There are many reasons we feel at home in Mariposa, California, the western gateway to Yosemite National Park. The three of us haunt numerous picturesque trails and rivers. In spring, and the reason we've booked this motel room for a week, is because the orange poppies burst forth in joyous clusters from the hillsides. Wildlife is never far off. Better yet, there's an earthiness to the residents not seen in many of the places we've visited over the past three months.
Here in Mariposa, there's room for all kinds of folks, which is comforting. While the population of 2,000 is predominantly white, we've seen an arc that goes from rough, blue-collar men and women to liberals to a comfortable gay population and mostly conservative folks. Vehicles are well-used pick-up trucks, adventure rigs, old compact cars, and shiny new Teslas.
I like that these human pieces all meld as well as they do.
Housing is not easy to come by, but many young adults are determined to make it here nevertheless. Post-pandemic professionals who escaped LA and San Francisco did not take long to figure out that the gateway towns to Yosemite are fine for a three-day weekend but awfully dull to live in. So, they have turned their renovated properties into pricey Airbnb rentals.
It's quite the dynamic. All good stories need underlying tensions. This place has them.
As an inveterate people watcher, I can never drink my fill in this small town named for the butterflies.
Late this afternoon, I had Samwise and Emily in the small parking lot across the street from our motel. Rain was beginning to fall, and the gloomy afternoon was raw and chilly.
Sam and Emi were sniffing telephone poles, signposts, green grass, and clumps of just-blooming wildflowers while leaving their scents behind.
A minivan pulled into a space, and a tired man in his late forties opened the driver's side door and dropped to his feet. He had a long, narrow scraggly beard, a coat that had seen at least a dozen winters, old boots, and worn jeans. There was soot on his ball cap, along with the local high school's mascot—a grizzly.
On the opposite side of the van, a woman equally tired and roughed up by life emerged. Neither man nor woman gave a hint of emotion.
The backseat passenger door slid open, and a young, thick-set man of twenty, dressed much like his dad, stepped out.
The trio moved in slogging unison, with the father first, the son second, and the mom taking up the rear.
They did not look up; they did not look around; they merely shuffled slowly along.
Then, with a slight lift of his head, the son looked through his thick glasses at his dad.
"Dad. Dad!"
The man did not look back. He had to have heard his son, but he seemed to ignore him.
With the sound of his voice and a closer look, I realized the son had Down syndrome.
"Dad. Dad! I want a hug. I want a hug."
The mother did not look up from behind. The father acted like he did not hear.
"I want a hug."
It was heartbreaking to witness.
"I want a hug!"
In a flash, the father made a quick-as-violence spin to face his son. His hands reared back, preparing to strike.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Tom Ryan, Author to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.