We live in an unincorporated village. It has been a tourist destination for decades. Before settlement, it was a location frequently visited by Coast Salish people for harvesting clams, oysters, and crabs. The road along the bay is dotted with restaurants, a brew pub, coffee shops, souvenir shops, condos, and apartments. There is a small grocery store that offers a limited selection of items, with prices that are slightly higher than those found at a supermarket. A second small grocery store is located near the entrance to the State Park along our bay.

We knew when we bought our home that we would need to drive for many services. It isn’t far. Most of our medical services are within a 15-mile radius, and there are several larger grocery stores, hardware stores, pharmacies, and other services within similar distances.

Parts of our community are very safe places to ride a bicycle. There is a wide shoulder designated for bikes and walking on the main street along the bay. Additionally, there is a designated walking bath located next to the beach. The immediate community surrounding our home is designated as a golf cart area, and the speed limit is 25 mph. The village is busy this weekend with tourists from Seattle, WA, and Vancouver, BC, coming to the beach for a holiday weekend before fall arrives.

Most of the time, I don’t have much trouble riding my bike around town. Yesterday, the flow of traffic alongside the bay was slower than I typically bike. I joined the parade of cars, golf carts, and bicycles and waited with others as pedestrians crossed the road. People were in a good mood, and there was a holiday feeling. It was fun to know that I could ride fast enough to pass the golf carts, but most of the way, the traffic was too tight to allow it.

I was heading to a grocery store that is farther from our house. It is about six miles each way, a reasonable trip with my bicycle. I wasn’t going for a kitchen stock-up. There were just a couple of items that I had missed when shopping earlier in the week, and the errand gave me a chance to ride my bike and check a couple of items off my list.

By the time I got home from my errand, I felt like a local. In the first place, I knew where I was going, and I wasn’t wandering as was the case with some of the drivers of carts and cars. I didn’t need to stop and look to see what the shops had to offer. The thing that made me feel like a local, however, was the weather. I left home without giving a thought to the weather. I didn’t look at a forecast. I knew there were clouds in the sky, but nothing that would prevent me from taking a bike ride. When I came out of the grocery store and got on my bike, it was raining. By the time I had gone three or four miles, I was pretty wet. I wasn’t fazed by the experience at all. I wiped the water spots off my glasses and continued with my ride home.

It is a small thing, but there was a time when a bit of rain would have prevented me from going for a bike ride. There was a time when I checked the rain gauge to see how much we had received, even if it was just a brief shower. Now, however, I barely notice a small shower. It wasn’t enough to get me to change any of my plans. It wasn’t even enough to give me an evening off from watering my flowers. My wet clothes quickly dried, and I went on with my day as usual.

It has been five years since we officially retired from our jobs in South Dakota and moved to the Pacific Northwest. We are approaching our fourth year of living in this house. We are settling in and consider ourselves local residents now. The immediate neighborhood around our house is mainly comprised of people who live here year-round and work in neighboring towns. Just a short walk away, however, the neighborhoods are mostly beach cottages and rental properties.

I don’t mind all of the visitors. Sometimes they make me feel grateful for my life. I see tourists lingering on the beach watching the sunset and realize that this is a special experience for them. I get to walk to the beach at sunset as often as I want.

I’ve had conversations with people who never quite feel at home. No place is quite right for them to relax and feel comfortable. I’ve been fortunate to have a very different experience. I’ve had several homes throughout my life, and each has felt welcoming and natural to me. I’ve lived on the prairie and in the forest. I’ve lived inland near the center of the continent, and I’ve lived at the edge of the country near the sea and the Canadian border. Each place has felt like home to me. Each place carries special memories for me.

For now, we live in a good place, and I’m grateful to have the health to ride my bike. The urge to get a golf cart hasn’t entered my life. I don’t know how many years we will stay in this house, but like others who have gone before, I know that the time will come to move to someplace closer to services.

Until that time, it is good to be at home in this place. It is a good place to be.