Mercantile of Mercantiles

They say America was founded one outpost general store at time. The pioneer spirit drove settlers westward, and often, the only connection with civilization were the little “Everything Shops” out in the boondocks. Abe Lincoln figured out he’d learn about this country by working as a clerk in one. He found that the news “on wind” and “word of mouth” always made its way to an over the counter conversation in Mr. Offut’s store in New Salem, Illinois. Amongst the pickle barrels, rope and pitchforks, glad tidings mingled with idle gossip. The latest political and societal topics were debated amongst locals with the “out of towners”. Peddler, traveling salesman, settler: all brought their own colorful brand of noteworthy subjects. Indeed, these country stores bred the American spirit of adventure, inspired by tales adrift, aloft and captured over a cup of cider and conversation.

When one went to the general store it was in mind of bringing back specifics. Perhaps, some coal, coffee, an iron skillet, flour for baking, thread for sewing, seeds, bandages, quinine, whale oil, beeswax, wire, lantern, candles, French soap, feather bedding, shampoo, and, an indian rubber ball for the children, comprised the shopping list. As one packed one’s wagon, lively talk would ensue and perhaps a riddle, song or poem was shared. Then, a sarsaparilla to induce refreshment was in order, whilst picking up a post and reading its contents with clerk and fellow customers leaning on the counter, lending an ear. It would be the last visit until Spring for distanced folk, or the weekly mecca for those who lived close by. It was the supplier of chit chat, newspapers and books. Not everything bought was necessary. These stores had delights for the children as well: they sold candy and kaleidoscopes, jumpropes and tin soldiers, caps and sunbonnets, unicycles and velocipedes, even roller skates and ice-skates. For the precious littlest ones, there might be rattles and teething rings, eventually to be replaced with Porcelain dolls, wooden alphabet blocks and slates, all begotten from the American outpost general store.

In the 21st century, these stores not only have been swallowed up by two centuries of increasing urban sprawl, but the very size of these shops have expanded into what we call department stores and now superstores. The Wal-marts of today, owe their very existence to the humble beginnings of the general store. Despite the citified, modern world expanding commerce in spit-spot, quick-flash fashion, there are still some remnants of the homespun neighborliness to be found in some of the quieter-long-lasting general stores. Just such a store was still keeping its doors and heart open to its surrounding community of Glendora.

Bock’s Variety store had been frequented and truly loved by all, until the owner passed on and his son sold the business. Only less than a decade ago patrons could still walk into Bock’s and buy a last minute Father’s Day gift of Old Spice and Golf Balls or casually peruse McCall’s dress patterns. It was considered a magical oasis for anyone who could appreciate service with a smile and might overhear the next discussion about the mayor and his intentions. You heard what the Boy Scouts were doing, when the next Little League Pancake Breakfast fundraiser was, and what date in December the Town Hall Christmas Tree would be lit. If, one were lucky to have been a child of the 60s, then a trip downtown meant a step into this veritable treasure house ready at one’s disposal; shelf after shelf stocked with imagination inspiring products.

You stepped through two glass swinging open doors and were presented with numerous paralleling aisles neatly organized and thoughtfully planned display shelves. Under some of the shelves were cabinets. The cabinets held drawers full of more items for purchase. One such drawer stored the latest 45s, another drawer kept various kinds of stationary. You kind of knew what was in each but needed permission from the store clerks to open and inspect the contents. Up out of reach from curious, tiny hands was a locked glass cabinet displaying little international dolls – each in its own traditional dress. The list of purchasable goods was endless : Fenton-ware was on display in the storefront window, Big Ben alarm clocks, the sports section with mitts, bats, tennis rackets, croquet sets, the fabric & textiles department replete with corduroys and calicos, paisleys and plaids, the silk ribbons on spools, music boxes, stargazing constellations dial cards, pocket binoculars, the children’s books in the back of the store display shelf, the chemistry sets and telescopes, wooden Brio building sets, the paint by number and various card sets, Etch-a Sketch, Erector sets, Fisher-Price Circus set, jacks and marble sets, 1,000 word puzzles, Silly Puddy, hair brushes and hand mirrors, even harmonicas and castanettes! Bocks always had an ever friendly, helpful staff, the long candy aisle to occupy you while you waited in the register line with friends or siblings, Bazooka guns and Davy Crockett rifles, card sets, Chinese checkers, Ouigi Board games, paper doll booklets, plastic horses, cowboy hats, firefighter hats, doctor role-play sets and costumes,  lava lamps and hula hoops, view master slide viewers, macrame kits and knitting skeins, crochet kits and needles. You might spy Timex watches, Red Flyer Wagons, Mr. Wiggles & Slip n Slides, Slinkies, 1,000 piece puzzles, paint by number sets, art chalk, poster boards, sketch pads, colored pencils, rubber cement, sequins, glitter, Rick a rack, flashlights, cedar keepsake/ jewelry boxes, candles and pine incense to burn inside miniature wooden log cabins, kites, snow globes, leather belts, shoe polish, ties and bandannas… these were all part of the merchandise sold in this creaky wooden floored, shelved ground to ceiling, richly stocked,  mercantile of all mercantiles…the heart of town.

But a mercantile can’t exist without its merchant. If the store had heart, it was because Mr. Bock was the heartbeat behind the operation. Every youngster in Glendora knew him. And HE knew all the kids’ names. He even could associate you with your family and say, “Oh, you must be So and So’s brother”… Mr. Bock had come home from the war missing an arm. But he carried a smile all his days. He listened to the chatter of children and provided merchandise to tantalize. I remember being charmed by mood rings, and torsion pendulum clocks. I introduced my baby brother to a Lionel Train Set as it was set up and working in action on a low table up near the front window ready to snatch the glances of wide-eyed faces. He would hear us talking and the next thing you knew, he was now selling them. His store was his world. A world he shared with everyone. A world of wonder. Yes, the mercantile beyond all other mercantiles…Bocks Variety Store.

I Didn’t Set Out to Write an Essay…

 

“A wonderful friend actually lives up to the fine quote I heard today”, thought I,  while watching the televised Memorial Service for our 41st President of the United States: George, Herbert Walker Bush. The quote was recounted by a close, longtime friend of our late president. The past Prime Minister of Canada, Brian Mulroney quoted Bush as saying to him:

“There are wooden ships, there are sailing ships, there are ships that sail the sea/But, the best ships are friendships, and may they always be,,,”

 

This was a moving moment for me. A chord within was struck, and pretty much set the tone for the rest of the service and all the day. Thus, by the time I took off my mental mourning frock, and decided to chin up and cheer up, I was ripe for the inspiration to just write. I don’t know, the sweet words spoken and the triumphant crescendo of song at the end of the ceremony rather fired up my personal engine within.

This is what great words and music do.  They instigate. They shake mighty oaks and can even move mountains on rare occasion — figuratively speaking of course. But, today, my true blue friend sent me pictures of a child in 1950’s England. What a simpler, more gentle time those photos tell. They are a symbolic view of an era gone by. One picture was of a father crouching down in his garden with his budding brood. The expression on his face, tells how he was quite proud of his offspring.

 

Still circa mid-century, other photos showed darling little girls dressed and prepared to play in the snow. The pair is outdoors amongst a snowfall that matches their tot-size height. They seem oblivious to the encroaching snowdrifts,  ready to embark on unfettered play. But, the one snapshot of my friend when he was a wee laddie blowing bubbles with his bottle of liquid soap and blow ring posed before his lips, harkened me back to those sage words of calm and wisdom. This being a black and white photograph in a sense all its own, requested slow, thoughtful perusal. It also advertised a time of pure childhood. This little guy was quite involved with his bubble making, so much so, that to stop and smile at the camera would have been merely a grandstand. Not an option. This endearing depiction of impeccant childhood caught on camera managed to get me thinking….

 

We were pretty lucky when we grew up. Lucky because we lived in a somewhat blissful state of innocence. Sure, we knew about bombs, and we even practiced in schools and homes for any real disaster. But, the knowledge wasn’t splashed before us daily. We weren’t constantly reminded by all forms of media, of life’s impending perils — with no escape from it — as it seems to be nowadays.

 

Maybe everyone feels this way, but, I think our generation (his and mine), is the last to know of the “old ways”…decorum, respect, patience, self-effacement, kindness to others, honesty, do unto others by the Golden Rule, take little-give more, work to the point of thoroughness, listen and learn, don’t ever give up, face fear with bravery, hold no malice toward others, communicate thoughtfully, hold dear what objects you do have and be grateful for them, cheer others whenever possible, ignore rudeness, be an example, polish one’s shoes– no matter how humble those shoes are, seek interest, teach but also learn while teaching, respect the elderly, have reverence, love the little things as well as the enormous, and appreciate the natural world through practice, living, deed, saving and problem-solving.

We know what it’s like to get excited to see a double matinee or to smell dumplings & stew in a pot that has been on slow simmer all afternoon. We know firsthand what it is like to enjoy the comfort of a grandmotherly hug, a warm sofa cushion, and steamy delicious rice pudding. We felt moved when hearing a beautiful hymn emanating from a plain little chapel choir, or felt affirmation as we witnessed the combined reaction of an eyebrow with the smirk of a smile, when our parents opened our report card to see our good marks. (And it was a little cardstock card!) Just the expression made us feel special, because we knew we had pleased our mother and father. As young tots peering in the window, how amazed we could be by the glisten on the furry hair tips of a black fuzzy wuzzy caterpillar crawling on a windowsill. This is because we were taught to hold preciously things both great and small; best of all, those from family. Yes, pictures of an era gone by are a wonderful testament to a time quaint to the core, but deeply affecting.

We are the generation of The Beatles, Elvis, The Beach Boys, Dave Clark Five, The Hornets, The Rolling Stones. The Moodies, Mitch Miller, Bob Dylan, John Denver, Glen Campbell, Petula Clark, The Supremes, Lawrence Welk, Arthur Fiedler and The Boston Pops (for me anyway, not sure England knew about them), Burt Bacharach, Sonny and Cher, Streisand, Beverly Sills, Liberace etc. Too many to name…but our young ears grew up in a “garden of sound”.

First, we learned the budding singular notes. Then we noticed how the chords trellised across interlocking latticework creating musical patterns that grew the melodies we heard into diverse offshoots; sprouting motifs new. Once familiar with these tunes, our hearts and minds could tarry awhile in mental recline on a figurative rich carpeted tapestry design “colored in” with music! It seems to me that both our households immersed us in music of many forms and this paved the way to an enriched lifetime.

 I think we were fortunate to be brought up with variety and open-mindedness. I know, in 1979, as a starting out teacher, I didn’t need to “get on the multiculturalism band wagon”, I already had an affinity to any fine music, from wherever it hailed and the countries/peoples that claimed their style. Is it any wonder why he, his wife, his siblings, and myself, as well, are only too happy to have a listen to a balalaika, a sitar, a mandolin, a harpsichord, and pealing cathedral bells? I don’t see this same level of interest in the generations after us. They seem too busy defending their own cultures, taking their own corner, preparing for the next “dukes up” moment.

We didn’t grown up that way. We grew up paying homage to history, tradition and custom. We grew up swallowing pride in order to make peace and let others be wrong, especially if in truth it was something petty or trivial in the vast scheme of things.

We grew up knowing duty means dutifulness and that means doing, until done well. We understood why this was important. We embraced hope in our hearts every day, because hope makes might and might makes right and right casts a shine on Good.

Anyway, our generation saw many things. We sent man to the moon, we trolled the depths of the ocean, and we even communed with the gorillas in the jungles to learn more about humanity. Our generation fought and protested wars; but we still gave men and sacrifice. We tackled prejudice with boldfaced determination. We even legislated against it. Our generation embraced the environment and was really the first generation to begin pro-actively taking on environmental concerns. Through education we matured from “Love, Love Me Do”, to “Imagine”. Not too shabby of a metamorphosis, I’d say!

But, all in all, our generation while in our youth, was still allowed to be innocent.   Blowing bubbles was a magical joy that I’m afraid today’s kids might not even get a thrill from or just get the chance to even experience. We liked our Etch-a Sketches, our Erector Set building kits, play dough, and our simplistic card games. We found zeal in watching a slinky “crawl” and flip down a flight of stairs, or when we made imprints of the newspaper comics with our Silly Puddy.

Our physical skill commandeered our frisbees and skateboards. It powered us down our streets bicycling with a mission. We made abundant use of hoolah hoops and roller skates.

How fortunate are we to be the first generation to sit before the television. We coveted our transistor radios, harmonicas and kazoos. We loved to dress-up and become gypsies, kings and queens, doctors and drum majors. Our playhouses in our backyards were court houses, general stores and classrooms. We solved “crimes” like Sherlock Holmes did and while engaged in undercover detective sleuthing, we clandestinely utilized our snap-shut pocket binoculars.

When ill, we stayed in bed and painted by number and drew pictures. We wrote in diaries and read books. We cut-out paper dolls and told tales to our stuffed bears. Imaginatively, we hid our plastic horses in under the coverlet caves and made them gallop over rolling hills on our quilts and pillows.

 

 

On rainy days we built and hid beneath makeshift blanketed forts. We competed in Chinese Checkers, Parchesi, Clue, Monopoly and let our Ougi Board do the telling. Sometimes we found ourselves devising folded paper riddle tricks, creating scavenger hunts, practicing sewing and knitting. 

In sunny weather we climbed trees and held secret clubs up high in our tree house, if we were lucky to have one. We even fashioned tin-can telephones and flew kites high into the wind. The thrill of a bike ride, making a cannonball off the diving board and a jump rope marathon sent our spirits soaring, too. Such was our childhood.!!!

These things are not flashy, fancy or requiring  multi-tasking. All were pastimes of action and attentiveness, with an ounce of ingenuity on our part. Some needed imagination and a good listening ear. Others warranted motor control, long-lasting determination and seriousness of industry. But, mostly, they required a 3D world.

2020.

Today’s kids receive very little of the above mentioned. Oh sure, their fingering fandango devices have all kinds of digital bells and whistles. But, they experience so much within a touchscreen realm, sending physical reality into the periphery- not to be picked up and held, tasted, felt or smelled. A rose on a tablet is not the rose beckoning the bees on a bush under the beaming sunshine!

Of course there are some young parents who recognize the old-fashioned value. Yet, are there enough? And now with schools all day online–what is to become of explorative play, of dreams begotten by gazing up into the clouds or conjured from a quiet respite on the couch whilst the music enticingly plays on..?

Okay, I didn’t set out to write an essay…just some reactions to such old-time, +10 on the “Richter Scale of Cuteness” photographs.

Glad my friend across the pond comes from the same cloth.

The Abounding Sounds of Glendora

A train of thought, worth the ride….

Nestled against the softly shapened foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains, is a bedroom community no longer so small. Grown from town to city, it barely retains its quaint character. Those who have been fortunate to be raised in such a place can keep the charm alive in the halls of their memory. A sweet mixture of home and community is what comes to mind.

When I think of Glendora, a series of sounds comes spilling forth:

Firstly, there are musical sounds. Glendora is rooted in music whether in the schools, the downtown district or the homes. Foremost in thought is our marching band playing “Scotland the Brave” with the bagpipes skirl leading the tune. Marching shoes are hitting the pavement marking time with crisp white drillteam gloves slapping palms and thighs in unison. Next, I recall Glendora High School’s orchestra playing an “A” at the tap of Mr. Norman’s baton on a metallic music stand. If I dig deeply enough, I can remember Charles Ross’s plucking of violin strings to tune young children’s instruments. When I used to walk the halls in high school, often, the harmonizing sounds of choir practice in session would showcase those beautiful voices…Indeed, music in school was prevalent.

Music was always a part of homelife. I hear my brother’s sax, his bass viol too, my other brother’s Ludwig drum set pounding the fury, and his Martin guitar gently strumming. I remember the lilt of my sister’s flute and my own violin practicing. Lucky was the occasion when our uncle would come to visit and perform on the organ just about anything on request. He thrilled us every single time. Never forgotten was my mom’s organ and piano playing in our house on weekend mornings. She played with verve and woke us up. I can still catch her rhythmic, clandestine “when nobody is looking” tap-dance in our kitchen and quite fondly, my father’s sweet whistle of tune while tending his roses or loading logs in our fireplace. He’d pull back the metal screen and shift the wood about. Once it began, the sputters and snaps would commence. As my mind ferrets the thoughts of sounds around home, I can hear the tinny sound of my beloved transistor radio and the blasting lyrics to “Oklahoma” coming from the downstairs’ bedroom record player console. Slipping into thought are the strains of Hendrix, Janis, Iron Butterfly, Dylan, The Beatles, The Beach Boys, The Safaris, Simon and Garfunkel, Glen Campbell and John Denver. Sounds from televised “Sing along With Mitch”, “The Lawrence WelkShow” and specials featuring that swoon worthy voice of the one and only Elvis.

You could say music was rampant in our Glendora household. Often, before a big family meal, a brother-sister duet of “Heart and Soul” would enliven the ivory keys of our family upright piano. When it came to meals together, there was plenty to talk about, too. If I try hard, those voices come to life for me. A sentimental thought emerges of the tiny, yet lively chirping of “Moonbeam” our canary, abashedly interjecting his opinion into the dinner table conversation most evenings. But, specific outdoor sounds are in the halls of my memory as well.

Taking a mental walk outside, I hear the mourning dove’s call in my backyard, a neighbor’s rooster heralding the break of day, a variety of birds chirping cheerfully as if in homage to the sunshine, the crows holding a rambunctious convention several times a year up in the trees, a woodpecker ardently at work, the unique baby-like wail of the local peacocks, and lest I forget, the questioning call of the lone owl who made our tall avocado tree his home. From my upstairs bedroom window, I detect the distant whinnying of the Armstrong’s stabled horse. Either outside or in,  occasional planes fly high overhead humming their beelines; airport bound. A tuned ear appreciates these sensorial details, including the “every so often” sonic boom made from the jets clearing the sound barrier up near Edwards Airforce Base.

Inclusive of this audible menagerie is an infusion of yells with squeals that signaled the splashes of diving, running jumps on springing boards and belly-flops into our family pool. My brain hones in on the tick, tick, clicketing of the Rainbird sprinklers, the Santa Fe train’s wan whistle cry, and carefree siblings singing songs on the swings in our yard. I even remember the muffled giggles as we would literally sausage-roll ourselves down the verdant, grassy knoll up behind and northeast of our back porch veranda.

Imagining being in town, at Finkbiner Park, I hear the melody blaring from the ice cream man’s truck that used to canvass our neighborhoods, and come round to the playground. Walking along our suburban streets, I hear rock n roll bands practicing in their families’ garages, the clacketing of skateboards on sidewalks and at the skate park, the sound of jump ropes slapping the ground as feet hop and voices recite chants, the basketball slamming onto cement– then the dunking sound it makes, whooshing through the hoop. How clever was the repetitive flapping of playing cards placed inside the spokes of bicycles ridden up and down city blocks. All these sounds made Glendora not just a town, but a hometown.

Almost anywhere near the downtown village one could and still can hear at Christmastime, the pealing Christian Church bells. On Sundays, if walking about, the grand Methodist Church pipe organ can be heard uplifting hymns to Heaven, And, most days, the chimes ring from the Public Library tolling out the hour. A more subtle sound is the clear “dinging” of Bock’s Variety Store’s old-fashioned register bell. Carried on the wind are distanced shouts and cheers at the Little League baseball games held at Sandburg and Goddard. From in the village can be heard the crack of wooden bats hitting homers, and the softball crowds rousing support emanating from the Finkbiner Park stands. Amongst the minutiae of memory are the sounds of strollers’ squeaky wheels with babies babbling on board.  Then there is the sound of strong winter gales blowing in the trees and through palm fronds. Happily remembered is the exultant vocalizing of the “Whoas” of passengers and riders in cars going down the “The Dip” on Sierra Madre Boulevard. From the eastern end of Glendora was heard the fireworks popping and crackling on the Fourth of July, and for some, the 4:00 Quitting Time horn blast at Monrovia Nursery.

Whether one was shopping, walking, roller-skating or riding around the various streets of Glendora, there was a plethora of sounds to now remember. I most certainly do! The thoughts fly past quickly.  I recall the sound of water from a hose being sprayed onto cars and kids giggling in playfulness as they soap up the tires. I hear truckloads of carolers rolling through the neighborhoods at Christmas, singing on front lawns or from the truckbed. I can identify the squeaky opening sound of the ice-cream freezer door at Finkbiner’s Market, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves along Sierra Madre, the flapping in the breeze of the elementary schools’ USA flag and California’s flag. I hear their rope and metallic fastener clanging against the tall standing flagpole, and even the school buses’ engine rumble as it is idles and takes off with a load of excited students. My mind hears the spritely discourse or happy conversation downtown along Glendora Avenue. Memory fires up the sounds of different makes of cars and vehicles driving up Glendora Mountain Road, especially, a Diesel Engine Mercedes SEL, a 56 Chevy, a Volkswagen beetle and a Triumph roadster, for they belonged to family. I can think of the sounds of automobiles zooming down Glendora Mtn. Road, down Valley Center, and along Foothill. Sometimes the acceleration was quite obvious! Other times, usually at dusk, lone, territorial coyotes call after the speeding wheels as if to say- “Be careful! We are still here!”

Glendora was a splendid town in which to live. Her sounds invigorated, lulled, and inspired. I hope that the citizens living there today take the time to stop and have a listen, because Glendora’s sounds are testament to her beauty. Glendora is not just roads and  buildings. It has been an on-going symphony of sounds for well over a hundred years. They describe a way of life. They reflect the people. The people of Glendora.

Julianne Cull (2019)

 

The Toppling of Tradition

Come on, SERIOUSLY? Very recently, I heard a radio discussion as I was driving along in my car, that just kind of rubbed me the wrong way. I think it is because it is one of a string of long-time stock-piling incidents building into a fevery pitch; or in keeping with the theme, a bonfire! It was about Halloween and the Trick or Treating expectations. Children were at the very core of the controversy, which kind of got my witches’ brew boiling….

A phone caller into a local radio station was saying how very adamant he was that 17 year old kids had the audacity to still be going door to door in quest for candy amongst all the other kiddies. Now, let’s dissect this issue. First and foremost, one is still a child until 18. Thus, these are children. It’s the lawful stance. I’m of the opinion that if a youth still wants to seek out candy, so be it, unless his dentist has put the kibosh on that endeavor. I say this because it’s actually a good thing a seventeen year old would rather be downing Hershey Bars and Abba Zabbas than a plethora of other worrisome desirables being paraded in front of our offspring today.

I mean, these kids who granted, could easily become glutonous and bully-prone, typically just stand at your open door dressed in black with some funky make-up on. Sometimes they go as far as putting a fake ax in their skull or blood dripping from their eyes, but, nonetheless, they just stand there, peaceably. In black. Quite blank faced, usually. Then because one of the bunch, often is a big brother or cousin with a younger sibling, he or she will come right out with it: “Trick or Treat”. They usually have to because the little “spirits” are famous for ALSO just standing there in costume, gawking. That’s when I bring out the bowl and hint that one or two candies should be enough for each. In recent years I haven’t gotten as many of the scallawagging ghouls, so when they do come, I now say “Take as much as you wish”. Invariably, they are polite, and only take one or two pieces, but, I rather live for the pant and squeal of excitement from the child who just makes a sweeping grab and practically runs away as if in possession of gold. It kindles my own memory of the excitement I felt as a young candy scout on the loose. In all my grown-up years of being a Trick or Treaters’ host, I have only had one occasion where I regretted handing out sugary yummies.

Maybe my experience is an unusual and lucky one. But truly, what is the big deal? Adult life is hard as it is; why not allow the older children to hang on to their innocent existence just a tad longer? Eighteen years of childhood is a small amount in comparison to the 70 to 80 more years spent as an adult. Adulthood is saddled with rules that become laws and consequences that become fate. I say, let the insouciant behavior commence day in and day out until it is legally, afforded no more.

This is why I never scolded my kids when they went out on warm nights and “T.P.ed” their peers’ front yards. (This is another tradition of youth, that is not necessarily tied to any holiday, but it is in the same vein of fun as trick or treating.) Throwing a few rolls of toilet paper up into tree limbs and wrapping up shrubs, lawn furniture, standing flamingoes, mailboxes on posts and hanging porch swings never really hurt anyone. An inconvenient nightmare come morning? Of course. But, if the local kids do it to your yard, your kid was considered cool. When my big brother was voted ASB president of his high school, a battalion of seniors on the cusp of being 17 descended on our property one hot end of September night. They engineered a HUGE mess, and because we siblings saw it all going on, my folks heard about it, and came downstairs to survey the situation. I remember my dad calling the teenagers into the house and telling them that enough was enough, but he knew it was all in fun. My mother, resolved to turn on the oven, and got her homemade cookie batter out of the fridge. She baked cookies for all of them. As everyone gathered round to enjoy chocolate chip cookies and whole milk, my dad made the perpetrators promise to clean up the “T.P. masterpiece” as soon as possible. They did. The next morning, they all came back, erased any trace and then played basketball. Our parents gave those kids the gift of time. They allowed them to still be young and carefree. Now, if it happens today, the local police are promptly called, instead. Not much freedom left for being a kid.

This is what I believe Halloween is partially about. It’s about still celebrating being a child. Playing the traditional game of asking for candy, and disguising one’s looks is all about fun without regulation. It is why on October 31st a good number of grown adults in the USA still drive off to work dressed as baked potatoes, astronauts, Wonder Woman and Harry Potter. It’s why it’s still a prevalent holiday that anyone from any background can freely participate in and “escape” the tribulations of being oneself for just a day, or even part of a day. It helps us all forget a truckload of worries. At the office nobody actually tricks or treats, well maybe in some unique manner they do. Dressing-up in a costume is more about tapping into our “inner child” and unleashing one’s imagination. Plus, there is a breadth of freedom and safety when one takes on a new personna. It feels a little bit mischievous. Anonymity breeds the feeling of adventure and power. Definitely exciting. Additionally, all these adults get just a smidgen of attention more than usual. That’s the kid in them. It’s in all of us. Once a year, for a day, if we decide to play along, our typical self is dissolved. And– just think, its a tradition! Woe to the workplace that deems such frivolity unacceptable!

Just what do mature adults secretly wish they could escape from? Bills, gasoline prices, car repairs, proper childcare, taxes, mortgage payments, divorce settlements, cases in trial, health strategies, worries about illnesses, car accidents, politics, shootings, crime, illegal drugs and war. The long list of impending doom and erratic tragedy is real, unfortunately. It weighs on people’s hearts. Do we really want to rob a seventeen year old of a final year spent in semi-bliss, away from these woes? In truth, by that age they already know what is coming down the pike. Why not let them have one last year to cavalierly, skip down their path to adulthood?

That radio show caller might think back to his childhood and recall how he felt on the brink of college and life beyond graduation. Better still, why not reflect on all the happy memories of being a child. I know it is something valuable we all should do from time to time. There is so much to appreciate.  We ought to be willing to share those remembrances with today’s youngsters. Sharing can mean extending understanding and perhaps reviving some “lost” Halloween traditions. You see, so much today is already pre-planned, pre-prepared, even pre-fabricated, leaving not much wiggle room for unique approaches to celebrating this most festive holiday.

I’d like to start with me. Once upon a time I was a young girl. I was fueled on imagination! It all probably began one rainy day indoors when my little sister and I took our blankets and turned them into “princess capes” by pinning a costume jewelry brooch through the edge just under our chin. There we had it, a long trailing, “royal cape”. When Halloween rolled around each end of October, I had already created a mental picture of whom or what I wanted to be. I wore nothing store-bought except for maybe a cheap mask and those silly wax lips. Everything else that comprised my costumes came straight from the bedroom closet. So I want to be a gypsy? No problem…I’d put together scarves, a swishy skirt, a peasant blouse which was all the rage in the sixties, and dangly, costume jewelry. I would dig around in junk drawers, the attic or trade with my siblings. Half the fun was the challenge to design a costume that looked as authentic as possible. Not only did the planning keep me occupied, but it challenged my creative spirit. Many little girls were doing the same. My brothers put their costumes together, too. Sometimes they would ask for my help, or I, theirs. Maybe, our mother might sew something to contribute to the whole effect. It was a fun, family experience no matter what.

When my brothers and sisters and I went Trick or treating, we went in a group. A few times we broke into pairs, but mostly we went together. It was fabulous exercise. We walked as far as our little legs could go. Our parents stayed home and answered the doorbell, while we “scoped-out” the “good houses” with kind people giving generous treats. A few times we would recite a Halloween poem or perform a little dance, in keeping with the traditional way to trick or treat. Our mini performances were our “ticket” to earning the sought after confectionery, though, not every house demanded we show off. As our pillow-cases grew heavy with quite a trove of candy,  our masks would steam-up as we grew out of breath. One year, we literally were dog-tired, and came home dragging our stash behind us. It was an athletic feat to go trick or treating. But, well worth the effort!

My folks were pretty “cool” parents when I look back in perspective. We could keep our bounty in our secret hiding places. Usually, first thing we would do is dump it out onto the dining table under the chandelier light, and inspect what everyone had. This is where we learned to become barterers and traders, and even “philanthropists”. My parents might ask for one or two of our candies, but it was our stuff, and they knew it. I don’t know how it happened, but, eventually, the sweets would end up in our sack lunches as our dessert. For months we would have one piece of candy per day at school to polish off our homemade lunches. Nowadays, many elementary schools go so far as to ban candy of any kind. Oh, honestly!

There was more than one way to celebrate Halloween. One year, my brothers,  sisters and I were allowed to turn our garage into a neighborhood “haunted house.” We blind-folded our friends and put them through “scary” experiences. One of them was taking clean toilet paper, wetting it, into thin rolls that resembled worms, and laid the wet “creatures” on the arms of our haunted house “victims”, as they sat in the Haunted House “parlor”. The “frightening tricks” we did were as innocent as that, but, when you are blind-folded, and something wet and cold is put on your arms, your imagination runs wild, which can be quite frightening! Needless to say, each sibling had their own station in which to employ a “scary” experience, and of course our enterprise was a success!

Another way seventeen year olds can still appropriately participate in Halloween, is to carve pumpkins. It’s true some killjoys go around after midnight and destroy pumpkins perched on railings and porch steps. Maybe they never had the opportunity to spread newspaper out on their kitchen table or in the garage, and proceed to cut open a pumpkin, extract its pulp, carve a spooky expression, and enjoy placing that first candle in the jack-o-lantern they had made, to see it lit. What was the lingering treat after all this handiwork? The roasting, salting and eating of the pumpkin seeds- a nutritious, delicious treat!

If we just allow people to put their brains to work, they can easily come up with fun ways to make Halloween an enjoyable occasion. I remember one year, long past 17, tapping into my “creative self”. I was living in my first apartment, and had a melodeon pump organ in my living room right, by my front door. When the doorbell rang, I decided to open the door ever so slowly with a pull tie rope and with my other hand, playing chords on the instrument, while one foot pressed a pedal. I did my best to sound as musically terrifying as possible. I remember little ones would either run away, or bravely hold their ground on my doorstep, to which I rewarded them with candy bars. This is the creative spirit of Halloween, folks. A day to tap into the recesses of our imagination. Not store-bought. Not commercial. Not blood-curdling horrific. Just a modicum of mystery to add color to life.

I’m of the opinion that the American traditional way of celebrating Halloween has succumbed to the toppling down of some fundamental building blocks that are not only foundational, but, necessary. Children and adults surely need to be reminded at least one time a year, that they were once very, very young, and very, very unadulterated. Child’s thought was just that, his or her own thought. Original. Unique. Having Halloween in 2018 be diminished down to a mere, tolerable date at the end of October is really sad. Imposing a cut-off for what ages can don costumes and make believe who they are, while trick or treating is cynical, pathetic control. To shield one’s kids in only a church carnival where everyone is monitored to the max, is the antiseptic way to celebrate this holiday. I can see why parents feel forced to make this choice, but why not simply at least accompany your children door to door? How can there be a trustworthy society if we don’t utilize trust ourselves? I did with my kids. They knew we couldn’t visit “everyone”. But, they had fun checking out the different homes, their decorations and guessing who were their neighbors behind the masks passing by on the sidewalks. It was a social event to say the least!

Why pour over the internet or the department store flyers to find the best deal on pre-made disguises? They are probably being crafted in countries where the workers’ wages are far less than the “bargain price” they are being sold for. For heaven sakes, why purchase plastic tote bags when a decent old pillow will do? Does everything have to be a “cute contest” to keep up with the Joneses? But you know, even I can relent on this and say that if it makes it truly fun for the child to have a tote or bag to remember Halloween the rest of the year, then so be it.

It seems the point I wish to make is that if we tear down the traditions of Halloween, we are eradicating some simple joy we all still really need. A holiday that allows people young and old to play the same way, tap into their creativity, and share the experiences with others, is one worth not ruining. Let those 17 year olds beg for sweets, please. And do get that pirate hat out of the trunk in the garage. Go for it! Live childhood another day!

 

 

 

 

Tidbits of Affirmation

Written: September 10, 2013

I am so happy. I received my first intrinsic “gift” from my class today. I learned, even after ALLLL these years of pedagogy, something wonderful about little students. When they fall in love with something you have done, and leave a few subtle “breadcrumbs” along the way…one had better pay attention and appreciate their communicative hints. So, it goes like this. The first day of school, I presented my obligatory (my own set goal) a capella singing of “America”. I have a book that portrays the lyrics through superb photos…waving amber grain, spacious skies and shining seas—excellent for ELLs. (English Language Learners). Well, I was fortunate enough this year to actually sing on as close to “spot on key” as possible (for me): believe me, I am no singer. But, I did okay, no cracks and I somehow picked the right starting note that would allow me to reach the upper register notes and the low ones, too. The kiddos really liked it. They said “again, again!”. I did, and thus began their love affair with learning it. 

Over the next few weeks they requested I read the book and sing it each time I tried to instigate a read-aloud on the floor. No relenting. No changing of the guard, either. They’re just barely coming to accept the beginnings of the “Johnny Appleseed” song. Today, we were especially too busy for a read-aloud, and despite the fact that we got to work in our first art project tied to literacy and writing, my little scallawaggers took the proverbial “bull by the horns”, themselves. 

As is the rule. when finished with their project, all cleaned-up and fancy free, their next task was to choose a book to read independently or with a buddy. So, as I am helping mend circles that were supposed to have been made from a square, engineer a few glue bottles, and subtely advise a few logical choices, I realize most of my 23 charges are completed with their “Goodnight Owl” projects. I know this because I start to hear a wafting gentle melody…it continues on with a few more voices chiming in, oh so naturally. I don’t think my pupils even knew they were embarking on a genuine enterprise, not for show or even affirmation, but for the simple joy of singing that song. 

My one boy who has been the most enthusiastic champion for the reading of that book daily, was on the floor turning the pages as the song leader, if you will. A cluster of about four or five children had heads bent low hovering over every word, singing with complete childlike essence. Then, I noticed others still at their desks, in a non-chalant spontaneous way, were one by one joining-in by humming or singing along. I tell you, it was a magical moment. A present all wrapped in unadulterated love. Thank you class. I love America, too.

The Monrovia Nursery Pool

“Put your ankles together! Feel your toes at the edge of the board! Legs straight! Bring your arms up over your head, fingertips touching to a point, and elbows touching your ears! Now, chin down to your chest…and when you jump, be sure to bend at your knees and spring off pointing your toes, keeping your feet and knees together! Okay!-take a DEEP breath…Ready, set…DIVE!”

WHooooooossshhhhh!, into the water we’d go, and if it hurt your head, then you did it all wrong. The flat pointed hands and fingers were supposed to carve into the water just as a Viking longship’s prow would do in the frontier oceans. These were the commands of our father, our very own private swim teacher.

Having been a Science & Physical Education Major in college, his specialty was teaching athletics. He taught all eight of us, and eventually our own children, how to swim. For my own boys, it was when they were barely three months old. But for us siblings, sometimes it wasn’t until we were about three, four or five years old. I can honestly, to this day, still hear his voice calling out the directions. It was very special to learn with him by our side, in the water.  He would hold us up with his big daddy hand, and insist we kick our feet with rapid vigor, keeping the knees stiff and straight. He would tell us our legs represented our powerful motor. He told us to hold onto the side of the pool, laying on the water on our stomachs, kicking energetically. He taught us how to use our arms to glide across the surface- this time our hands were cupped for scooping the water past, as we torpedoed across the pool. The hardest part was learning to just tip the head sideways to catch our breath.  He’d say to keep our head down and just swivel one cheek upward to gulp in that oxygen. These were the hallmarks of fine swimming, perhaps Olympic medal earning, one day! Our dad would often challenge us to race each other and from this I learned to become quite the competitor in many things, not just swimming. You could say all my siblings have that competitive spirit.

This instruction would take place at the end of a long workday or sometimes on a Saturday. The pool was adjacent to the main office where my dad earned a living 6 days a week for 44 years. He was employed mostly as a salesman and eventually became the Executive Vice President in charge of Sales. However, my family knows the fantastic story of working his way to the top, from having first been hired as a field hand outside in the nursery fields. He began humbly watering plants and after a couple weeks was invited to join the sales team of the company. We grew up respecting the story of his humility taking that entry-level job despite his four year college degree. All he knew was the plant industry fascinated him and he wanted in on the action.

Like many others deserving of a nice respite when the day was done, my father enjoyed a good swim. At the nursery pool after the 4 pm end of the work day horn had sounded, any worker in the company, whether it be field hand, maid, delivery truck driver, clerk or salesman, could go and swim in the pool. They could bring their children and wives and make an outing of it. In our case, my father would check to see the pool wasn’t too crowded for a family of eight kids, and my mom would get the call to drive us on over. We’d be thrilled 100%. Anything we were doing was put on hold, because we knew two things: we would get quality time with our father and we would have a blast playing with each other.

With mother behind the wheel, our family’s red and white Dodge station wagon would roll up to the impressive Spanish gates, and two lane entrance into the wholesale nursery. Purposely planted along the edge of the southward and northward lanes the palm trees would be standing proudly in flanking rows, creating “Romanesque columns” that seemed to beckon and salute as we drove up to the driveway to the Nursery Office. Our eyes took in the panoramic sight of acres and acres of plants all in rows and grouped according to specimen and care. There were hot greenhouses where new plants were germinating. We could detect lathe houses which sheltered plants that needed mostly shade. Halfway up the drive we would cross over the railroad tracks that ran through the enormous property. Then our view would take in the huge mac trucks waiting for their next shipment to be loaded from the dock. They were parked toward the west end of the property, where a large circular reservoir stored much needed water. Once we had crossed the train tracks, we knew we were almost to our destination. The lane would continue straight up to where a jungle oasis appeared to be. All kinds of green foliage seemed to spring out of the ground and the circular drive would stop right in front of Monrovia Nursery’s main office. Lining the driveway were round stones pointing upward and defined a border between the driveway and the verdant habitat. It was brimming with ferns, an abundance of flora and sequestered far out of sight flowed a small stream canal that was a concourse for fresh water.

Going to “The Nursery Pool”, also meant many expeditions in this little mini forest; for you see, sometimes we would end up getting out of the pool to go and play along the footpath in hopes of making a discovery. A major part of the time we would assign roles and make up pretend  “movies” acting out our parts. This rich garden was a veritable petrie dish for imaginative play and dreams dramatically coming to life. We just rolled with it and made up stories spontaneously as we pretended and explored. But, we only played in “the jungle” if we truly had our fill of the pool, or if we were made to wait a half an hour before being eligible to go swim. My parents were very strict about “the half hour rule” to avoid any of us getting stomach cramps from swimming too soon after having eaten.

Another point of interest for us, was to have a look in the windows of the main office. It wasn’t a building, per se, but instead an old, yet stately, converted hacienda. My siblings and I would gawk and peer in the windows either before we went to swim, or afterwards. Once in awhile, we were lucky enough to actually walk inside with our dad. Stepping up onto the front veranda, you could see it was floored in a woven dried grass mat that was carpet-like and covered every inch of space. I always thought how exotic!

In the low-lying bay windows, one could see in to a chic, beautiful Spanish decor room. Once inside, the floors were a creaky, dark wood that spoke of history, presence and professionalism. There were carpets placed in designated areas for conversation or perhaps reading. The rich, supple, deep-red leather heavy furniture was a child’s sheer delight to touch or maybe dare to sit on. The coffee table was also a weighty Spanish wood design that was plain yet, elegant. The configuration of all the furniture; the sofa, easy chairs, tables, even the secretary’s desk—was a smooth, chunky Spanish style— all sturdy and widely curved. The entire room was both shady and sunlit, and evocative of a gentlemen’s salon, serving as a perfect lounge for waiting customers about to solidify big business deals. I always wished the furniture could be in my house one day. I think though, I loved the place because my Dad worked there.

On occasion, we would follow my dad through the glass double doors into the inner Spanish courtyard. All the executive offices were situated in a square around this small but, colorful area. There were pillars of wood carved in a myriad of rounded ripples swirling around them. These swirls were all painted Spanish tile tones…peaches, turquoises, light greens, dark blues, chile red and bits of yellow, which were decorative and complimenting to the smooth terra cotta color painted portions. To me, they were works of art and I would give anything to see one of those pillars again!

Each office set of doors was paned and looked out onto a trickling fountain in the center, with bromeliads and tropical green plants surrounding it. The water feature was the focal point and Mexican tile flooring squares surrounded it. The tiled flooring went throughout the patio up to each office’s set of paned double doors. Our father’s office was on the north side and to the right of the inner patio square, if you entered from the front main office. Because this small, central “sanctuary” was actually an outdoor patio, the sunshine would cascade down onto the fountain and speckle flecks of sunshine on the palm and fern fronds, the bubbling water and the floor and posts. It was a tranquil, lovely, romantic spot that tended to make one think any moment a mariachi band would casually stroll through one of the doors and serenade via violin, viola, guitar and trumpet. Indeed a special place.

The real excitement though, was that swimming pool! It was adjacent to the main building. Surrounding the pool stood a variety of ultra tall trees, quite established, that looked completely majestic to me while swimming and gazing up to the sky. Another small path went from the driveway and wended through some shrubbery. A tall bottlebrush plant was growing up against the south wall of the main office. Every time I walked on that path that I felt compelled to stop and feel the tickle of the soft red with gold tipped bristles that made up this most unusual flower. It remains one of my favorite bushes in the plant world.

The gate clicked open and there it was- Eureka! The huge rectangular swimming pool! Rule abiding as my family was, we headed straight for the bath houses to take a quick shower which was always terribly cold. Then, the proverbial “cannonball jump” into the deep-end would commence. One by one, we’d each try to outdo the size of our siblings’ splashes as we ran up from the showers to the redbrick perimeter path, to jump and grab our knees as we hurled ourselves into the “great blue” with all our might. My baby brother Christian became quite adept at this ritual and often was named the “winner” in this particular contest.

Once we were in the pool, there were so many fun ways to play. First and foremost we would make friends with various kids from other families. There was one family in particular we always hoped would be there to swim with us. They were always a highlight. In addition to the social aspect, my little sister and I loved being “mermaids” and we would swim underwater and come up for air pretending to flip our tails as our feet and legs remained locked together. Typically, we wore bathing caps, but on occasion we would let our long tresses freely flow as if we really were those legendary sea nymphs of lore. This was a delight we enjoyed for many years of my youth. She and I would include our brothers and deem them “Mermen”, and eventually one of them would vie for the title of Neptune: god of the sea.

Other times we were all engaged in a long-lasting game of “Marco Polo’. As everyone knows, someone had to be “It”, and someone had to be “Marco”. The rest of us would swim about echoing the Marco call with the “Polo” answer. Marco had to keep his eyes shut because everyone would tattle tale if they caught just one squint of an eye starting to open. It was silly and at times nearly hilarious. How we loved that great American swimming pool game!

It may be that the best way to enjoy swimming was to join in the races across the pool. Now, I really detested getting the water in my ears when I swam freestyle. I much preferred diving down (under) water, testing how long I could swim without coming up for air. My younger brother enjoyed racing (me) across the pool underwater. We were constantly neck n neck, and the winner always won by a millisecond.  We strove to outdo the other. Initially, I had to get a gulp of air halfway across, but by the end of summer I would be able to sometimes swim across and back without having to breathe. I loved kicking underwater like a frog and propelling myself as fast as I could. I recall thinking if I visualize my fingertips on the wall and physically push my body harder at the last seconds, I will be the fastest! The whole underwater swimming method suited me just fine!

We became quite enthralled with the races and often times we’d announce an “All Family Swim Heat”, lickety-split to the opposite end and back. Mother would be the judge and declare who had finished first. Eventually the older siblings had an advantage over the younger batch, and the races became (little kids versus little kids) and (big kids versus big kids). After the races, Dad would give us pointers and solid athletic advice. This was premium parenting in my book.

Another game we made up for ourselves was the “Drop the Object and Fetch It” game. Someone would throw keys, barrettes, coins, anything that could be detected from looking above the water down to the bottom where they would naturally settle. Diving downward and shooting back upward often did nasty things to my ears and nose, but I didn’t care, it was simply an exhilarating game. When we became well-versed in how to achieve this task, we began timing our efforts. The same object would be thrown and each of us would try to retrieve it the fastest. We quickly learned one diver at a time meant no head-bashing would ensue. When any game ended, there would be “free for all” frolicking and jumping about-often ending in building a tower with the tallest kids standing on the pool floor, and taking in a smaller child on their shoulders. If, we really wanted to go hog-wild, a second child would climb up and sit on the shoulders. The result was a tower of three. You guessed it; we’d turn toward the opposite team tower and play fight with our hands. The goal was being able to knock or pull down the competing team . This was true fun because if you fell, it didn’t matter- you just simply fell into the water-which we loved!

Dad wasn’t the only instigator of  competitiveness, fun and comraderie. Our mother especially encouraged us to “Make Commercials”. She has always loved tv ads and how clever they can be. Being children of the television generation, we sure knew our advertising punch lines and lingo! We would recite familiar favorites. Each person had to think up their own product and sales pitch. The more comical, the better. She would egg us on, pressing us to practice being articulate to a fair thee well. One at a time, each sibling had a turn to stand on the diving board as if it were a stage and act-out a self-made commercial. “Hamming it up” scored extra points, for sure, and if you could conjure up a jingle, then, BRAVO to you! Participants would try out accents of all sorts in order to gain notoriety. After each commercial had been recited, then the “actor” would jump in the pool in a “super-sillious” way, as a perfect punctuation to a moment of fame. Everyone would break out in cheers and whistles and wet, thunderous applause!

A general vote as to whose commercial was the best delivered that day was cast by a majority vote or our parents sat in the seat of judgement. On occasion we might move on to a team contest. The giggles and shushes were rampant as we put our heads together to make the commercial a shared winning endeavor. This is when the “jungle oasis” served as a great place to go to and strategize in secret. Winning with your team was always a happy moment. But, usually, someone would be the obvious “stand-out” star. Hats off to whomever that would be! Winner or loser it didn’t matter, because the laughter and the freeform play were the REAL prizes. I’m just glad we had parents who loved children and relished our individuality. I am quite grateful that my parents fostered our self-esteem in such a celebratory way. I also think it is a priceless gift to have been raised to be open, innovative and bold. These are characteristics that will carry you through life.

When we had played to our heart’s content, that is when we’d finally get out of the water. Our hands and fingers looked ancient and wrinkly from soaking in the pool for so long. Of course we would check out each other’s hands and compare. Then off to the jungle oasis, and especially to go see the stream…

Now, there was one more venue in which to play at the nursery. Since this had once been a fine rancho home, it had been the custom to have an outdoor barbecue area.  Following the herringbone brick lain path leading down some steps on a small incline in the lawn that surrounded the pool, we would find ourselves led to some cement steps. There were just a few, and there you would be, in the midst of what kind of looked like an outdoor kitchen and dining room. There were tables and benches, a massive barbecue, a fireplace and an oven built within low bricks walls that housed cooling cabinets. There was a sink for washing dishes and a myriad of cupboards that were again built into the bricks. If you opened the little cupboard doors, you could see there was white insulation of some sort, that was meant for keeping food either hot or cold, whatever your pleasure. We rarely cooked anything, but instead used them for playing Barbie Dolls. Barbie would have her own “house”, as well as her sister Skipper and Barbie’s Friends: Midge, Ken and Alan. The little cupboards were perfect as their “bachelor pads”, hotels, restaurants, schools or shops. The entire area was a perfect place to retreat into fantasy doll play!

If we didn’t have our dolls, we would simply make up skits and role-play. On the occasion that we did have a meal there in that brick outdoor patio and dining area, it was with picnic basket, tablecloth and blanket brought by Mom.

As one can see, the privilege to have such a whimsical place to spend time with our family goes beyond measure. Having the Monrovia Nursery Pool to go to, made living in smoggy San Gabriel Valley in the sixties and seventies  bearable. The smog was harmful enough to make your eyes smart and sting. There were plenty of days we had to remain confined indoors. That’s when we resorted to television: our shining beacon in a child’s world or reading the National Geographics. Board games such as Monopoly, Parchesi and Clue were other beloved pastimes. But, boy oh boy, did we quickly snatch the opportunity to play outside in our own backyards as well as at the company pool whenever there was no more threat of that awful smog. This fortunate opportunity fostered a wealth of ideas to be drummed up, dreamed of, tested and regaled afterward. Our amusement came from our own brains, not some device placed in our hands to tune (us) out. I am indeed grateful I grew up in this way.

And the memories of swimming with my father at the helm? Priceless. He comforted us if we stubbed our toes on the bricks or the pool steps, encouraged us to get involved in what might seem to be a daunting water polo game, and he would give each and every one of us special “one on one” time.

Definitely the memory I TRULY cherish above them all, was my father telling me to hop up on his back in the shallow end of the pool. He would say, “Put your arms around my neck, just lay on my back, and I’ll take you for a ride.” My body would relax and soften into an inner smile. I’d lift my chin a bit to gaze up at the trees standing like green skyscrapers, looming large and wise. My dad had hair on his back which was ticklish, and he had a certain father scent to his skin. If I think hard, I can still smell that glorious signature scent. He would swim oh so gently, as if he were a calm quiet, mallard ambling about, “owning the pond”. We might have seen a dragonfly whizz by, taken notice of the thrumming of wind in a hummingbird’s wings flitting overhead, or have been momentarily accompanied by a big blue bee. Then, off in the distance, way up high on a towering pine, we might have heard a woodpecker tapping out an oh so subtle rhythm. Because the Boston Pops Orchestra was our special musical bond, he would start humming the “Blue Danube”, or “The Viennese Waltz”. He even knew the “Merry Widow Waltz”, too. This was a soothing ride that was quite nearly an art form. I loved sharing those times with him. Tender was my daddy’s soul. Invariably, the eventual, “Come on, kids, let’s go home, outta the pool!” would break the pacifying spell. Then, in true sailor-strength fashion, Dad proceeded to rub dry our hair with a towel, to the ridiculous point of losing our balance as our heads were rubbed very vigorously. The end result was always laughter.

Yes, it was good to be alive and a kid who went to the Nursery Pool to explore, to play, to learn, to fantasize, to invent and to perform at the behest of our wonderful dad and mom. Thank you for this blessing.

 

 

Where Did My Childhood Summers in Southern California Go?

Okay, I get it. We are in a warming funk. It may only last another thirty years, but, it is a funk. How I long for the days of old…when I was a “Sea n Ski” gal with my white sunscreen nose, floppy sunhat, rubber flip flop thongs (we wore them on our feet, folks), my ruffly bikini and my straw and wooden beaded beach basket tote! That was living in style! My little sidekick sister sported a matching but different color handmade corduroy beach cape with yarn ball trim and silver fancy button hooks. We also had those nifty little plastic eyeball protectors that you’d set atop the bridge of your nose as you lay down to soak up the sun and build that “brown as a berry” suntan. Suntanning was serious business to the Real McCoys that we were: the Little Surfer Girls of Corona Del Mar…The only preliminary was jumping into our big brother’s forest green bomb ’56 Chevy Sedan, and flying down the 57 with “Wipeout”, “The Monster Mash” and “Witchy Woman” blaring out of the radio

This is what all children from the San Gabriel Valley would do multiple times, week after week, all summer long. And our summers were the full three months, baby! At times, the beach was often a different deal compared to where our homes were. We would leave in the mid-morning when the sun was beginning to bake at 80 degrees, only to find the the beach’s marine layer was lingering around until at least noon. That meant double doses of suntan lotion,…for everyone… had learned the cloud refractive process can redden fair skin to a ripe red lobster hue if you dare to lay under cloudy beach skies in the summer. But that was okay, because mostly I remember many carefree days playing on the shore with a cool breeze coming off the waves. It was delightful conditions such as these that borne the creative, gleeful escapades with my little sister and brothers.

We loved doing so many things together, such as beach combing for sand dollars, seashells that looked pretty, and digging for sand crabs as the tide would recede. We loved hopping over the mounds of seaweed being attacked by the fiendish little flies that loved buzzing all over them. As insouciant children can only do, we cheerfully chased the waves and would stop to dig our toes into the wet sand; for this always tickled relentlessly as the water would pull away. These were simple rituals we must do each visit. Every time, we walked the length of the beach with the intention of getting to the jetty. There we would search for starfishes and bring one home in a pail. Climbing over the rocks would be rough and very hard on our toes, but by the end of summer, we were in condition and our feet had toughened from the practice. Perhaps the most memorable summer was the one when we staked our claim at the summit of Pirates’ Cove. We discovered above the cave, if we clambered up to the very top, nearest the edge where the waves would dramatically perform their sea-song of crash and spray, was a strongly anchored pole. We painted onto an old white cloth our own flag emblem, and tied it to the pole as if this beach, cove and cave were our very own. It was OUR mystery to know; OUR realm to rule.

These summers of youth are a blessed memory. I know my siblings and I have heartfelt remembrances of our sweet Grandmother who taught us to love the beach. She is the one who took us literally into the waves as she herself would gather-up her pedal pushers or ruck-up her skirt and tie it around her waist so she herself could wade through the ocean along the shore. She encouraged us to use our eyes and look into the water, to find things, imagine things, to adore and respect the sea. Because of her, I learned to brave the waves, and body surf. She taught us to be strong and smart and to be one with the water. My little sister and I would pretend we were mermaids while we dove and flipped and frolicked as any fabled sea-nymph would do. The ocean was a multi-faceted playground and our affinity for this gifted place was always a huge part of our childhood summers.

The beach-goers of today have a far different experience. It is no longer a spontaneous excursion. Instead, it is a destination often requiring parking reservations. Too often the crowd is indifferent to the beautiful tableau before them. Instead of consideration of others’ and their space, disregard and flagrant selfishness is often made manifest. It is typical for there to be loud, overbearing conversations, blaring music, and unsupervised little ones running amuck kicking sand everywhere and onto everyone. The lack of clean-up is appalling, too. Trash just left indelibly leaves an ugly testament to modern-day indifference. Where is the respect for our planet? Where is the social conscience? Thank goodness not all beachgoers behave in this manner.

How I miss those innocent, oblivious summer days on the beach. My transistor radio softly played “Oh, Sweet Pea come on and dance with me”, while my “sunbathing” Barbie Doll greeted her boyfriend Ken who “drove up” alongside her in his snazzy convertible. He’d “hop-out” to join her in her fun…I even miss my own casual gawking at the surfers and lifeguards, and reading on my stomach so I could scope out the rest of the male population from behind my sunglasses. When I think of all those beach days, I recall delicious picnics comprising tuna fish sandwiches, grapes, lemonade, Fresca or Squirt, brownies and Ruffles Potato Chips. Lively conversation and giggles always accompanied such a meal. The beach was a place where imagination, dreams and giggles were allowed free-reign. No wonder the fondness for such a place kindles strong in my soul. The magic of childhood is a blessed thing to experience in such an unfettered way.

When the sun began to go down, the whole ambience of the place would change. Those beach goers remaining, were hoping to see that sacred orange ball dip into the horizon. They always sat in muted, pensive, still repose. Everyone was in their own thinking world. A hush would fall over the total beach almost as if it were a sanctuary of some sort~a special world requiring honor and afterthought. All sea worshippers would hear the symphony of rhythm persevere; thunderously rolling white-capped waves; pounding evermore.

Childhood summers to me are not memories of the broiling asphalt blacktop and car outdoor thermometers registering 115 F. degrees. They are not the cranky drivers, nor the insanely inflated gasoline prices. Summer is not the watering lawn restrictions or the drying up of trees and shrubbery. Yes, we did have fires back then, but not as many, it would seem… I guess what I am trying to say is, summer meant worry-free times. We don’t have that anymore. I’d like to hope that the summers of yore will return once more.

 

Christmas Coffee Blend, Anyone?

two giants slumbering

upstairs and down

quiet morning

impeded only

by soft breaths, rising chests,

and the sneaking in of sunlight

when to pierce the air

with the aroma of dark roast

pungent, strong, ultimately invigorating?

why rustle the comfortable mound

enshrouded in blankets, pillows and sleeping bag?

why stir the comfy sprawl of leg and arm

upstairs in bed, that configuration already

depicting a soul in flight?

no, let the undisturbed sleepers remain adrift,

those who lie

in unique dreamworlds,

fantasies in the works,

weaving tapestries

untappable by conscious minds,

designing depictions

of necessary thought

shall the slight sound of sizzling bacon

coupled with the homey aroma of

eggs,

toast,

fresh sliced and powder-sugared oranges

do the somewhat unwelcome duty of

arousing the sleeping sons?

even the sun today is deciding to take

a midmorning nap,

pulling up under it’s chin the voluptuous, white cloud blanket

hunkering down, settling itself

under it’s very own cover

it usually loves to dissipate

in unabashed glory!

tis a fond thing

to think of these men

cradled in coziness

lost in allures galore…

and aloft…

tis a dear thing

to reminisce of

sweet breath,

warm cheeks, torsos,

and tips of toes

kissed pink

by the heat of

undisturbed

rest

tis a fonder thing

to remember those same breaths on my neck,

Cherubic cheeks nuzzling

into a safe cove my shoulder provided;

me knowing

torsos heavy

and infant toes

dangling

spelt

complete, replete,

peace.

Each,

one at a time,

his own story to one day fulfill

after many periods of languid

spells in repose,

immersed in transfixed tranquility

ultimately adding up to creating

wide awake,

individualized

reality.

the coffee will have to wait

to do its deed

of serpentine-like

redolence.

 

Poem: December 2017

Chasing Down the Past

Just when life seems to be fairly ho-hum, a snippet of one’s past zips by into view, sending you into an emotional tizzy. Such is as follows:

“Oh! That’s my car! My VW bug! 1974! It HAS to be! Nobody else thought to have Earl Sheib paint it an aquamarine-blue back in the day! It was one of a kind! Oh, my gosh, I have to follow this guy!”

Well, I had just exited my garage in a quick quest to purchase some potato bread. I love potato bread almost as much as I love egg bread…thus, when the whim came over me, I hopped into my Red Thrill and zipped out and down my driveway. Thankfully, out of sheer habit, I stopped at the sidewalk to press the garage door down to close. That’s when in my rearview mirror, the Blue Wonder put-puttered on by…

Is there anything so fun as a Volkswagen Beetle’s engine sound? It’s just plain “cute” sounding, although I suspect some other descriptors must be famously held in place because a large cross-section of society loves their Volkswagen Bugs. By the way, we are talking the original engines, not the newly revised, this last decade, engines. Uh uh. Not the same animal. Or insect.

Vintage VW owners tend to personify their idea of what the Volkswagen sound is to them. Almost any age person and gender might call it a sporty, spunky, “in yo face”, sweet, cool, funky, upbeat, humble, nostalgic or California-surfer-free-spirited-unfettered “athlete’s life-style”… sound. Certainly there’s even more! Obviously, this is because the era the Bugs took flight was the 60’s, just when Creativity was King.

Since the earlier decades up to now, VW owners have gotten involved. THEY “personify” their car’s sound by “fulfilling” the role. Thus, you might STILL see little old ladies wearing a sunhat and shades with hippie beads dangling from the mirror. Daisies might be spilling out from the front wing windows, too. One might see male drivers of all ages, wearing Hawaiian shirts, with their own set of sunglasses and, of course, donning scruffy, willy-nilly beards. But the aura doesn’t stop there.

It used to be: to have a Volkswagen; must have a rack on top. Though today, the racks seem to be used more for bicyclists, rather than the two surfboard minimum, considered “hip” and “with it” back then. Today, if you keep your eyes peeled, you might STILL catch VWs en route with Indian Bells tinkling and incense swirling in time to the rhythm of the put-put sound or the sitar strains emanating from the 8 track cassette player on the dash. You might also spot those owners who still love anything from the ’50s, so you’ll see pony tails and greased up waves in the profiles of these drivers. The point is, owning a Beetle is often a thematic experience.

Now, to love your car, is to drive your car. There is the group of owners who know the TRUEST joy of a VW Beetle, is not to hug the curvacious bends of the PCH, but instead, the whiplash mountain roads, where the Volkswagen automobile itself, was born. These exultant travelers are merry, a tad fierce and blazingly adventurous. They are the ones who can be seen tossing the map out their window in reckless, carefree abandon. They WILL follow the ROAD LESS-TRAVELED. This is how VWs became loved by all of America. They have put-putted over hill and dale across this widespread country; careening ’round the curvy switchbacks of elevated mountain peaks in Montana, to the leafy, lackadaisical swish of the Smokey Mountain Range in the South. As they do, they bring with them their owners’ own views on life.

It’s that driver’s spirit that has driven this fine bugger of a car all over Creation. The love of our planet and the fresh outdoors has lured the VW enthusiasts to motor their car right up to the ski lodge, rather than take the cogwheel train, or village shuttle. This is what “cool” Volkswagen owners do! Why be a passenger, when you can be a DRIVER? Even more fun, is the work involved shifting the gearshift or nailing your foot to the floor, as you try to eek out a few more mph from the buzzing little bug’s engine. Anyone who has driven a VW up in the altitudes, knows it takes sheer chutzpah to get that sucker up over steep inclines. Once you’ve made it– there is a moment of cheerful accolade, always involved with congratulating the adorable little contraption you love to covet so immensely.

And that’s the thing- the impetus for why this entire piece got started. I DO love to covet memories of my Volkswagen. After all, my ’74 aquamarine “Blue Bit of Magic” had a way of perking up my day. It felt uplifting to get into my car, turn the key, and hear her start up. If I must put gasoline in her tank, well, it was quite inexpensive. I knew I was always paying a third less than everyone else. It was my own kind of “elitism”. Once I was going, the wind wings in the front seat were the best! They were a natural air conditioner that I relied on way more often than I did the actual heat and air system. It was really fun to drive my car for a variety of reasons.

In retrospect, I think the put-put sound reminded me of the sound the roadsters make at Disneyland’s Autopia Autobahn Ride. Maybe, that’s what taps into our inner-child and makes so many of us love that sound! Hmm? Another point is the fact that when someone was driving a VWBeetle, you knew it. If you were in your house stirring the spaghetti sauce, you knew a V-Dub was driving by, because your ears would catch its signature half purr, half rumble and your brain would conjure up all kinds of ideas. If you were awaiting the return of someone using your own VW, then it was a lilting feeling to hear that car come into your driveway. In all these ways, my ’74 Volkswagen sounded happy to me: that is simply the crux of it.

That Volkswagen “Iridescent Blue Beetle” I drove, had quite a “life”. It all began when my brother brought home his own vintage VW that was a stick shift model from the early ’60s. I tried to learn to drive it and kind of failed miserably. My dad tried to teach me how to do all four steps at once, but this pea-brain just couldn’t handle it. After my younger brother accidentally drove my older brother’s car into the avocado grove, in reverse, my folks started to think about purchasing an automatic.

When I was truly in need of a car, and for me it was after my first year of college, my folks surprised me. They drew up an agreement to partially fund me with a $3,000 Automatic-Stick Volkswagen. I had to first work that summer to pay my half, which I did, gladly, and hence, I returned to school in the fall relying on four wheels rather than my Dr. Scholl sandals to get me around. A lot better!

“Beetle Bug” started off her independent life in the very “happening” coastal town of Malibu. The Native American Chumash name means “The Surf Sounds Loudly”, and boy, did my car know what the ocean call was. I was supposed to be living in Malibu earning a degree in Education! Well, I have to say, collegiate life in Malibu with my venturesome little car was really, REALLY “tough!” How hard it was to NOT drive down the hill from “Peppy-Tech University” to go and “study” up the highway at Coral Beach. Many a free afternoon was spent reading on the sand with the waves pounding their song, and my car parked within earshot, surveying it all.

Additionally, I recall how “frustrating” it was to have to incessantly drive my flock of friends down to Malibu Colony and check out the cute waiters at Beecher’s Cafe, while pretending to be engaged in a “Study Group”. Oh, sure👍, we were studying, alright. Still other times, the “poor” VW had to drive up through the canyons to take me to my community service credit locales. Often, her wheels zoomed us northward up the Pacific Coast Highway to Trancas, so we could accidentally “run into” surfers while researching the California coastline and its many inhabitants (ahem: habitats)…yes, very hard to do that “research”… Friends along for the ride, we would make trips to Zuma Beach or Paradise Cove and take in the “scenic” beauty. We saw surfers all the time, and sometimes movie stars. We knew which notables lived in which houses. All this was “fact-finding” material for this “academic” throng. To think of all the work involved, having to drive with best buds in tow, to Santa Monica, so we could look up information at the local library on Sixth Street.  Oh, “the information” we gathered!

Further endeavors led us to Point Dume, or the inspiring overlook spot at Point Mugu. (Such “arduous” tasks to endure as a college student, utilizing the wheels of freedom! So much “responsibility”!) You get the idea. Those newly acquired set of radials burst open my world. It was sheer dazzle and dream. The experiences with friends were treasures, and the gorgeous scenery was unparalleled. When I think of these things, I gratefully think of my zippy, put-putting automobile. And maybe vice-versa?

Not wanting to belabor every detail of my car’s life, I can tell you “she” has been there for me in the best of times. I owned her 13 years. She wasn’t perfect. She needed an entire rebuild after I stupidly drove her into the ground. What can I say, I was a girl who didn’t know much about automobiles. It was a unique car, too. One experimental year, the fine engineers at Volkswagen decided to build a car that looked like a stick shift, pretended to work like a stick shift, but without the extra pedal. . In fact, this one of a kind “automatic shift”  had a set of fuses underneath the glovebox that had one fuse which monitored the transmission. When parked, if it was removed (in a split second action–a quick easy), the car’s transmission would lock in place and make it veritably thief proof! This came in quite handy, I can tell you!

I had a good friend who enjoyed my vehicle to the hilt, would fiendishly make my car “flinch” while I was driving, simply by touching the gearshift ever so lightly. He would crack up every time. He also had a hilarious way of hanging on to the window bar that separated the wing window from the passenger window, by rolling the side window down, and pretending he was clinging onto it for dear life if I reached a maximum speed of sixty. Very funny are my memories connected with this particular “on the road” companion.

If we ever were on an outing making our way home from Ventura or Santa Barbara, and were taking the 101 inland route south, we’d have to tread up the “Great Incline”, or the “Conejo Grade” between Camarillo and Thousand Oaks. He would act as if thrusting his chest back and forth, while grunting in the process would help me “make my car” get enough “oomph” to reach past the maximum speed of 40 miles per hour!

Essentially, …the effort would begin at the bottom of the extremely steep 7% grade with an onset speed of 60; (if there weren’t other cars in the way). Our ascent was tenacious! Gradually, as we drove up the incline, the top speed would DECREASE steadily down to forty, after I had made it to the halfway point on the hill. With foot pedal pressed to the floor, I would hope and pray and pay homage to “Mercury the God of Flight”, while cracking up at my passenger’s protruding and flexing of his Alpha-Male chest! We would not lose any more speed before the summit was reached. It was actually an awful lot of excitement and drama which made for a most “far from boring” ride. Yes, that Beetle had nosed and trudged its way through many a taxing terrain.

This same car has been my “wanderlust traveler buddy”. She is the one who took me to a number of places that have filled my soul with all those memories I have alluded to. I can say that without her, I may never have known some wonderful things about our country and our earth, for that matter. With the “People’s Wagon” wheeling me to places unknown, life has been a richer palette for sure.

One of my earliest adventures was to drive over the Golden Gate Bridge. Overwhelming and almost other-worldly, it was. Massively huge, too. The engineering marvel is connected to the sea in an uncanny way. I only drove across, regrettably, though. I know the real magic lies well outside the window. To plant two feet on the bridge itself, beholding sheer panoramic view of the bay- now that is something yet to be experienced! Still, to drive across that immense engineering triumph was very inspiring.

Another excursion, when one of my brothers married for the first time, entailed driving my Beetle up to Idaho. Along the way, I learned that Nevada has a lot of repetitive desert space, with the best parts near its corners and borders. This was a terribly long time ago, thus, my observation may be outdated by now. I just remember one small plant cluster after another on caked, dry, dusty, flat land. I couldn’t wait to see what lay beyond…

Idaho was really a beautiful state. First, was seen golden farmland, acre upon acre of shimmering ripples brushed by the breeze. Then, came the mountains and forests; all a painter’s dream come come true! Destination: Sun Valley. My Blue Bugsy took me to my brother’s wedding and to meet his lovely, sweet bride. The cozy comfort of the chapel in aspen woods replete with natural beauty all around comes to mind. I recall footbridges over ponds, ice-skating rinks (I could not master), and the youthful promises of faith and love pledged heart to heart.

That trip was a gutsy, reckless one, which I took with a couple other siblings. They dared me to drive way faster than the speed limit when we were out in those wide open spaces. Well, sure, of course I did! Youth. Untamed and unchecked. Oy vey! To behave differently or to test the borders of obedience, these can become one’s mindset. The acting on a whim seems integral to being a Volkswagen Bug owner.

How fondly I remember, lest I ever forget, the 8:00 pm decision to “cruise” on up to Sequoia National Park and camp out overnight! My boyfriend and I threw blankets, canteens, an ice chest and a picnic basket into the backseat. Up we went, getting there well past midnight. It was the first time I had ever seen the giant redwoods. They loomed large and majestically out of the moon drenched snow. The Sequoias were tall pillars that had a way of putting one’s existence into humbled perspective. We pitched our tent right on the snow, and “roughed it” like the frontiersmen and pioneer women would have done. Parked nearby was my car “who” seemed to “watch over us” as we slept throughout the night.

Perhaps, most cherished of all, was when “Miss Wanderlust” drove me to my own wedding destination, in a high mountain terrain, up to a waterfall that cascaded not only water, but wishes. That adventure had many aspects–one of them of which was the fulfilling of dreams, and eventually, some were not. But, no regrets, ever. How could I regret experiencing my first snowfall, or hearing the crunch of snow under my Sorrel boots? How could I have not been overjoyed while discovering gem-like colorful pebbles in streams, or feeling what the hush of the quiet feels like when living in a sequestered canyon village? How could I not be amazed at driving through winding mountain highways to get to the next town, after circumventing whole mountain ranges and changing elevation?  My V-Dub made possible cherished memories of hiking up to old silver mines, and hiking solo in the crisp morning air while picking wildflowers for my later in the day wedding bouquet. I could not have experienced all these treasured things, if my Beetle Bug hadn’t taken me all the way from shores of California to the mountain peaks of Colorado!

When I think of my courageous little car, I remember the joyful journeys we made together. Sometimes, my drives would be borne out of despondency, and just to get behind the wheel, have a good think and witness the world flash by was a therapeutic escapade. Escaping the doldrums, I would embark on adventure, my Bug and I. For you see, when you drive a Volkswagen, you are never really alone.

Years later, I  transformed  its original beige color to the personally chosen aquamarine blue. I loved that paint job! The color had a sparkle, as if it were an ocean jewel. It wasn’t long before my firstborn son’s blue eyes were gems to behold as well. He rode home from the hospital in that car. Best of all memories? Perhaps?

Even so, Beetle Bug and I drove to visit my grandma’s on many a weekend for tea and kibitzing, and once in awhile as far as San Diego to surprise my eldest brother- to see what he was painting lately, and what music he was performing. I prized these trips to locales afar, where my favorite persons lived. Isn’t that the real purpose of a vehicle, anyway? They are meant to take us to people and places that add layers upon layers of meaning to our story. Then, for the rest of one’s life, when you see that particular make of car you used to own, you are halted and suspended in memories dear. Huh. Is it you that owned the car, or did it own you?

Getaways, college, weddings, births, pivotal moments, sentimental bliss…these are brought to mind at even the flash of sight of one’s well- loved “V-dub”. Thus, that morning, as I idled frozen in thought at the end of my driveway, the “focal point” made a left turn down the nearest side street and I followed suit. He was being a typical VW driver. He was scooting along as if he were in the Indy 500, careening around street corners and driving with fearless ambition! I shifted gears and took flight after him. I kept hearing in my head: “I hope he gets stuck at a traffic signal, then I can pull up alongside him. Don’t get a speeding ticket! Watch for baby strollers or four-legged animal friends!”

Well, I managed to tail him for another four blocks, upon which I prayed he would make a right turn into a driveway to a gas-station. Yes! He did! And so did I. Luckily, there was an empty filling-up spot adjacent to his. I watched a very young man, probably in his middle twenties, get out of “his car/my car”, to which I proceeded to tell him my business.

“I’m so sorry to have been following you but, I must ask if your car is in fact, my car from long ago? It was an automatic stick.” He replied that yes his car is the same type. I excitedly said, “Well is it a ’74?” He quickly said “No, it, is a ’75.”  My heart sank. “But, it’s the same unusual color I had custom painted back in the 80’s!” He replied, no, he was sorry. However, he did exclaim, “I love this car! It has a life of its own! It drives and drives and drives!” I countered with: “Don’t you just love those wing windows?” And he said, “I sure do!” I finished with, “Well, thanks for jarring my memory, because a sweet one it is. Enjoy your car!” That’s when he concluded our conversation with: “Oh, I will, I’m taking it up to Obispo to go camping under the pines by the sea.”…

Hmmm. Maybe, whom he bought it from was wrong about the year? Maybe, it really IS my Blue Wonder…?

Quintessential California

QUINTESSENTIAL CALIFORNIA

There is something pretty special about Southern California. Granted, it has many pitfalls…too numerous to list in full. Our choked “freeways”, brutal potholes constantly attacking one’s tires, steamy-hot August and Septembers, graffitied walls, robotic shopkeeper salutations, those who leave trash anywhere, those who don’t seem to want to share, the unsolved transient people predicament that is a shameful reminder we can’t cure poverty, and all the rule-breakers…parkers in the handicap spaces that should not be there, but also, too many empty handicap spaces leaving prime access bare, cars parked on actual front lawns, overly groomed trees hacked to nonsensical “design” insuring no bloom for another nine months, and the incessant firetruck zipping down the straightaway, having to strategize and dodge the numskulls who refuse to clear a path. That all being said, Southern California is STILL a special place. I realized this just recently on a midweek evening, It was all just so magical.

That afternoon, I bolted out the classroom door like a racehorse from the starting gate. I raced my weary legs as fast as they’d allow to the parking lot. My steering wheel practically burned my fingers as I got the car started. The temperature reading boasted 113! So, I blasted the AC to full capacity, creaked-open the windows a slight bit and zzzzzzzzip…out of the parking lot I went! Ten minutes later, I was home. I bolted into the door connecting garage to inside the house, kicked off shoes, plunked down keys and purse, and with exhaustion in tow, ascended my daunting staircase. Once at the “summit”, I retreated into my inner sanctum…the bath and shower. Emerging all refreshed, powdery and perfumed, I took a waft of shampoo essence with me wherever I walked. I was ready for a night worthy of all the intoxicating aromas, the fashion fantastique and bejeweled accents one’s personal repertoire can provide. But, this particular evening, the reality of it was that it truly didn’t matter what I was  wearing. This would be about truthful music listening, whether in tennies or tuxedos, it was each individual listener’s choice. Mode of travel to such a concert was varied as well. Many bravely choose to ride their own wheels and navigate the parking situation. My choice fell in line with the majority; the wise majority. I simply drove my car to a public park about fifteen minutes away. When the bus rounded the corner and into the lot, a line of anticipatory music lovers awaited boarding the vehicle for the most nominal roundtrip fee of  five dollars! Now, granted, the temperature was still in the 100s when I beeped my car shut. But, I knew that getting to my destination was going to be effortless, pleasant and safe.

I chose a seat in the senior section, especially since I am trying to be honest with myself…I am, after all, a “young” senior! The “people watching” commenced…offering a feast for the eyes of character studies in all degrees of humanism. Despite the variety, young to very old, the stepping into the public transit of each person brought on a variety of detail checks. Many were giddy with anticipation, some looked as if they were about to make a trip to the dentist, and still others stepped onboard the bus clearly as if it were their first time. I sat toward the front because I have always had a secret desire to be a train engineer. Seeing all the working and goings on of a bus driver was entertainment, enough.

Soon we were on our way, making the infamous, seemingly impossible trek across the freeway system of Los Angeles and environs at rush hour. I struck up a lively conversation with a young woman probably barely a third of my age. She slipped onto the bus at the very last second, and found a seat with the rest of us “older , wiser” folk. We engaged in discussion about the destination we were trying to get to…the Hollywood Bowl. Somehow, the miraculous path the busdriver decided to take got us to the glorious outdoor ampitheatre in record time. Throngs of people, busses, musicians, instruments, bicyclists, even, descended upon the bottom of the hill leading up to the Hollywood Bowl parking lot. There, I saw the Will Call, secured my ticket and made a bee-line for the nearest elevator. Having been to the Hollywood Bowl all my life, this was a first for me. I have never taken the easy way up. However, the reason was two-fold. My sister has a box which is in the lower level of the theatre where the elevators readily lead to, which means we would be seated much closer to the stage than I ever experienced before. Secondly, I was simply dog-tired from a long, hot September workday..why not use the elevator? When I found our box, I found my sister. She was disseminating directions to the waiters. We laughed because she had arrived literally three minutes ahead of me…despite the fact that we came from polar opposite locations in the Los Angeles Basin, to meet at the exact time on a Thursday evening, workweek night…a true miracle in itself. She too, arrived via public transit, also parking her car in a lot somewhere out on the Westside. Yet, here we were, hours later, and ready to indulge in music, fine wine and a mighty fine meal. Her husband and colleague met us at the box about ten minutes later…all of us starved and ready for the evening to commence.

Now, in the past, I have had meals at the Bowl. Usually, it entails toting along a wicker basket with sandwiches, fruit and and perhaps a tart to finish off the experience. Wine usually was brought by one of the party members, or could be purchased by the glass at the Bowl. Everyone eats anywhere. Seriously. There is no rule. It is true Southern California. If you find a bench halfway up the trek to the nosebleed section, so be it. If you are lucky to claim a grassy knoll, that’s great, too. Most of the time, I have eaten right there, in my bench seat, where I will spend the next few hours enjoying music to the fullest. Patrons can get a bit unruly, but this is not a common occurrence. After all, we are not at a Dodger game. It is fun to see the individualism abound at the Hollywood Bowl. People show off their glassware, their dinnerware or their uniquely festooned eating space they’ve claimed their own for the evening. I have seen small candelabras, and lovely, miniature floral “table” arrangements!  As concert attendees walk past, they might comment and strike a conversation about where such things were bought or made. It is not unusual for discussions to be about someone’s cake and what they are celebrating—it is as if everyone forgets they are Southern Californian workaholics and become “family”. I love that.

This particular night, my meal was in a “box”…which is fancy wording for a seemingly overpriced seat and table to be shared with another person and a second set of seats and table. I soon learned whatever the price was, it was a BARGAIN, for sure! True, it was a tight squeeze, mind you, and I am so grateful my personal “waterworks plumbing” was not being problematic, or else it could have been a big drag. But, my extremely generous hostess, had ordered me one of the meals expertly prepared right there at the Bowl. It was scrumptious—crab, shrimp, avocado, all drenched in “raspberry this” and accented with “raspberry that”. Even the dessert carried the theme, but was the farthest from being tiresome.

To make the meal even more delicious, my sister who must be the most expert wine connoisseur this side of the Mississippi, had bought a bottle of a Pinot Noir I could not get over! I don’t normally get crazed over alcohol…but this was surely derived from the private stores of Bacchus himself. I remember the initial taste being crisp, refreshing, and then a quick peppery snap to follow. Next thing I knew, my mouth was savoring a smooth, Ever So Smooth, I can tell you, flow of flavor that was, as they say, “to die for”. Once, the relishing of wine had happened, I then became aware of a lilting, “the devil may care” state of mind. Oh, my goodness, this must be illegal it is so good. I asked C, my sister, about the wine, and she named it all in a very matter-of fact way—but when I got home and researched it, it was indeed a rare wine, so rare in fact that the winery had already finished selling their last bottles of this particular wine and year. Supposedly one other bottle was “out there” in circulation, but where? Anyhow, It is not a typical endeavor of mine to get all excited over a wine, but this deserved all the praise I could give. Truly, it was a finely crafted work of art. It was a perfect punctuation to a perfect meal, preceding a perfect concert.

So, the short white coated waiters whisked away any remnants of our meal, except for our glasses and beverages. The summer sky was beginning to present its entrancing show of first bright points of light coming out on a sky of teal. We began to hear the lulling sing-song of the crickets, and feel an  enveloping, soothing breeze that must have been born over the Hawaiian Pacific and floated its way to the inlands of Southern California. Even the crowd seemed to respond to these signal changes, all seeming to settle in and get their mindset ready for a night filled  with the notes of Brahms and Beethoven.

The program began with Brahms’ Tragic Oveture, continued with Beethoven’s Piano Concerto #3 and culminated with Brahms’ Symphony #2. I must say, I know I am enjoying a fantastic concert when I feel like I have “discovered” classical music for the first time! That is how I felt that night. The overture was gripping and dramatic. Paul Lewis came out to perform the concerto, and he was nothing short of impressive. Having a big screen television to slightly turn my head to my left to see,  made me truly experience that performance…because the soloist was so up close, visually. Yes, I could see all of the Philaharmonic down on the stage, and yes I was situated closer than I have ever been as a concert goer, but to see every single note played on the keyboard was as if Mr. Lewis were in my very own living-room! Very, thrilling, indeed. Then, came the break. Everyone stretched and exchanged points of view. After intermission, the audience again settled into some serious, “the world will stop for this, tonight” musicianship. There is something about Brahms, anyway–he is so closely linked to Beethoven, so any Brahms will give a gentle, yet substantial hint as to what will be in store if you next have the privilege to listen to the Magnificent, heart-wrenching, soul-demanding, “you had better yield and kneel” Beethoven! The Brahms’ 2nd Symphony somehow seemed Epic that night—it was simply a powerful, emotional entity–the reason I love music…

The venue, the stars, the nature, the music and the miraculous ride to and from, created a magical mixture I’ll never forget. It was splendid to share it all with my sister, brother in law and colleague, but especially my sister. To know that we both love music so much and that here we live, in a wonderful sliver of land on this earth, called California. Here, the finest of things do sometimes transpire, despite the debacle our freeways often can be. Not this evening. Not on this date. This was a time for the memories. When I eventually reached my own little car back in the parking lot of a city far away from the Hollywood Bowl, I unlocked it, sat inside. and turned the key. I made sure the radio would not come on and adulterate the still drifting notes and motifs in my head. The scents and tastes, visuals and smiles, and the many surprises along the way remained safely locked into my memory to relish in the future. How glad I was that my beloved, quintessential California did not let me down. Her people charmed. The drivers commandeered. The chefs “painted” savory palettes to not be forgotten. The wine gave clarity. Nature inspired on cue. And the musicians, well, they did B &B proud. Such a night was a night triumphant, in my neck of the woods….Southern California.