Driving near the river under the tall, elegant redwoods, the dappled sunlight streaks down and plays tricks on my eyes. I begin to anticipate it and suddenly beyond the bend it pops into view: the red wall. The simple things in life bring joy, right? Yes. I haven't memorized all the houses along the road, though by now I recognize and anticipate features in them when I ride past. I look forward to the red wall. I don't remember when it became red, but I must have noticed immediately–how could you not? It isn't a long wall, 100 feet at most, stuccoed with a lone square pillar at one end, as if pointing to the entrance. It isn't connected to anything, nor does it protect a baronial estate, it seems to be what remains of another time. It sits there self confidently in the shade and spotted sun of the Sonoma County redwoods, as if it's winking at you and saying: "I bet you didn't expect an apple red wall and you are surprised I'm nice to look at." It does and it is. It is a happy a...
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