PRACTICE
Write about California, your personal experiences with the Golden State or your perceptions of it.
Write for fifteen minutes. When your time is up, post your practice in the comments section. And if you post, be sure to give feedback on a few practices by other writers.
Enjoy!
Photo by Darwin Bell
My Practice
We drive to San Francisco on the 5, the windows down, the wind rolling over our the skin of our arms so they look like rolling grasslands, in our hair making it wiry with dust, in our eyes so we squint when we look at the gold horizons. We do not wear sunglasses. We remember what it was like to drive like this at 17, looking down the road invincible and haughty over all mankind. We miss that feeling of conquering deserts, of conquering roads. The difference between 17 and 27 is we are no longer naive enough to think your weaknesses will be overlooked and our strengths will be admired and our courage will be unfaltering. We miss feeling invincible. Wisdom comes with weakness. But there is still this fleeting vapor of youth and so we will soak in it. We scream rebellion songs going too fast on California highways and dream of all the ways our lives could change in a moment and yet when we arrive in the city we are once again adults, knowing who we are, unchanging and vulnerable to the world.
I saw it first very early in the morning and the sky had not climbed the sky. It sent shards of light into the sea which seeped away into the depths. I stood on a hill and I looked it with eyes that saw the intention. To get to the other side was surely the intention but I did not believe that intention. I believed in different intentions and those were locked in streams of light and shiny steel shapes that carved a frame in the sky. I wasn’t interested in the other side. I wasn’t even interested on stepping one foot on it. All I wanted to do was stand on the hill and look.
As the sun climbed the sky the noise began to take hold of the air and the whizzing dots began to cross and cross and cross. I ignored the whizzing dots and looked to the frame to guide my eyes into every small space and round every corner. The story of the picture was framed so well that the whizzing dots disappeared from view and I was, once again, reunited with my shards of light. Now they were bouncing off the sea with feelings of a day well begun.
I stood and looked and then I walked away. The next day I crossed the bridge.
vivid pictures – your words are paintbrushes. thank you
Thank you so much Jenny. X
Beautiful way to look at a bridge.
Thank you. That bridge has a special place in my heart.
Isn’t it when you take the time to look very closely at something, and try to distil it’s essence, as it were, that you pick up dimensions that a cursory glance overlooks?
Yes, I agree totally. It may have been 20 years ago but I remember it as if it was yesterday.
Thanks Fiona.
I went to California with my mother. She was already quite
old – in her eighties. She wanted to attend a conference on Edward De Vere, 17th
Earl of Oxford, who some people believe wrote Shakespeare. I went to keep her
company. We stayed with a friend of hers who lived in Pasadena. If I had gone
with people who weren’t so old, my experience would have been very different.
As it was, I had to stay close to them and do the kind of things they liked. It
felt a bit like being at boarding school. I wanted to escape and explore on my
own but I only got one afternoon to do that. I wandered into the town and
discovered Fisherman’s Wharf. Although it was quite touristy, I enjoyed the
buskers. I met a lovely old man who played blues guitar. He sang, Sitting on
the Dock of the Bay for me. I bought his cd. I’ve always loved American Blues
since my brother played me John Lee Hooker when I was about 8. This old man was
the closest I’d get. He looked similar, sounded similar and had a lovely slow, silky
way of talking which, being English, I don’t often get to hear. When on holiday
I am always curious about the toilets (known in the US as bathrooms for some
strange reason). So I was very pleased to find a beautiful public toilet beside a lovely manmade water theatre place
on the bay. I took a photo. I wandered on and came to some quays where ships
had taken off to supply the forces in the Second World War. I had gone there to
find a Buddhist vegetarian restaurant which was a bit disappointing, as was a
second hand bookshop nearby. I felt like I was in some kind of pseudo Ernest
Hemingway pose and I don’t much like his writing anyway. Eventually it was time
to go home and I was to meet my mother and her friend at the Top of the Mark.
He liked it because he’d drunk there with his comrades during the war. I liked
it because the view was stunning. It is a small bar with plants and great views
at the top of a tall hotel. I was on my way, wandering past Chinese shops when
I realised I was going to be late. Luckily the driver of a stretched limo was
offering rides at hardly more than the price of a bus fare. So I squeezed into
the stretched limo (I’ve never been in one before or since) with women carrying
their shopping home and old ladies who’d already found it was a comfortable way
to get home.
The only other time I got to go out without the oldies was
to a lecture on basket weaving given my some Native American women. I had seen
it advertised in the local paper. It was fascinating. They showed slides of
collecting the grasses and other things they wove with. But the most
interesting thing was the people. I had no idea that there are still Native
Americans living in California who speak other native languages before English.
I had expected them to all be thoroughly Americanised by now. Despite all the
things that had happened, they continued, or that’s the impression I got, to
live with the same beliefs, attitudes, language, jokes, as outsiders to these
weird foreigners.
I did get to look at the Golden Gate Bridge and was amazed.
It is beautiful on a sunny day.
Your writing is delightfully lyrical, thank you!
Boy! How cool a trip it was! The public toilet . . . the basket weaving, what a hoot! And traveling with women in their 80s can be a real experience. I wonder if, when I’m in my 80s, I will be as difficult to be around as my mother and her friends. Good story!
Traveling Through
Sunset. My birthday. The Big Sur area. It was the beginning of my 41st year, and I was surrounded by my favorites. Hubby and five kids. And we were on vacation. A two week dream trip from Northern to Southern Cali.
The sun was melting into the painted sky as I glimpsed the beach scattered with huge rocks. These huge rocks happened to be a noisy family of Elephant Seals. We’d stopped at the tourist stop to see them earlier, about five hours before, and found nothing.
And here we were. Looking for a place to stay the night, as the sun was tucking in, and we got this gift. We got out, the kids ran to the siting of this large, extremely loud and rambunctious family of seals.
There’s nothing better than finding animals in their natural environment. That’s how I felt. Natural. In the environment that was made for me. I’d been a mom for over 15 years and a wife for 21.
This gift, of being with my large, loud, and loving family – this was mine for the receiving. And it was in California that I got to treasure 14 days of it – uninterrupted, totally natural, not at all fabricated – time together.
Elephant Seals were just a small part of the trip. But they were for me, a reminder, that surprises are around every turn. How many beach photos had I taken that day? We’d stopped along cliffs and untouched beaches for 200 miles or more.
Winding. Finding. Treasuring. Measuring. Moments of glory. Captured in a 12 passenger van. Full of 7 members. But one unit.
We rode. We discovered.
We looked. We uncovered.
14 days of just us time.
14 days of economical Pizza My Heart and waters.
14 days of connection – sometimes too close – and never close enough.
Those Elephant Seals performed for us that night. It was if we were the audience they’d been waiting for all day. The dance into the water.
Loafing forward. Launching bodies around to close out their day.
And we got to finish with them. As we watched the night get darker, my heart grew lighter.
These are the candid moments. The polaroid shots. I won’t forget them. With only two summers left with our oldest, these trips matter even more. The discovering of animals in their natural environments – the uncovering of love tangled deeper within our 12 passenger van – the knowing of one another better than any other gets privileged to in life – this is what I want to hold onto.
Painted skies.
Undiscovered beaches.
Lazy drives – no timelines – just making time last longer.
Elephant seals.
Screeching calls to each other.
Knowing that we get to keep calling – even when the sun goes down in California. It’s coming up again.
And we drive further down the coast. See what we can. Do what we do.
Be who we are.
Family. Vacationers. Memory Makers – in a world left wide open – for our eyes and our hearts – as one – we travel together.
I love the feeling of family that sings out from your piece.
so thankful you’ve made such wonderful memories!
MARMALADE by Cindy Trane Christeson
It was embarrassing to be the only one in the family who didn’t like orange marmalade when staying at my cousin’s ranch in Irvine, California. I should
mention that they owned an orange grove, lived in a ranch-style house smack dab in the middle of acres and acres of orange trees, and life was about
oranges. I should also mention that this was in the 60’s, when orange groves were a common feature in Orange County.
Whenever I spent the night there, I was wakened early by the sounds of a family that woke up early. Always. Maybe they allowed themselves to sleep in early on a Sunday, but I don’t think I was ever there on that particular day.
My aunt and uncle owned a large orange ranch and kept rancher’s
hours. I’m not even sure there were curtains on the windows, because it seemed like we woke up with the sun. Or at least, all of them did, and they were
patient with me when I was consistently the last one up whenever I was a
houseguest.
The nights were especially dark there, and quiet. There were no
neighbors nearby, and no streetlights anywhere close, so therefore, there were
no lights, other than the bright stars that dotted the black sky. The nights were mostly quiet, other than unfamiliar noises. The most unusual
sound, sight and smell came from the smudge pots Uncle Bob used whenever it
looked like the temperatures were dropping enough to cause dangerous frost that could damage the precious oranges.
And oranges were everything. Whenever I did make it to the busy kitchen in
the morning, I was handed fresh squeezed orange juice, and was seated at a
table overflowing with fresh oranges and toast swimming in butter. What’s not to love about that? But no matter how much I tried, I never connected with the orange marmalade that was the family favorite. Granted, it was pretty, but it was too bitter for me, and I didn’t like the orange peel. I could sometimes manage to escape the marmalade at breakfast, but it was likely to appear hours later in a sandwich.
Even one of the cats that roamed the large ranch was named “Marmalade.”
I have wonderful memories of the freedom and space we had as children romping through the endless rows of orange groves. I
remember the fun of staying at Aunt Nancy and Uncle Bob’s, and playing with my cousins in all that openness and wonder.
Whenever I’m at a restaurant where there are little jars of different
jams to choose from, I always pick up and gaze at the speckled orange fruit
preserve, turn the jar around again and again, and remember.
Thanks for this peek into a way of life that’s gone now. Hardly any orange groves anymore in Orange County, none in fact, except for the trees growing in the backyards. I do love a good marmalade though. Yum!
That’s always the problem with living in a desirable part of the country. Soon everyone else moves in and everything gets covered in concrete.
Maybe that’s why we need to keep writing, to help people ‘see’ what we saw!
That’s a good reminder for all of us to write and share early memories, so those who follow can understand the history of places better.
I like the image I see (in my mind) when you talk about the marmalade in the jar with the little pieces of orange rind! And I can almost smell the smudge pots burning!!
I think I’d take the fragrance of the marmalade over the smudge pot!
I love orange marmalade and sugared orange peel dipped in chocolate. At my favorite restaurant in Hermanus, South Africa, the chef always brings me extra sugared orange peel, after lunch. She knows about my love for it. The oranges in Valencia, Spain, is mouthwateringly good, bursting with flavor and juice. I make my own sugared peel then…so your story brought back memories of visiting friends’s orange farm in the Transvaal, South Africa. They grew tobacco and oranges… good times those…thank you for stirring my memory, Cindy.
Patricia, Mojito and Me
You’re welcome, and thank you Patricia for letting me hear about other orange delectables…some that I’ve never even heard of! It sounds like you travel quite a bit – you must have many surprising foods and stories to share!
Cindy, traveling quite a bit is an understatement…travel a lot more like it..My spouse and I have been constantly traveling since 2009, sailing our boat and when not doing that, road-trips. I just wish I started writing then too.
Patricia, there’s no time like the present! I hadn’t thought about orange groves or marmalade in eons, but it all came flooding back (or at least enough of it did to write about!) and I’m sure you have many wonderful recollections to share! What amazing travels you must have had! Let us know more!
Hi Cindy, my blog is 3 months old, I post at least 4x a week on our travels and I’ve posted old emails and stories there too. http://mojitoandme.com
The stories I write is based on experiences and I have had many. Stories like buying a boat, then learning to sail, mutiny by the male crew as I crossed the Atlantic, seeing amazing wild life like orca whales..it’s a long list.
We are now sailing in Sardinia. Since April we sailed the Spanish, French & Italian coasts to Livorno. Then the Tuscan Islands, Elba and Corsica. Busy life…LOL
Thanks for sharing your memory. I have to admit, I lived in Florida and lived near orange groves.
When I was a kid orange marmalade made me yak. I think it was the bitterness or perhaps the texture? But now as an adult I like it. Perhaps you should give it another chance? Orange marmalade chicken is one of my favorites now.
I wonder how many people from California remember the famous Ambassador Inn. No? Well, it may not be famous to you, but for a couple of years that hovered around her ratty divorce from my dad, my mother bounced us kids from one southern California Ambassador Inn to the other, so it will always be famous to me.
The Inns were a chain, and so had consistent elements like lush landscaping, a sparkling pool and a steamy Jacuzzi. The rooms or suites were always move-in ready with “70’s motel chic” furniture (think lots of laminated everything with accents of mustard yellow and avocado green), shag carpeting, and sometimes even a phone. Since our lifestyle had changed so drastically overnight, things like a telephone, a TV or a car were all relegated to the “luxury” category, and it would stay that way for years.
Not to overstate the importance of any of those things – there were greater losses – losses that took some time to recognize and then even longer to overcome, but nothing fatal in the end. And I never should have worried. Somewhere along the line I learned or was taught: it comes around again: the joy, the peace, the excitement, the wonder. They come around again, when we let them.
Yet for that piece of our shared history, there we were, my two older brothers and I, lounging around at casually cozy Ambassador Inns, essentially fatherless but rich with cool water, color TV, palm trees, the Eagles, the evening breeze, Coke Slurpees, an endless stream of neighbors (many also in some type of transition) and each other. It was an uncomplicated life while it lasted, and at the Inns a potentially traumatic period of upheaval was punctuated with moments of grace and peace and lots of swimming. And nothing beats California for grace and peace and swimming.
You masterfully show the benevolent grace of the mundane. I love how you have imbued this story of deprivation and upheaval with a glow of luxury. I wonder what a first person account from your childhood point of view might sound. I think it would a great story. The innocent perspective combined with what you know about the situation from the distance of years and experience could be very interesting.
Well written, and poignant. It also sounds like you learned how to find the joy, peace, excitement and wonder along the way.
This is an unusual way of looking at what should be a “hole” in life. Instead, you’ve made us see the doughnut. Love it.
I have not been back to California in many years, though I grew up there, in the golden valley amid the heat and smog and long dry summers. The place I live now has short summers and almost no heat or dryness to it. It is wet and green most of the year, like some places in California I lived for a while, like Humboldt County in the fog rolled hills. I cannot say I miss the 100 plus degree days where getting in the car was an exercise in trying not to touch any dark surface. Now when I leave my car sitting in the sun, it is a little warm, but I will be able to touch anything without fear of burning myself. And then there’s the constant threat of fire with air so dry and a breeze is just hot air moving.
“At least it’s a dry heat,” people say.
Well I say, to hell with that, dry heat maybe better but it still lethal if you have to move around in it at all.
Today, after nearly being squished like a bug trying to exit Interstate 5, it hit me: I don’t like it here. I never dreamed the words would leave my mouth, but I just flat don’t like California anymore.
This whole experience has been a weird one as of late. Reality is being unveiled. Velvet and I have always loved San Diego and SoCal. We have history here. Good history, bittersweet history, and awesome experiences. All of which happened while not actually living here.
When we vacationed this area in the past, we would, without fail, begin to plot our move here. At one point, three years ago, we even considered dropping everything to move here on a whim (who does that?!). Instead, we returned to our lives in Sterling and longed to be in San Diego.
I should have known better, but vacationing and living are two very different things. Paradigms and attitudes are different. Life is different. Reality is not present on vacation. We are not on vacation anymore and it’sーdifferent.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s absolutely beautiful in San Diego, and the weather is second to none. The ocean…incredible. Breathtaking. So what’s the problem?
The people.
Yes, the people are the problem. And I’m not saying they’re all bad (love you Billy and Clint), there’s just too stinking many of them! First, the congestion here is simply remarkableーtruly unbelievable. Where the hell are you all going at Midnight on a Thursday?! There are people and cars EVERYWHERE!
Space is at a premium. This not only applies to vehicles, but also extends to homes and businesses. Everything is compact. Case in point: The cereal isle. In Sterling the cereal isle at the grocery store is large enough to host an NFL game. In SoCal? Not so much. This may not seem like a big deal… until you can’t find your Bran Flakesーat two storesーbecause they simply don’t have room to stock them. Yes, I’m an emotional eater (don’t judge me), and I need those little flakes.
I’ve also found people are unwilling, or perhaps unable (due to having gone insane during their commute) to take time for each other. Compassion here, lest it just missed me, is void. People do not take time for one another. “Oh, so you and your Colorado plated minivan want to cross 58 lanes of gridlock traffic to exit? Too bad white boy!” I literally have to pull beside the car next to me with a crazed look in my eye in order to get over. For the love people, let me merge!!
Then there’s the places of business and their customer (dis)service. Again, I’ve found people don’t take time for one another. I liken this experience to, brace yourself: The DMV. Yes, it’s really that bad. Let me illustrate: Yesterday, Velvie and I set out on a mission to get a document notarized. Presumably an easy task in a metropolitan area in excess of 3 million people. Think again.
We are recent Wells Fargo customers (I miss you Equitable Savings and Loan) and I (mis)figured they would be able to notarized our document. I first stopped at the closest Wells Fargo to our RV. No dice. They didn’t have a notary, but suggested another branch across town. I called that branch three times and received no answer. So I drove there, a harrowing experience down Interstate 8 (think The Fast and the Furious in a minivan), only to be turned away again.
I drove to yet another Wells Fargo, even further down I8, and was told an appointment is required. What’s notable is that the Wells Fargo notary, Maleficent, spent more time rudely telling us we needed an appointment than it would have required to notarized our document. Lady, just friggin’ watch me sign this piece of paper already!
Our document is still not notarized.
I guess I’ll step down from my soapbox; I feel better now. I too now understand why many are flocking out of California. The brochure looked sooo good, but it lacks peace and privacy. It lacks a pace that makes it possible to care about humanity. People get left in the dust and I don’t like that. I want someone to care that I need to change lanes to exit. I want someone to watch me sign a piece of paperーand ask me how my drive was. And most of all, I want a bowl of friggin’ Bran Flakes.
Jim
http://www.colemanstyle.com
Jim,
I feel that way about Florida (which is part of the reason I left.) So many folks came to the land of Milk and the Mouse House only to learn that streets are not paved in gold. I don’t mind visiting (CA or FL) but I never want a zip code in either state.
I took the Greyhound from somewhere in Oregon. Sat next to a guy wearing a gray striped t shirt. He had a buzz cut and a shadow of a mustache. Every so often he would bend over and retrieve something from a faded red backpack wedged between his ankles, something he wanted to share with me, a squashed sandwich or a photo of his family.
We stopped once in the middle of the night and I got out of the bus and walked to the edge of a cliff in the dark. I had no idea where I was. It was so black that I could hardly even see the ocean below me. Maybe a hundred feet down, maybe more. I could just hear the crashing of the surf and occasionally glimpse the foam of a wave breaking over rocks. No one else left the bus. I could see heads leaned against the windows, lit by the glow of occasional reading lights, in various postures of uncomfortable sleep. The world seemed very empty, but I liked it that way.
We drove on into the next day and through it. The dusk came again as we crossed the border into California, leaving just a slit of silver over the Pacific. My companion finally fell asleep. I enjoyed the peace. I hoped he wouldn’t wake again anytime soon. His constant commentary on the passing scenery, the way he touched me on the elbow to draw my attention, both annoyed and embarassed me. His observations seemed to me to be of the most banal kind and jarred with the thoughts in my head, brilliant thoughts of eternity and youth.
I decided to get off at the next stop, wherever it was. I wanted to see the redwoods in the daylight. I figured we’d take another day to get there by which time night would have fallen again. But also, I had to get away from this man and what I supposed were his lonely attempts to befriend me.
I had two dollars in my pocket. And looking back, I know I was young. The horizon was empty and, then, I had no need for another soul. Not another soul in the whole, new world.
This passage shows so much by saying so litle. ‘It was so black that I could hardly even see the ocean below me.’
You describe the feelings I have when I travel on a long-distance bus, which is often. It’s the journey, not the destination that counts. The stranger next to you striking up a conversation, or trying to, the urge to escape out of the steel cocoon you’re trapped in and be part of the world you’re passing and leaving behind you, like a missed opportunity.
Thanks for commenting Winnie. I’m glad this was your reaction to my words, because that was exactly the impression I was trying to give. Obviously we are both very intuitive, sensitive people 😉
It was a pleasure. I think we’ve read and heard so much about California we only need little prompts to bring up the picture in our minds.
Thanks for the last comment!
Wonderful images in my mind of the trip. I can see the family photos and the faded red bag. I can hear the crashing waves in the dark and feel the peace of the alone-ness you experienced.
California to me seems the place where dreams go to sell their souls and become real. A giant state, filled with the dreams of so many. It floods the world with its glamour and its stories of rags-to-riches-, fish-out-of-water, slapstick and romance with kisses from dentally-perfected
mouths. We all know it is not true. But we love to watch and we love to visit, taking excited photos of ourselves before we return to the real world.
I want to know the other dreams in California. The ones that chase a different kind of ideal and who will never see their stories digitised into Blu-Ray high definition format. The poor locked down in Los Angeles neighbourhoods that seem to have been systematically designed as quarantine from the rest of the city. The Hispanics that look West for a life less interfered with, for streets where they can hear their language running like a stream past their ears. The Iranians whose parents now live in limbo, having made a home whilst crossing their fingers that they might soon leave.
Go to California. It has sun and people that will listen to your speel, decide that they like you and fix you up, give you a makeover and that much-needed venture capital. Or if this doesn’t work, move to a less-expensive neighbourhood. Stay for the sun and the thousands of others just like you.
Where dreams go to sell the souls … This is such an amazing sentence Carmen. It truly captures that half-real wondrous quality of the place, its Hollywoody, theme-park ambiance. Your second paragraph abou the transience of the place and how it’s home yet not home for migrants really resonates with me too.
You’ve got it!
Thank you oddznns those were really lovely comments 🙂
It was the freeway I couldn’t bear. Not that I knew that then. Then, it was just something I had to do like everyone else in Greater LA. An hour from Long Beach to Santa Monica, an hour back.
It was only the last 3 months of my time in California that I began to resent the drive. That was when I knew I’d be leaving. Then, every frigging morning up the 405 and every dust-laden evening down became an irritation. “You’re not the one who’s been driving into the sunset the last ten years,” my husband, who had to make the afternoon commute west, from Irvine to home, commented. Still, I couldn’t wait to see the back of them … the 405, the 5, the 91!
Now, I find myself missing that dry heat, the long days, the space. Yes, for those of us in crowded Asia, Los Angeles is still a place of wide-open spaces … where we can drive into the dessert, climb a mountain, stare out at the boundless sea. I think about Little Saigon and yearn for the Vietnamese noodles there, the best in the world… Who would’ve thought? On the West Coast of the USA, on land that used to be Orange Groves … A taste of home..
A state of mind bigger even than Texas, that’s California. Sunshine 24/7. San Francisco and Hollywood, the centre that shifted back the boundaries of the world’s dreaming. The state that’s been glorified in song. Young sun-bronzed limbs loping confidently on golden beaches. Blonde beauties that make the testosterone pump madly, even through old cholesterol-choked arteries. Is this the heaven those on the East Coast dream about?
And there are many other sides to this idyllic coin, the yin and yang, sweet and sour that makes up all life. Religious sects that defy reason. Think Charles Manson. (Someone once said when God finished making the world, he put his hand under the east coast and tipped the continent over, so that the loose nuts and bolts rolled down to California. Lol.)
I’d really like to see the sunshine in San Francisco. 🙂 All I’ve every experienced was fog
I’ve had a look at the date this Practice was posted, 13 July, eleven days ago. and the comments are still coming in. California must trigger something in people’s minds.
Uncle Tony died quickly and easily of a heart attack while deer hunting in Wisconsin in November of ‘92. His body was flown back to California for burial. The funeral took place early and a Memorial was held at his home in San Pedro later the same day. My mother, Mary, Tony’s youngest sibling, decided she wanted to go to the funeral but wanted me to accompany her. I was living in poverty at the time but my younger siblings coughed up the funds for the plane tickets, the hotel stay, the car rental and some spending money.
We flew into LAX and rented a car; I was the Designated Driver. Driving in San Pedro is easier than driving in LA, I’m told. I never had to drive in LA, except to get out of the airport and to the hotel in San Pedro.
The hotel room was good – two double beds. . . and clean. Thinking back, I remember it having a Spanish feel – heavy dark furniture, high ceilings, colorful and flowery bedding, curtains, pillows. We stayed together in the same room to cut costs. It was fine.
On the eve of the funeral, we met Karen, Tony’s daughter at the funeral parlor. Tony was laid out in a beautiful rosewood casket. He looked so little . . . and so DEAD. Karen’s brothers came in while we were viewing Tony. I remember laughing with them about things they’d had to do as children because their father, while very wealthy, was very strict.
They all – Greg, David, Karen, Tim and Steve – talked about Tony’s love for sailing . . .but only on wooden sailboats. And his sailboats were always large – 50 feet or more. Every summer, Tony would make his children scrape the barnacles off the bottom of the sailboat and refinish it to preserve it from rot and damage. It was a thankless job – long and hot – and one they hated. As they talked about Tony and told stories about him and their memories, they all stood around Tony’s casket and sang the songs he had taught them while sailing and working on the boat. We cried.
Then, Gawd-only-knows how THIS came up but . . . I told them
that, as a final farewell to Tony in his beautiful wooden “boat,” they should
all carve a farewell message into the bottom of the casket and sign their
names. I said it would be a unique and poignant way of saying good-bye to their father. And, it would give him something to do – refinishing his “boat” – in the afterlife. They were shy at first, but when I pulled out my little Swiss Army knife and handed it to Karen, they all laughed and decided it was a great idea.
By the next day, the casket bottom was covered with
carved messages for Tony from his grand kids, his ex-wives, his business
friends, his siblings and anyone who felt the urge to sent Tony off in
style! I did not leave a message on the casket. I sent him MY message through
the ether-world.
After the funeral, everyone went back to Tony’s house.
We drank all his booze and ate all his food. The party lasted into the wee hours of the morning and a good time was had by all. Tony threw one hell of a great farewell party!!
Uncle Tony died
quickly and easily of a heart attack while deer hunting in Wisconsin in
November of ‘92. His body was flown back
to California for burial. The funeral
took place early and a Memorial was held at his home in San Pedro later the
same day. My mother, Mary, Tony’s
youngest sibling, decided she wanted to go to the funeral but wanted me to
accompany her. I was living in poverty
at the time but my younger siblings coughed up the funds for the plane tickets,
the hotel stay, the car rental and some spending money.
We flew into
LAX and rented a car; I was the Designated Driver. Driving in San Pedro is easier than driving
in LA, I’m told. I never had to drive in
LA, except to get out of the airport and to the hotel in San Pedro.
The hotel
room was good – two double beds. . . and clean. Thinking back, I remember it
having a Spanish feel – heavy dark furniture, high ceilings, colorful and
flowery bedding, curtains, pillows. We
stayed together in the same room to cut costs.
It was fine.
On the eve
of the funeral, we met Karen, Tony’s daughter at the funeral parlor. Tony was laid out in a beautiful rosewood
casket. He looked so little . . . and so DEAD. Karen’s brothers came in while we were
viewing Tony. I remember laughing with
them about things they’d had to do as children because their father, while very
wealthy, was very strict.
They all –
Greg, David, Karen, Tim and Steve – talked about Tony’s love for sailing . . .
but only on wooden sailboats. And his
sailboats were always large – 50 feet or more.
Every summer, Tony would make his children scrape the barnacles off the
bottom of the sailboat and refinish it to preserve it from rot and damage. It was a thankless job – long and hot – and
one they hated. As they talked about
Tony and told stories about him and their memories, they all stood around
Tony’s casket and sang the songs he had taught them while sailing and working
on the boat. We cried.
Then,
Gawd-only-knows how THIS came up but . . .
I told them that, as a final farewell to Tony in his beautiful wooden
“boat,” they should all carve a farewell message into the bottom of the casket
and sign their names. I said it would be
a unique and poignant way of saying good-bye to their father. And, it would give him something to do –
refinishing his “boat” – in the afterlife.
They were shy at first, but when I pulled out my little Swiss Army knife
and handed it to Karen, they all laughed and decided it was a great idea.
By the next
day, the casket bottom was covered with
carved messages for Tony from his grand kids, his ex-wives, his business
friends, his siblings and anyone who felt the urge to sent Tony off in
style! I did not leave a message on the
casket. I sent him MY message through
the ether-world.
After the
funeral, everyone went back to Tony’s house.
We drank all his booze and ate all his food. The party lasted into the wee hours of the
morning and a good time was had by all. Tony
threw one hell of a great farewell party!!
Not So Sunny California.
On a USA Road trip in July and August of 2010, driving 16000 miles, our route down the west coast took us to California. I remember vividly the fields of artichokes and strawberries. The migrant workers wearing sombrero’s picking.
The orchards, the flat sandy landscape, the heat and the dust. In San Francisco we unloaded our bikes and cycles across the bridge, the fog was thick and an icy rain fell. The thrill of cycling over the famous red bridge was awesome. Paying our parking ticket we were changed in ‘silver’ $1 coins. I still have a few. We thought is was Monopoly Money, but took it none the less. Used it later to pay for something, I can’t remember what and the coins was accepted…Have you seen those coins?
Visiting Napa Valley next, tasting wines at the vineyards that would let ordinary people in. That sunday the single road was packed with limo’s and seemingly famous people. An interesting experience. In that valley we experienced certainly the only disappointment we encountered on the trip. Booking in at a quest house, of which the owner was a chef. That evening we went to our first dirt car race…muddy that’s all I can say. Before sunrise we woke with the smell of freshly baked bread and my spouse and I, our mouthes watering could not wait for breakfast. In anticipation the quests gathered around the big table under a grapevine. Imagine our surprise when we each received a bowl of porridge, orange juice and a slice of toast. Thinking this is the first course, we chatted and waited, and waited…eventually the woman came out and ask when we are leaving, as she has an appointment …
reluctantly we scarped back our chairs and left in silence …
That $300 dollar a night room and breakfast was a complete waste of money.
Aimlessly, I wonder where California would be today without
the gold. Who is the man behind the mask? Is it cryptic messages in the grain of giant sequoias,
or it it Darth Vader?
I wish I could look into the tracks, the rusted nail heads and scraps
of metal, and see the dirty honest faces looking back
at me. Iron portraits of men who buried their bones into that rail—the hunched backs and furrowed brows that took their turn and left their nameless legacy.
Back when you could look West and pretend the direction itself wrapped snugly around the whole hemisphere, nearly brushing fingertips with the East; an arms length away, yet totally, completely out of
grasp.
What if horses still scored mountaintops, and governors cared
more about heritage than train stops? I wonder where California would be today
without the gold. If 1848
hadn’t catalyzed a certain fate, what else would we
have found to dig up from beneath the earth?
Forever, invincible men come swiftly. God, guns and glory
fingering the surface of our story.
Hunkering us down
in cheap Orange County fame.
Afterall, it’s all in the name.
Of conquest. And gold.
cal. wis.
I caught my first glimpse of California when I was almost thirteen and returning to America after a four-year stay in Japan. My family and I landed at Travis A.F.B. Our old, blue Dodge station wagon with Japanese license plates waited for us. My parents had packed the car with pillows, blankets, and supplies for eating on the road, such as napkins, paper plates and cups. Taking three kids on a journey from California to New Jersey along the southern route took courage. And though I was born in the United States, home had become a foreign land.
The trip to San Francisco unnerved me. Not only did driving on the right side of the road create challenges (it required concentrated focus because we had to remind my dad several times when he turned down streets which lane he needed to be in), but nosy driver drivers did as well. They rode the bumper of our Dodge, very scary if you’re a kid in the very back of a station wagon certain the next driver will ram the car from the rear. Those other drivers stared and pointed at our unusual license plate. Then they sped up and drove beside us, paying more attention the occupants in our car than the road. My father avoided several near-collisions. After that, adults made me nervous.
The dense fog hovering over San Francisco made sightseeing uninteresting. I shivered through my crab salad at a restaurant at Fisherman’s Wharf. Mother packed many things, but not a sweater warm enough to suit me, and I didn’t understand the significance of seeing a city built on hills that ran into the sea.
At least my parents made the drive to Los Angeles memorable. The “greedy pigs” had to be fed. My mother doled out quarters to my brother, sister and I to toss into the tollbooth baskets in order to progress on our journey. When we arrived at our Los Angeles destination, Disney Land made me wide-eyed and giddy, but nearing thirteen, I refused to show any joy or excitement.
Many years passed before I visited California again. I haunted old memories when I returned, sharing stories with my husband. I remember more than I thought. Each memory made me smile.
“When I was your age, maybe a little older, about six, my dad taught me the George Washington Bridge song and we’d sing it every time we went over the bridge.”
“How did it go, mommy?”
“George Washington Bridge; The George Washington, Washington
Bridge; George Washington Bridge; The George Washington, Washington Bridge.”
“That’s it? That’s a really silly song. Did grandpa make it up? “
“No, it was on The Johnny Carson show?”
“The what?”
“Nevermind. We’re about to go over The Golden Gate Bridge and there is no song for that bridge. Think we can make one up?”
“Sure Mom.”
I pulled the car into the right hand lane and followed the
signs toward The Golden Gate looking for fodder for our song; it was an early
California summer morning and the fog had yet to burn off. We approached the bridge following the wet red glow of the taillights in front of us.
The bridge itself became a mystic tunnel. We were cloud surfers; wayfarers of the planet nebulous. Where New York was concrete, California was misty and undefined.
Half-way across my son blurted out:
“Golden Gate Bridge, Golden Gate Bridge. We’re going over the Golden Gate Bridge. But there is nothing we can see. The fog is thick as soup of pea.”