I ROSE AT 3:00 AM to turn the heat on, pick up my writing journal, and discern the weekโs theme. I wonder for a moment if I should boil water for tea or coffee, and settle on decaf. The street is hollowed like a tunnel, the light of day is shining in some distant country, and the sky appears tinted with primer. Somewhere someone is dressing for work, breathing by the tick of the clock until he or she ( canโt figure out the right pronouns) must report for work.
The draft of sleep lingers in my eyes, and my feet shuffle on the wood floors while I grind the beans and think through the remains of the week. There are themes to our lives. Sometimes a year, sometimes one single day launches the theme, or it may just tumble into our path unexpectedly and replace whatever we were holding on to dearly, and deliver something unpleasant, like sickness, or separation. The sensations leading up to my theme jilted my creativity, and the pages I wrote were jammed with contradictions, maybe they still are.
Thoughts begin to form and ruminate, what is important? The theme of my week began when I finally was in the Dentists office. Itโs been a year, and at sixty that was enough. Now Dr. FX’s office calls me every six months because I am over sixty-five. Still canโt really grasp my age. When I was thirty-something sixty-eight seemed very old. Do you remember that?
Dr. FX is the Music Man dressed in a white tunic. When he comes into my cubicle, he sort of prances on his toes and gives me an elbow safe bump.
โ Hello, oh I see,โ as he looks into my mouth that has been open too long and my cheeks start to stiffen. The hygienist takes that white suck-up tube out of my mouth.
โ She has some tarter that I canโt remove so I suggest she come back because her gums are so sensitive and nonvaccine her for the water treatment .โ
Dr. FX nods and bounces out of the room. Now she begins to sort of authoritatively advise me again that I have serious tarter. I think this is the third time.
โ I think I got a little lazy flossing during covid.โ
โEveryone did.โ
โAnd I also started snacking on those crunchy health bars at night.โ
โThat wouldnโt cause that.โ
Now I am ready to leave and Iโm elated to get out. The receptionist starts talking and advising me about Dental Insurance and she leaves her desk and meets me in the waiting room, and starts stretching.
โ I have to do this as much as I can, sitting in that chair all day long.โ
โOh, of course,โ I raise my arms and swing my hips beside hers. I walked out into a day of clouds and a peek a boo sun feeling a mood change, a spark of energy from a few moments of improvisational dancing. We all crave an irreplaceable swarming of joy, that comes unexpectedly. I was awakened to my detachment from feeling truly alive.
Writing with a pen is so different from the keyboard, journaling is always with a pen, but columns are on the keyboard. I understand what tranquilizes all the peripheral complaints, mental pains, and wounds that lie dormant or at least manageable. Without thinking of the tormented hours, I think of the comforts of exhibiting my life on paper. My desk is sealed into a corner of the bedroom, next to a double pane window (original 1885) forty feet in length. It is not the act of writing with pen and paper moving along at a steady rhythm; itโs the activation of the heart and mind, collaborating to unravel the relevant from the irrelevant. To reach this state of matrimony a writer needs not a Tuscan Villa, or a Moorish Castle, but experiences that flake off the skin, or recall of the experience that gives it relevance.
I return to the porch for one more gulp of landscape that I share with the stars. The street is unfamiliar, a temporary scene like a bus stop, and I am merely waiting to move on. Some of the neighbors are friendly, some have no interest, one kind of spies on me when he thinks Iโm not looking. Thereโs a reason for that but itโs too much of a separate story right now.
If I continue to roam around the task of writing this story, the intensity of irritation will escalate, my neck and shoulders will not loosen, my walk will be feigned, my smile forced, my heart longing for padding, my ego striving for recognition in the wrong places, and my soul roaming the hallways at 3:00 in the morning. I read a quote the other day on some website, to paraphrase: When I’m writing I know I can’t do anything else. The theme of the week is to bring back LouLou, a clownish, spirited, curious, joy seeker.
IT’S CALLED NON-CONVENTIONAL but on our own personal level, if you fall in that broad culture and it is a unique and historically significant tribe, especially in the arts and the military. Artists skip from creating to counting change, very few make a comfortable living. The Military are more unconventional than any other profession. I’ve tried to imagine choosing to fight our wars knowing I could be shot or tortured.
Do you think that not choosing the basics: family, friends and a comfortable living are enough? They are, now I know that.
How did this become my spotlight, like a bulb that flickered and whispered, you thought you knew more. Well, I didn’t and now I am adapting my fictional life to nonfiction. Beginning with: relinquishing luxuries, vacations, replacing outdated or broken furnishings, buying my favorite designer garments, and most important a monthly budget. Now instead of withdrawing from my savings account, I am depositing. Friends and family pose a more rigorous effort to the depts. I’m a loner. There is nothing glamorous or mystifying about this stain at least not for me, more like solitude for longer periods of time.
Photo by Philip Townsend. London 1964
As I watch and hear the interviews of Veterans, Gold Star Families, Military groups, former Iraq and Afghanistan Marines, Army, The Navy and Airforce, and the ones left behind because their hero was killed have one knot that holds them together, and it is their family, their comrades in arms and friends.
It’s raining, the tiniest little drops, like new bourns. The sky is a saddened muted white gray, like it’s in mourning. Hoagie Carmichael is singing Two Little People, simple lines that rhyme. Without music, and I don’t listen as much as I did a month ago, I’d be in bed today, it is a day for music medics to carry my pen where it sinks.
I was selfish, spoiled, and myopic, now I am awake to eternal gratefulness for being born American.
Trying not to watch the news as my heart needs a reprieve from Afghanistan. I’ve never appreciated, honored, respected, and loved our Military more these past two weeks. Do you know that feeling? What happens next? Eventually this presses to a USA attack.
I wonder what you all are doing this July 4th. The last year had pressed us closer, and friends from years past have knocked on my FB door. Someone switched the light on our lives and I for one will find pages of material as a memoirist to unleash all that happened within and without. What took me all the way down was seeing the number of deaths. NY lost more than thirty-five thousand people, that would be like all of Saratoga County.
I vote for a Memorial somewhere in the US, maybe a wall, inscribed with the names of those lost to Covid-19. Grateful is the word of the times. I wish you all a big, loud, closely adjoined unmasked party.
Looking west to a smear of dusty crimson sunlight, a young man of twenty stood on the shoulder of Highway 66 waiting to hitch a ride. A powder blue Cadillac pulled up and the lad was caught in a puff of loose gravel. When the dust settled, a woman dressed in a two piece matching suit leaned over from the driverโs seat. โSay fella, can you drive one of my cars to California? Iโll pay the expenses,โ she yelled out the window. Another Cadillac pulled up next to hers with a jerk stop. The lad stared into the shine of the car. It looked like wet paint and he was tempted to touch it. โSure will, yep Iโll do that. Should I get in now?โ The young man answered. โI need to see your driverโs license.โ She added. The man hastily drew out his license from a dusty plastic cover inside his billfold. She looked it over, and smiled. โAll right Maurice, keep in close to us on the road, donโt get lost. Weโre going far as Needles.โ Maurice held tight to the steering wheel, โGeez, ainโt this great, what a car. Iโm going all the way from Nebraska to California in a Cadillac.โ Heโd forgotten about the sharp pains of hunger, and bloody sores on his feet. Now he was sitting on warm leather seats, with the cold night air off his back, and ten dollars in his pocket.
Sixty five years later, Iโm walking down the street where Maurice lives. We havenโt met yet. I donโt meet my neighbors. I move before I have a chance to care about them. It comes easy to me, being a loner. Then I met Maurice.
Without a partner, lover, or relative nearby during our feared and festive flights of life, our ribs cave. You just cannot eat cake alone on your birthday, attend a funeral without a shoulder next to you, or celebrate a finished project without your best friend.
November 2016
Dodger knocked and then opened the door to Gretaโs casita, wide-eyed and edgy as usual, like he’s about to eject off the ground and go air-born.
โClose your eyes.โ She commanded
โIโm in a hurry, I just wanted to know if youโve seen my glasses?โ
โNo, I have not, look in your back pocket, theyโll be there.โ
He obeyed, โGood try butterfly.โ
โTheyโre in your pigsty garage under a pillow. Can you just close your eyes, please?โ Reluctant as always to be asked things like this he shifted his weight on one torn sneaker.
“Okay, you can open your eyes.”
โWell, what do you think?โ
โIโm looking, hang on.โ He opened the book and leafed through it, expressionless.
โIt will be published this week in time for Thanksgiving and your birthday, a kind of homage to you, for reading the manuscripts a thousand times. I think it turned out really nice, donโt you?โ
โYea, then he handed the book back to Greta as if it was some other author’s book.
โDid you read the dedication to you?โ
โYeah, thanks.โ
โDonโt you want to read it?โ
โ Iโll buy one when itโs on Amazon.โ Greta turned around and sat at her desk chair avoiding the disappointment with silence. She felt a sharp sort of shock, that left her speechless.
” Iโm going to see Patsy for my Birthday,” He said in a more decidedly final tone.
” But I planned a publication party on your Birthday. You knew thatโ I mean this is our book once you read it youโll see half of it is about you. He turned his head toward the glass door, he was preparing his next line.
” I know what you’re doing.” He replied.
โ What does that mean?โ
โ You donโt want me to see her.โ He turned around and looked directly into her eyes, unkindly.
โ I told you to move in with her, sheโs your girlfriend, but Iโm your friend. Canโt you go a few days later?โ
โ No.โ
” Okay, go. Get the fuck out of here, the book I wrote about our friendship and dedicated to you doesnโt matter.” Dodger opened the door and stepped outdoors before slamming it shut. The vagueness and accusatory tone pulled the plug on her adulation and accomplishment.
NOVEMBER 2016
Greta continued to sit at her desk, staring at the book, talking out loud as if Dodger was still in the room, you are fucking insane, he wasnโt the least touched, he didnโt even fucking smile or hug me. We are best friends you asshole, thirty-five years! Like family, I canโt believe youโd do this.โ The grail of completion dissolved when a few hours later, she had metabolized his absence.
Greta applied lipstick and blush, changed from sweats to jeans and a sweater, and dashed across the street to The Beaumont Hotel. Itโs been what she termed her groove cave for the last ten years, ever since moving to town. Internally she reminded herself to retain some dignity, and not to cry, which would come later after she had a few glasses of wine.
The wave that most of us have to swim through at some sandy, loose day in our life comes unexpectedly as it did for Greta. Itโs been two and half years since Greta agreed to tell me her story, it feels like it was yesterday.
Clutching her book in one hand Greta strolled into the Beaumont and, stopped at the staircase on the second floor where two hostesses were patiently but somewhat nonchalantly waiting for guests to arrive. She held up her book, partly because of the dismissal of Dodger, and her craving for some kind of acknowledgment. She is never sure what she has accomplished until she is validated by another person.
โCongratulations Greta, thatโs so cool. I want a copy.โ Jackie and Julia chimed in. Greta has told me over and over the people here, in the pueblo, it takes no time to get to know them because there is no pretense or preparation, they speak their feelings, as they arise without premeditation. Jackie is always tired and Julia is always infinitely alert and awake. Julia is in her sixties and Jackie is twenty-two.
โ Thank you dolls, do you think I deserve a cocktail tonight, no really, would it be all right if I have one. Jackie twirled her thin waist around the iron staircase,
โ Fuck that Greta, go have two,” she whispered.
โ You can walk home so have three,โ Julia added, so neatly dressed in her uniform, but her eyes are like meadows like she’s not really there.
Holding court in the bar is Captain Kurtis. Heโs ageless, one of those faces that retain the youthful spirit, and his six-foot-four physique almost doesnโt seem to fit with his face. He is no second guesser or lacks self-confidence, Greta loves him for that because she is not. She knows this for certain and she canโt understand why friends tell her, she appears so. She also knows that it is her little act.
โHey! Whatโs happening?โ He shouts out in his usual bar baritone greeting as if Greta were in another room.
She placed the book on the counter.
โ Wow! Hey, congratulations! That’s awesome. What would you like–on the house?”
โThanks! A Martini.โ He greeted another guest and I looked in the unavoidable mirror across from me and winked.
โ Wow, I donโt read much but I want a signed copy!โ
โ This is the proof that I approved, the book comes out on Thanksgiving.โ
โ My parents will be here, will you?”
โ Of course, I canโt not be here.โ
โ Has Dodger seen it? Bet heโs happy huh?โ
โ Actually Kurtis, heโs not.โ
โ What the fuck is wrong with him?โ
โ I donโt know, but heโs leaving for the holiday to see his girlfriend, Iโll be here alone.โ
โ No way! Weโll be here. Drink your Martini and get crazy, loosen your bottom or something.โ A while later, a second bartender arrived, Rooster, his hair is slicked into a rooster tail and he loves to dance and lip sing behind the bar. Greta went through her announcement, and he just beamed. โI want to buy one– where do I get it?โ
A dreamy drench of joy poured over Greta, she let the martini take her away to the full euphoria of escape.
Over the next few days, she watched her royalty cart fill up. It was graduation day, a milestone for any self-taught writer. The instant a book was bought she wanted to tell Dodger.
From Gretaโs desk window she views the driveway and converted garage where Dodger lives. It is now the twenty-third and she is waiting for him to leave as their incidental crossings on the street or in front of the house enrage her temper. This afternoon he appears to be preparing, and un-preparing for a departure. Greta is observing his actions with just a hint of humor as she sees him bring his bicycle up from the basement place it outside the garage, then a few hours later, he places it inside the garage, then it comes out again and he keeps repeating this action until he switches to his construction tools, they go in the van and then back in the garage. Dodger then moves on to washing his car in militant style, climbing onto the roof and manically wiping down the exterior and interior with a roll of paper towels and cloths. Greta says, โMy God Patsy must be a car germophobic.โ On Thanksgiving Day, she sees the Van, and then Dodger comes out of the garage carrying his toiletries bag and a garment bag. He glances over at her door where she silently observed him. She opened the door to say whatever came to mind at that moment and he accelerated into his van and drove off.
Thanksgiving 2016
Greta propped herself up in bed drew her coffee cup into both hands to warm them and wiped tears on her nightgown sleeve. She could not get up at least not for a few more calming hours so she looked at the walls of her bedroom sparked with honey sunshine inside the gold curtains and as the day passed her enthusiasm for turkey and stuffing wilted, until four o’clock, when she closed her mind like closing a book thinking of Dodger. She pulled a green sweater and burgundy velveteen slacks and dressed without even looking in the mirror, habitually applied make-up and while looking in the mirror tested her smile, to find the one that looked genuine. โ Oh fuck him, Iโm going to make joy tonightโ
Couples and families scurried the walkways on their way to dinner. Greta watched enviously having never been a mother, every child appeared distinctive and worthy of love. As she walked through the lobby her attention was drawn to a circumference of platters of food decoratively arranged on tables. The mounds of appetizers, salads, loaves of bread, and turkey slices tuned up her appetite for the first time since Dodger departed. Inside the bar, a standing crowd of guests fused in high-pitched voices, laughter, and glasses raised in toasts. Greta eased her way to the bar feeling slightly self-consciousness of her unaccompanied presence. The Dude, as she referred to the leading bartender stood tall as a redwood, his hair wrapped in a perfect man-bun.
โGreta, over here. I saved you a seat.โ She smiled uncertainly, unconvincingly and the Dude noticed. He raised his chin a notch, itโs his way of acknowledgment.
โHey Greta, you look really nice tonight. Are you ready for a martini or what?
โ I donโt feel like it, can I go now?โ
โ Come on, itโs Thanksgiving, arenโt you thankful for something?โ she savored the comment, it was true she did not feel the thankfulness quality of the celebration.
โ Iโm grateful for you!โ
โ Okay, whatโs wrong?โ
โ You wonโt believe it, whatever it is I donโt know. Dodger didnโt stay for the publication party, he didnโt even say congratulations when I showed him the book, heโs gone to see Patsy, you know the woman in Las Vegas that he sees sometimes.โ
โWhat an asshole, Iโll whip him when he gets back. Do you have the book with you, I want to see it now!โ She kept one in her bag, in case someone came in that I knew.
โ Here, thatโs yours.โ
โArenโt you gonna sign it?โ
โ Of course. I’m just jilted like my prom date didn’t show up.โ
โ Hang on, write the inscription I have to take care of these people. Donโt leave!โ
The evening evolved into a gathering of singles at the bar, the exchange was simplistic holiday conversation, suited to the occasion, so very all American, though the holiday isnโt widely accepted by the Natives due to the fictionalized history of the holiday. Within the festive mood, the distraction pulverized the hollowness of dining without Dodger on Thanksgiving and his birthday. Gretaโs closest female friend is White Zen (WZ), who is out of town, and other friends are with family, so it is one of those days for single unattached people to find refuge where they can.
The man seated next to her was so close she was tempted to move her chair but thought that would appear unfriendly. The Dude approached her,
โ This is my Dad.” The Dude went on to talk about the book I handed him and then the father started up a discussion about how he was writing a book too and so the evening, between bits of food and wine liberated Greta from singleness to a dinner companion. She knew Dude had that planned as he was continually trying to introduce her to men.
When there was a lull in the conversation Greta seized the moment to excuse herself and squeezed through the crowd to the ladies’ room. The silence relieved her as it always does after a two-hour conversational overload and incessant noise of guests whose cocktails elevated their voices to disturbing mumbling. She applied fresh lipstick, and then she took a deep exalted breath and texted Dodger, โ hope you have a wonderful thanksgiving.โ She washed her hands and after a few more minutes passed, the text remained unanswered.
โ Dude, Iโll have another glass of wine.โ He was more than responsive, and poured a full glass of wine and left the bottle next to her. She knew he knew her heart was crumbling.
โ Iโm thankful Dude!
โ Yea, you should be!โ A tipsy jolt took care of the evening and she managed to make some mocking jokes about the Dude, and how his youth at twenty-eight pleased the women at the bar as they attempted a sensual pat on his hand.
โCougars, divorced or cheating on their husbands, women your age are weird.โ
โYouโll understand when you get older.โ
Over the next few days Greta texted Dodger six times, and he didnโt respond, so she called. She was blocked. Her rage erupted, and so she sent an email with a link to her Amazon book page. When days later she did not get a response, she pinned herself in front of the television and dialed WZ. The outdoor snow piled up, the trash was not emptied, she avoided going into the basement where the washer and dryer were and the temptation to begin sabotaging, or breaking his belongings.
โ Hi, itโs me. Whatโs left of me that is. Can you talk?โ
โ Yes, you donโt sound good– whatโs happened? Let me get a cocktail going I think Iโll need it.โ
โ Iโm into my third glass of wine, call me back because it takes you fifteen minutes to do your marvelous Martiniโs.โ
Greta waited as if she was about to go into the operating room. WZ is in the category of mothering itโs not just her whispery voice, or intense talent for listening, she has the appetite for drama and thatโs what hooked her to Greta.
Without a partner, lover,or relative nearby during our feared and festive flights of life, our ribs cave. You just cannot eat cake alone on your birthday, attend a funeral without a shoulder next to you, or celebrate a finished project without your best friend. During these times of divisiveness, a pandemic, our favorite restaurants and shops out of business, and vigilanteviolence, it takes courage to be alone. It is you I am thinking of and I know you are out there, isolated. I listen to a lot of music, from Opera to Salsa, shout myself out of bed, attend to mediocre mindless tasks and think about all of us singles, without children, or family and friends out of my reach in Los Angeles, Santa Fe, Scottsdale, Sedona, and Florida. Each one holds a podium on the telephone, as I listen to their feelings, they are variations of a Chopin or Bach recording. The sadness and fear each one is holding at bay, reveal their authentic character. Isn’t it an extreme tragedy that holds a spotlight on our soul and spirit? One friend reminds me to refrain from judging myself too harshly, another advises how fortunate I am to be in a safe small village, with very few deaths, and another says simply, I’m falling apart.
We are now forced to learn our supreme strength, our survival methods, and how to structure a new lifestyle. When was the last time you were tested? Remember that and you will forge ahead.
THE CLASSMATE THAT wrote is named Andrew. I imagine heโs married; a man with his looks and gregarious personality living in Los Angeles all these years. Maybe he married one of our high school classmates. We exchanged a few emails in two thousand eight, he’d just returned from a trip to Poland and I was managing the gallery. Then the crash came and I think my correspondence dropped. Why was he thinking of me? I don’t have any photographs from high school, I suppose I could look him up in the yearbook. I’ll wait till he writes again.
The sky is crystal blue, and the temperature a mild fifty degrees. From my window, the leaves dropping makes me think the trauma and suffering the last four years has dropped from my life. What the trauma was about is irrelevant and too lengthy to write. We all get sent to the chopping block of heartache and this was mine. This is as liberating as taking off a tight bra after a long day!
Maxfield Parrish
September has traditionally been my month of transition. It’s a sort of pattern that began years ago and so making decisions is as if I’m on a time clock. What is most essential now is finding a new place to call home. I began looking at Santa Barbara. I loved visiting the city by the sea, those beautiful mountains, and quaint craftsman architecture. So what if I don’t know anyone, I’ll be alone regardless of where I move. Easily accomplished in my fifties, not so improvisational at sixty-seven.
Rapturous Autumn day; this year the transformation of nature, outdoor activities, cider doughnuts, smoking fireplaces, and a crispness that reminds me of breaking open a head of lettuce. What really happens to us in the East is fall descends like a new stage and the props from summer are removed. The mums come out on the porches, and the bright yellow and gold plants dot every porch. The conventional lifestyle and customary activities placate our sense of belonging. Christmas, wow, it’s only a short time till winter. In the dressing room unpacking more sweaters, socks, warm-ups, I get an alert, another email. Andrew added another compliment so my response was crush-worthy. Why not? Maybe fantasy is what is needed. Remerging silhouettes, all of us on the front lawn at lunch time, and boys are pairing up with girls and Andrew is laughing, making clownish faces and gestures, yes he was crush-worthy. He walked in long strides, visible energy and every step seemed to have a purpose. The boy I was in love with graduated, and I did not have a boyfriend. My shyness and restrained conversational skills excluded me from invitations to date. Maybe that’s why he didn’t take notice of me observing him, a lot of classmates had crushes on him.
The reality of COVID-19 is now the centerfold story because it is affecting everyone; the excruciating financial loss, death, sickness, and loneliness. It’s more like acceptance that this is our job now to tolerate COVID-19. Restrictions, circumstances of failed businesses we all loved, fear, and more fear call for an imaginary friend who I haven’t seen in fifty years. He replied with a formal note of response that he was on Facebook and could we be friends. I wrote back, yes. I am listening to the soundtrack from the film A Man and A Woman while chopping vegetables for soup. This music has formed a flame of optimism for the day I’m in love and let go of singleness.
On Facebook Andrew’s feature photos reveal the teenager I remember. He is a photographer, a Neuro Technician, and in his twenties an actor and model โฆ hum, sounds like my resume, professional career changer. His photos sent a quiver through my veins, a call to read everything on his page, and view videos of his European travels: beautifully crafted images of architecture, monuments, art, culture, and locals. It deepened my understanding of his life just by his photos and posts. The other side, his appearance; the facial features, keen brown eyes, uncensored or rehearsed self-photos, group photos with our high school mates at the reunions, his long wavy hair, and his defined lips and cheekbones tingled curiosity.
The photos of Andrew at the class reunions next to my best friend and other classmates I remembered brought a snowstorm of memories. How I loved my friends back then. About six of us went everywhere together; bought our first bras, learned to drive, went to Westwood Village to look for cute boys, sat in the booths at Mario’s Pizza, Hamburger Hamlet, and The Apple Pan and all of it on ten or twenty dollars a week allowance. I have not been to a reunion since the tenth. Andrew posted photos from several. He stayed connected. Fifty years have passed, and he’s on my mind. To be continued.
What I think of at three in the morning is never the same at ten o’clock in the morning. The labyrinth of safety and comfort, colliding with the unknown darkness, seems to be the most revealing of emotions. It is also a time that spirals into visual realizations, recognitions, and a time when our mirrors move toward us. Tonight, is about friends.
Friends are bookends that bind our stories; some novellas, some poems, some cinematic, each friend s serves as a bookend to our personal history. When Iโve lost my way and need direction my friends motorize me like a little engine, and when I fly without wings, they ring the bell to come down to earth. At times, arguments arise and my friendships stray, but true-life friends never leave you behind. Sometimes years may pass, and then one day you get a call or an email or send one yourself, and the flushing of that particular squabble in history vanishes. You can start anew; at the same time, it is not.
The essence of friendship never burns out, it is our galaxy, a kind of celestial agility.
Are you experiencing a startling outpouring from friends whoโve left your life only to suddenly show up on your social media or a personal email? Are your friends calling and writing more often than pre-Covid? I’m always examining some unfamiliar events in life, a new trend, a cultural change. We have that now, and conversation, as it has leaped from let’s just talk to all the, don’t go there subjects of 2020. Seems like every topic can be mixed with politics, sometimes the mixture is explosive. Iโve halted the political discussions and so have my friends as they are more important to my livingness than politics.
These new threads of friendship began with a young man I dated when we were in our mid-twenties. He was developing into a businessman, the world was not far from his scope, I on the other hand was cradled by my father’s demands, my freedom limited. Our short story ended; the bookends shelved until one day he sent a message on Facebook with his phone number. The last time Iโd seen him was around nineteen-seventy-three. I paddled through the well of memories; his image materialized, he was smiling, joking, driving me around, going places. I could be passive with him; he was a trailblazer. I was content to be in the company of a man who was fearless, exploratory, and a gentleman. Our first phone call lasted a long while because youthful history is crystallized and reigns over the years missed. I find it problematic especially during this pandemic to form new friendships, so the friendship of the past rises like warm muffins in the oven.
In May as the spring yearned to rise from the winter, I received an email that flowered my childhood. Bonny, my playmate, throughout elementary school, as Brownies and Girl Scouts, as synagogue attending students and mischievous little girls who wanted to be dancers, me in Jazz and Bonny in Ballet. She lived just across the street from Bellagio Road school and our escapades often took place in her home. I remember the black and white tile floor, streams of sunlight over the grand piano where her father played and Bonny practiced ballet technique. Even at the age, her discipline and dedication were remarkably striking.
Bonny Bourne Singer
After exchanging emails we had a phone call. The last time Iโd seen Bonny was in the 7th grade, bookends that yielded to fifty-four years. Our conversation began in yelps of laughter, astonishment, excitement and the pages of our story flipped from her career with the New York City Ballet, and the San Francisco Ballet, to her marriage and children, and then to her Mother.
โLuellen, hold on my mother is nudging me to give her the phone.โ
As soon as I heard her say, โSweetheart,โ her name came back to me.
โRose! oh my, this is unbelievable. I am so happy Bonny contacted me after reading my book.
โI just finished it. I loved it.โ
โThank you, Rose, I have a question–do you remember much about my Mother?โ Youโre the only one still alive that knew her.
โDarling, a day didnโt go by that we didnโt talk on the phone. She was such a beautiful person.โ
Tears blurred my sight as we walked through some memories. The fifty-four-year absence seemed like five. Since that first conversation, we now speak every few weeks, send emails, photos and our friendship is as sustainable as if we were ten years old.
Sometimes friends get into disputes, not verbal arguments, just an interruption caused by events or circumstances that override the friendship. My closest friend in Santa Fe, Iโve coined Pandora and I relinquished our friendship because of our raucousness when we were serenading downtown Santa Fe. Pandora and I recently liberated from dower circumstances clicked our heels, held hands and skipped through town endowed with our personal feminist characteristics. Then, at some point, we divided as our playtime interred with our work time and five years passed. As it happens during Covid- we recall the best times of our lives. Pandora heard the calling and left me a voice message. Oh, how I rehearsed what I would say, and how much I missed her, in between visual images of us, at the La Fonda Hotel, La Posada, and Santa Cafรฉ. For one of my birthdays, she arrived with balloons, flowers, champagne, and a bag of presents, that reminded me of my childhood indulgences. I called her back within the hour. Our bookends opened to our shared memories and we both admitted we regretted we let responsibilities divide us. Now, Pandora is within my life and mine in hers. I told her, โI donโt care what happens between us, Iโm not going anywhere. โ
Photo Pandora with her therapy poodle, Pumpkin visiting patients a at a Santa Fe Hospital. Her blazing compassion for anyone suffering.
When September arrived, the leaves dropped like tears from the trees. I watched from my window, this shedding of a season, and began packing up the summer clothes. As I pulled out the sweaterโs boots, hats, gloves, and warm-ups with regret and stubbornness, I am not prepared for a third winter alone. Maybe it will be like this for the rest of my life. These invective fears permeate throughout my days and nights. What I asked for as a writer was time alone, now I have it.
Hours passed like waiting in line in my own mind, how to shift from this sentiment to something promising. I switched from news to emails to social media and then I noticed a comment from a student on Classmates. Com. I am a member as a graduate of University High School in Los Angeles.
We were the graduating class of 1971, one thousand students from the Westside. Some classmates lived so close I walked there after school, some from wealthy influential parents, some in the film business, and some from blue-collar families, We did not judge by color, income, or politics, we just accepted one another. I don’t recall any arguments, attacks, insults, or violence, high school was our second home. I remember the beautiful botanical gardens, the dance studio, the football field, and the front lawn where my gang hung out during lunch or after school.
The comments were touching and so I responded back. I remembered this secret admirer from Junior High and High School. He had a distinctive style, part trendy part individual, he wore hats and paisley shirts, his stride was fast-paced, his hair brown, long and thick that framed a beautiful masculine jawline. He laughed with gusto, his voice was theatrical in tone as it was at one moment pensive and the next comical. He was not part of one particular gang of friends but moved like a party host between many of the circles. To be continued.
What I think of at three in the morning is never the same at ten o’clock in the morning. The labyrinth of safety and comfort, colliding with the unknown darkness, seems to be the most revealing of emotions. It is also a time that spirals into visual realizations, recognitions, and a time when our mirrors move toward us. Tonight, is about friends.
Friends are bookends that bind our stories; some novellas, some poems, some cinematic, each friend s serves as a bookend to our personal history. When Iโve lost my way and need direction my friends motorize me like a little engine, and when I fly without wings, they ring the bell to come down to earth. At times, arguments arise and my friendships stray, but true-life friends never leave you behind. Sometimes years may pass, and then one day you get a call or an email or send one yourself, and the flushing of that particular squabble in history vanishes. You can start anew; at the same time, it is not.
The essence of friendship never burns out, it is our galaxy, a kind of celestial agility.
Are you experiencing a startling outpouring from friends whoโve left your life only to suddenly show up on your social media or a personal email? Are your friends calling and writing more often than pre-Covid? I’m always examining some unfamiliar events in life, a new trend, a cultural change. We have that now, and conversation, as it has leaped from let’s just talk to all the, don’t go there subjects of 2020. Seems like every topic can be mixed with politics, sometimes the mixture is explosive. Iโve halted the political discussions and so have my friends as they are more important to my livingness than politics.
These new threads of friendship began with a young man I dated when we were in our mid-twenties. He was developing into a businessman, the world was not far from his scope, I on the other hand was cradled by my father’s demands, my freedom limited. Our short story ended; the bookends shelved until one day he sent a message on Facebook with his phone number. The last time Iโd seen him was around nineteen-seventy-three. I paddled through the well of memories; his image materialized, he was smiling, joking, driving me around, going places. I could be passive with him; he was a trailblazer. I was content to be in the company of a man who was fearless, exploratory, and a gentleman. Our first phone call lasted a long while because youthful history is crystallized and reigns over the years missed. I find it problematic especially during this pandemic to form new friendships, so the friendship of the past rises like warm muffins in the oven.
In May as the spring yearned to rise from the winter, I received an email that flowered my childhood. Bonny, my playmate, throughout elementary school, as Brownies and Girl Scouts, as synagogue attending students and mischievous little girls who wanted to be dancers, me in Jazz and Bonny in Ballet. She lived just across the street from Bellagio Road school and our escapades often took place in her home. I remember the black and white tile floor, streams of sunlight over the grand piano where her father played and Bonny practiced ballet technique. Even at the age, her discipline and dedication were remarkably striking.
Bonny Bourne Singer
After exchanging emails we had a phone call. The last time Iโd seen Bonny was in the 7th grade, bookends that yielded to fifty-four years. Our conversation began in yelps of laughter, astonishment, excitement and the pages of our story flipped from her career with the New York City Ballet, and the San Francisco Ballet, to her marriage and children, and then to her Mother.
โLuellen, hold on my mother is nudging me to give her the phone.โ
As soon as I heard her say, โSweetheart,โ her name came back to me.
โRose! oh my, this is unbelievable. I am so happy Bonny contacted me after reading my book.
โI just finished it. I loved it.โ
โThank you, Rose, I have a question–do you remember much about my Mother?โ Youโre the only one still alive that knew her.
โDarling, a day didnโt go by that we didnโt talk on the phone. She was such a beautiful person.โ
Tears blurred my sight as we walked through some memories. The fifty-four-year absence seemed like five. Since that first conversation, we now speak every few weeks, send emails, photos and our friendship is as sustainable as if we were ten years old.
Sometimes friends get into disputes, not verbal arguments, just an interruption caused by events or circumstances that override the friendship. My closest friend in Santa Fe, Iโve coined Pandora and I relinquished our friendship because of our raucousness when we were serenading downtown Santa Fe. Pandora and I recently liberated from dower circumstances clicked our heels, held hands and skipped through town endowed with our personal feminist characteristics. Then, at some point, we divided as our playtime interred with our work time and five years passed. As it happens during Covid- we recall the best times of our lives. Pandora heard the calling and left me a voice message. Oh, how I rehearsed what I would say, and how much I missed her, in between visual images of us, at the La Fonda Hotel, La Posada, and Santa Cafรฉ. For one of my birthdays, she arrived with balloons, flowers, champagne, and a bag of presents, that reminded me of my childhood indulgences. I called her back within the hour. Our bookends opened to our shared memories and we both admitted we regretted we let responsibilities divide us. Now, Pandora is within my life and mine in hers. I told her, โI donโt care what happens between us, Iโm not going anywhere. โ
Photo Pandora with her therapy poodle, Pumpkin visiting patients a at a Santa Fe Hospital. Her blazing compassion for anyone suffering.
When September arrived, the leaves dropped like tears from the trees. I watched from my window, this shedding of a season, and began packing up the summer clothes. As I pulled out the sweaterโs boots, hats, gloves, and warm-ups with regret and stubbornness, I am not prepared for a third winter alone. Maybe it will be like this for the rest of my life. These invective fears permeate throughout my days and nights. What I asked for as a writer was time alone, now I have it.
Hours passed like waiting in line in my own mind, how to shift from this sentiment to something promising. I switched from news to emails to social media and then I noticed a comment from a student on Classmates. Com. I am a member as a graduate of University High School in Los Angeles.
We were the graduating class of 1971, one thousand students from the Westside. Some classmates lived so close I walked there after school, some from wealthy influential parents, some in the film business, and some from blue-collar families, We did not judge by color, income, or politics, we just accepted one another. I don’t recall any arguments, attacks, insults, or violence, high school was our second home. I remember the beautiful botanical gardens, the dance studio, the football field, and the front lawn where my gang hung out during lunch or after school.
The comments were touching and so I responded back. I remembered this secret admirer from Junior High and High School. He had a distinctive style, part trendy part individual, he wore hats and paisley shirts, his stride was fast-paced, his hair brown, long and thick that framed a beautiful masculine jawline. He laughed with gusto, his voice was theatrical in tone as it was at one moment pensive and the next comical. He was not part of one particular gang of friends but moved like a party host between many of the circles. To be continued.
What I think of at three in the morning is never the same at ten o’clock in the morning. The labyrinth of safety and comfort, colliding with the unknown darkness, seems to be the most revealing of emotions. It is also a time that spirals into visual realizations, recognitions, and a time when our mirrors move toward us. Tonight, is about friends.
Friends are bookends that bind our stories; some novellas, some poems, some cinematic, each friend s serves as a bookend to our personal history. When Iโve lost my way and need direction my friends motorize me like a little engine, and when I fly without wings, they ring the bell to come down to earth. At times, arguments arise and my friendships stray, but true-life friends never leave you behind. Sometimes years may pass, and then one day you get a call or an email or send one yourself, and the flushing of that particular squabble in history vanishes. You can start anew; at the same time, it is not.
The essence of friendship never burns out, it is our galaxy, a kind of celestial agility.
Are you experiencing a startling outpouring from friends whoโve left your life only to suddenly show up on your social media or a personal email? Are your friends calling and writing more often than pre-Covid? I’m always examining some unfamiliar events in life, a new trend, a cultural change. We have that now, and conversation, as it has leaped from let’s just talk to all the, don’t go there subjects of 2020. Seems like every topic can be mixed with politics, sometimes the mixture is explosive. Iโve halted the political discussions and so have my friends as they are more important to my livingness than politics.
These new threads of friendship began with a young man I dated when we were in our mid-twenties. He was developing into a businessman, the world was not far from his scope, I on the other hand was cradled by my father’s demands, my freedom limited. Our short story ended; the bookends shelved until one day he sent a message on Facebook with his phone number. The last time Iโd seen him was around nineteen-seventy-three. I paddled through the well of memories; his image materialized, he was smiling, joking, driving me around, going places. I could be passive with him; he was a trailblazer. I was content to be in the company of a man who was fearless, exploratory, and a gentleman. Our first phone call lasted a long while because youthful history is crystallized and reigns over the years missed. I find it problematic especially during this pandemic to form new friendships, so the friendship of the past rises like warm muffins in the oven.
In May as the spring yearned to rise from the winter, I received an email that flowered my childhood. Bonny, my playmate, throughout elementary school, as Brownies and Girl Scouts, as synagogue attending students and mischievous little girls who wanted to be dancers, me in Jazz and Bonny in Ballet. She lived just across the street from Bellagio Road school and our escapades often took place in her home. I remember the black and white tile floor, streams of sunlight over the grand piano where her father played and Bonny practiced ballet technique. Even at the age, her discipline and dedication were remarkably striking.
Bonny Bourne Singer
After exchanging emails we had a phone call. The last time Iโd seen Bonny was in the 7th grade, bookends that yielded to fifty-four years. Our conversation began in yelps of laughter, astonishment, excitement and the pages of our story flipped from her career with the New York City Ballet, and the San Francisco Ballet, to her marriage and children, and then to her Mother.
โLuellen, hold on my mother is nudging me to give her the phone.โ
As soon as I heard her say, โSweetheart,โ her name came back to me.
โRose! oh my, this is unbelievable. I am so happy Bonny contacted me after reading my book.
โI just finished it. I loved it.โ
โThank you, Rose, I have a question–do you remember much about my Mother?โ Youโre the only one still alive that knew her.
โDarling, a day didnโt go by that we didnโt talk on the phone. She was such a beautiful person.โ
Tears blurred my sight as we walked through some memories. The fifty-four-year absence seemed like five. Since that first conversation, we now speak every few weeks, send emails, photos and our friendship is as sustainable as if we were ten years old.
Sometimes friends get into disputes, not verbal arguments, just an interruption caused by events or circumstances that override the friendship. My closest friend in Santa Fe, Iโve coined Pandora and I relinquished our friendship because of our raucousness when we were serenading downtown Santa Fe. Pandora and I recently liberated from dower circumstances clicked our heels, held hands and skipped through town endowed with our personal feminist characteristics. Then, at some point, we divided as our playtime interred with our work time and five years passed. As it happens during Covid- we recall the best times of our lives. Pandora heard the calling and left me a voice message. Oh, how I rehearsed what I would say, and how much I missed her, in between visual images of us, at the La Fonda Hotel, La Posada, and Santa Cafรฉ. For one of my birthdays, she arrived with balloons, flowers, champagne, and a bag of presents, that reminded me of my childhood indulgences. I called her back within the hour. Our bookends opened to our shared memories and we both admitted we regretted we let responsibilities divide us. Now, Pandora is within my life and mine in hers. I told her, โI donโt care what happens between us, Iโm not going anywhere. โ
Photo Pandora with her therapy poodle, Pumpkin visiting patients a at a Santa Fe Hospital. Her blazing compassion for anyone suffering.
When September arrived, the leaves dropped like tears from the trees. I watched from my window, this shedding of a season, and began packing up the summer clothes. As I pulled out the sweaterโs boots, hats, gloves, and warm-ups with regret and stubbornness, I am not prepared for a third winter alone. Maybe it will be like this for the rest of my life. These invective fears permeate throughout my days and nights. What I asked for as a writer was time alone, now I have it.
Hours passed like waiting in line in my own mind, how to shift from this sentiment to something promising. I switched from news to emails to social media and then I noticed a comment from a student on Classmates. Com. I am a member as a graduate of University High School in Los Angeles.
We were the graduating class of 1971, one thousand students from the Westside. Some classmates lived so close I walked there after school, some from wealthy influential parents, some in the film business, and some from blue-collar families, We did not judge by color, income, or politics, we just accepted one another. I don’t recall any arguments, attacks, insults, or violence, high school was our second home. I remember the beautiful botanical gardens, the dance studio, the football field, and the front lawn where my gang hung out during lunch or after school.
The comments were touching and so I responded back. I remembered this secret admirer from Junior High and High School. He had a distinctive style, part trendy part individual, he wore hats and paisley shirts, his stride was fast-paced, his hair brown, long and thick that framed a beautiful masculine jawline. He laughed with gusto, his voice was theatrical in tone as it was at one moment pensive and the next comical. He was not part of one particular gang of friends but moved like a party host between many of the circles. To be continued.
“Did you want to be like the people in Rancho Santa Fe?โ
He laughed out loud and said, โI donโt want to be what Iโm not. I am the happiest man alive.โ
โTell me again why you are so happy?โ
โI told you about when I was stuck in Buna– I made a vow to God that if I got out of there alive, Iโd never complain about life again
โYou kept your promise.โ
โ Yes, and I have the most wonderful friends in the worldโand youโre one of them.โ I gave him a hug and a kiss and asked him to tell me more about his life in Solana Beach.
โ Was your wife happy too?โ
โ Oh yes.โ
โ How long were you married?” I asked.
โ My wife and I were married fifty years, nineteen forty-one until she passed away.
She was so good to me when I come back from the war. I used to get up in the middle of the night and wander around, didn’t know where I was and she always got up with me. I had bad dreams and got lost, didn’t know where I was, and would hide in the closet. She was so careful with me. I just didn’t know what I was doing like spilling things at the table, and not remembering things she told me. It went on for a long while, but she never got angry or lost her temper. She was so good, and after I got better, we started having fun again, and we were doing good. I was at the dairy and they bought me the house on Barbara Street.โ
โ The dairy bought it for you?” I interrupted.
โYeah, 208 Barbara, that was it. We lived in that little house while I worked at the dairy– I worked seven days a week, from midnight until noon, then I’d have my lunch and rest awhile. Then we might go out and we’d party. “
โ Before you went to work?โ
โ Oh yeah, it was the only time we had together.”
โ I feel like a wimp,” I mumbled.
โ Well, you work hard, and I don’t know it just seems people need more sleep today or something, I don’t know what it is.”
“ We haven’t been in a war.”
” Maybe so. I think people seem to marry for different reasons these days. Janet and I had the same background, we both knew what hard work was about. She didn’t complain, she was very good with money, she wrote down everything we spent. I guess we were lucky.”
โ I think itโs more than luck, you appreciate life every day,” I said.
โ I do, like you too, I am so glad you are my friends, and we can sit here and talk and have such good times.”
Then Rudy took my hand, and apologized for shouting at me earlier about not turning the hose off all the way. He said he wanted to take me out for dinner because he felt so bad. Maurice grinned, and I gave him a hug and a kiss. He went into the back and came back with a little bouquet of sweet peas for me.
โ These are for you,” he said.
โ Oh Maurice, youโre making me feel terrible,โ Rudy said in jest.
โ I donโt mean to, itโs just that I love women so much. I told my wife every day, every morning she woke up I told her I loved her. We never went to bed angry.”
The house Maurice lives in and has lived in since 1950, is a tidy two-bedroom farmhouse. The house is painted white, with black shutters framing the front windows.
Tucked in the front entrance on one side are a twisted juniper and the other side a bush of poinsettia. He planted roses and hollyhocks and a few more varieties that were always postcard perfect. The porch out front changes with the season. The first year we met Maurice placed a sofa on the porch and two chairs. When Rudy and I stopped at the end of the day, Maurice would be outside sitting in the rocking chair, his hair still wet from his shower, and in his hand a jigger of Jack Daniel’s. In the front room, Maurice covered the walls with mementos and pictures of his friends. He didn’t hang any paintings of any kind, so when you sat on the couch and looked around you were looking at his life. He has a television and watches the news, old westerns, and the country music station. He especially likes the rodeo shows. He has remarked on occasion that he thinks television is very bad for you. His old sofa so worn from visitors when I sit down next to Maurice I sort of fall into his lap. We sit so close, unlike we do now in these large stiff hi-tech furnishings. In front of the sofa is a long glass coffee table, one of Rudy’s favorite stops as he walks in the door. He dives for the peanuts and the chocolates. There are always treats on the table, and you will not wait long before Maurice goes into the kitchen and brings back a plate of home-made pickles.
The first time Rudy ate his pickles, he yelled out, โ Damn Maurice, these are incredible I could eat a whole jar!โ So Maurice went in the back and brought out a jar of his homegrown pickles. The kitchen is small and in the corner is a antique table where he keeps his baking utensils and one chair. He has a collection of antique jars and cooking tools on a shelf that whines around the kitchen ceiling. His refrigerator is an adventure in itself, shelves are packed with wrapped leftovers, sauces, meats, cheeses, and vegetables, so packed that on several occasions when I tried to put something back in I couldn’t find an empty place for it. Naturally, he uses a gas stove but growing up in Iowa all they had was a wood-burning stove. In the hallway, the walls are framed with more friends and family. There is one beautiful girl, that seems to be in every room. When I asked who she was Maurice replied, โ Thatโs Linda. She’s my sweetheart.”
From the photographs we learned all about Maurice’s life; his mother and father, brother and sister, his wife, Janet, his grandpa and grandma, and the hundreds of people in between. His home is a storybook, all you need to know about Maurice is revealed unaltered.
His bedroom is at the end of the hallway by the back door. His bed is covered with a handmade quilt and about twenty decorative pillows. The bathroom is very colorful with green and red towels, and more photographs of Linda. Then he opens the screen door to the backyard.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย Maurice did things for us that no one had. It started with small gestures, like inviting us inside every time we passed by his house. Even if he was on his way to deliver furniture he’d scuttle to the kitchen and give us homegrown tomatoes, and oranges, or hand me a bouquet from his flower garden. ย These were the early years of my story submission rejections. ย I was so consumed with rejection that the only person in the world that made me feel human was Maurice. He didnโt understand what my torment was about, but he knew how to make it go away.ย Sometimes all it took was a big hug and a kiss. Maurice always met me with a hug and kiss, though I didnโt realize at the time how much he knew what I needed.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย That Christmas I felt the spirit because of Maurice. I went to Sav-On and collected a basket of decorations, and though we had no room for a tree, I did what I could. Instead of wishing I could dash into Nordstroms and shop like a madwoman, I dug a little deeper and searched for appreciation gifts for friends.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย By the time the season had ended, I was fixated on Maurice. It is strange to write about him now.ย The story I wanted to write was about Del Mar, and Solana Beach, California during the thirties and forties.ย I searched the indexes of the Del Mar Library and the local bookstores and shared the antiquities with Maurice.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย We were sitting on his cushy pillowed sofa one evening in 1994, sipping chilled southern comfort, and snacking on saltine crackers and cheese. There is always a subject of interest with Maurice. He is seventy-five years old, lean and tough as a stalk of corn, with blue eyes that twinkle even if he’s not in the light. His wealth came from the uniqueness of how he lived.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โTell me what you remember about Del Mar.โ
Old Del Mar.
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โOh so many good times, not like it is today. I knew just about everybody, we were like a family.โย Sometimes Maurice shared memories while driving around Del Mar and Solana Beach. ย Suddenly he would start talking, ย and Iโd would listen with childlike curiosity. I recall one evening at the old Cilantro Restaurant while having dinner with Maurice.ย We sat at a table facing the Rancho Santa Fe Polo field.ย Maurice began to tell me how it used to be.ย Rancho Santa Fe
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โI used to plow those fields there, all the way up to where the hills begin. ย I worked out there all day, and I loved it. That land belonged to the Conleys’. I remember that the whole field was underwater for one year. Hard to believe–but it was.”ย
ย ย ย ย ย โYou plowed?โ
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โSure I did! I was a farmer, a dairy farmer, and I delivered milk to Bing Crosby and Dixie Lee.ย I rememberย Christmas she comes out and gives me some extra money.–I always loved going there at Christmas. They was always so nice to me, you know. The Conley’s had a hog ranch, they were the ones I worked for. The year it flooded from El Camino Real to the racetrack we lost a bunch of pigs and a cow under the bridge.ย It only happened twice that I know of.”ย ย ย
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย โ What was Rancho Santa Fe like back then, when you were a farmer?”ย ย
ย ย ย ย ย “Well, it was different than today, then it was rich people, I mean really rich.ย I don’t know where they got their money but they had everything–you know expensive cars, cooks, and maids.โ Maurice chuckled, โ I couldn’t understand what the cook did all day. The man my wife worked for, Ronald McDonald, he had a butler, maid, cook, and a big house, a really nice house. But today, anyone can live there, people who just inherited a lot of money.ย There was just a few families back then– everyone knew who they was. One time a young girl who lived up there was stuck on the road–her car broke down, so I drove her home. You did things like that. There were two really well-known families there, the Clotfelters were one, they had a son, Tom. He stopped by my house at Christmas and brought me a fish, he liked to fish.ย ย The other big family was Avery, he had everything. He used to get jobs for the Mexicans in the Ranch. Everyone knew him, he kind of ran the whole town, was really active in the community.ย Another fellow, Joe White, went around to the homes and put in the meters for the water district. We used to play cards with him and his wife, Marilyn– have a few drinks and have a such a good time. ”ย Maurice stopped and shaking his head remarked that there were so many wonderful people in his life, and how lucky he was to live in Solana Beach.
Downtown Rancho Santa Fe.ย
ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย ย The Rancho Santa Fe I knew began when Iย moved there in nineteen-eighty-three. It was a place you heard of right away, and so I drove up to take a look around. Like thousands of others before me, I dreamt of living in the Ranch under a canopy of Eucalyptus trees with a horse stable and a grove of oranges. It was a blissful place to drive on a Sunday afternoon, very few cars on the road and the homes bathed in sunlight. But when I walked down Paseo Delicias, the main road in the village, ย I felt like an outsider. I did not feel that detachment in Del Mar, or Solana Beach, or even La Jolla. But the Ranch has eyes, it seemed to single you out and therefore no one on the inside made contact with you. You could dine at the charming Mille Fleurs and drop a few hundred dollars but you would not be invited to mingle. I asked Maurice if he wanted to live in the Ranch. His expression was curious as if I was pulling his leg.
Old Del Mar.
Rancho Santa Fe
ADVENTURERS IN LIVINGNESS 