looked all around, taking in everything, almost frozen in her tracks. Then, rather than following the others into the lodge for lunch before departing for points south, she turned around and returned to the bus.

The bus driver, bored from keeping the same schedule trip after trip, lost in a book behind the wheel, was startled by Lucy’s request, not thinking he heard her right. “You want what?”

“My bags. I’m not going any further.”                  

Thinking she meant to get a room for a few days and pick up a future bus, he shook his head, climbed down and found her suitcase.  “Do you want me to alert the company that you’ll be joining a tour in a few days?” He couldn’t picture the diminutive woman staying more than a few days.

“No thank you. I’m here to stay. I’m home.”

With the confidence of someone who knows that everyone around her are neighbors and friends, she dropped her belongings in front of the lodge and walked in, not a thought that someone might rob her. It was a simple request, “Who do I talk to about renting a place?” 

Big Sur, being a small community, one with more than its share of eccentric people, people who have precipitated out of the solution we call society at large, answered her call. Soon someone was summoned who had something to rent. Given the shortage of housing in the area, the place she took, sight unseen, was the place where she’d spend the rest of her life.