SKOOL DAYZ

September already? The brutal heat has diminished. The eternal rain has temporarily stopped. Sunshine and mild today - with a delicious hint of autumn.

Two weeks ago I happened to see a school bus meandering along the narrow road that winds past my property. School? Already?

When I left California, I was really surprised to learn that school started in August in many places.
When I was a kid in Southern California school always started in mid-September, usually around the 15th. September in Southern Cal is the hottest month of the year. Blisteringly hot.

 I vividly remember the September when I started seventh grade. I was eleven years old. The school was Dale Junior High in Anaheim, California. The day that school started there was a horrific heat wave. The brutal desert Santa Ana winds blew in and the temperature soared to 115 degrees (Fahrenheit). It stayed that way for nearly a week.

Dale Junior High as it looks today.
There were absolutely no trees there back when I went to school - only a few palm trees across the street.

 

Back then in the ancient times, nobody catered to kids. Despite the searing heat, the schools never shut down. I had to walk nearly three miles to (and from) school. No buses on my route. No rides. 

The heat was so intense that we really didn't have any constructive classes. There was no air-conditioning. Our teachers would open the doors and all the windows and turn out the lights. We'd swelter in a dark classroom, using wet paper towels to try to keep cool.

I think walking home was the worst part. I was so desperately dehydrated that I nearly passed out. If you think 100 degrees is hot, you should experience 115 on a long walk.

Come to think of it - during all my school years, I never rode the bus. I always walked - from second grade through twelfth (I attended first grade in New Jersey).

I also never ate in the school cafeteria, not once. I always brought my lunch. In second grade I had a "farmer" lunch pail. It depicted a barn. Later I progressed to a Flintstones lunch box (heaven help us). After that, my mind's a blank. I think I brought all subsequent lunches in a brown paper bag.

A rather unflattering photo of me, age six, in Glendora, California -  showing off my new barnyard lunch pail (wow, was my hair really that light?).

This post is boring and lifeless (which aptly describes how I feel today).
I suppose it doesn't really matter, since nobody reads my blog anymore. My brilliant music and right-on-target political posts scared everyone away. Cowards.

I write political posts to annoy you and share piano videos to impress you. I'm diabolically diverse. 

BTW - thank you to the four kind and discerning people who liked my piano videos. You have exquisite taste.....not to mention my eternal gratitude.
I hope the evil entities who troll my blog enjoyed it, too.
(he says with bitter sarcasm).

Cheers, Jon

 

PARADISE

Wildfires raging in Northern California. Incredible devastation. I remember that scenario very well.

My parents moved to Southern California when I was five and I lived there for thirty years. There were raging wildfires every year that I can remember. Every current wildfire was reported to be "the worst ever", and every year they seemed to get worse. It was (and is) a tragic consistency.

The worst one I remember happened when I was seventeen. At that time we were living in a small rural town nestled in the hills between the city of Riverside and Orange County. That autumn the Santa Ana winds raged. Fires engulfed the hills and surrounded our town. There was seemingly no way out. All we could do is wait, pray, and watch the increasing flames and smouldering sky.

The sunlight was obliterated, the smoke was so thick and suffocating that we couldn't go out of the house. Gray ashes fell heavily and covered everything like snow. Our world was enshrouded in a thick, smokey fog that swirled in eerie shades of red and amber like a surrealistic dream.

We miraculously survived without any damage after two weeks of hell.

Fast Forward five years later

I'm in my early twenties, living with a "friend" in a massive 1920's Spanish style house in the Hollywood Hills. That autumn the dry desert winds surged again and the nearby hills caught fire. The fires quickly came dangerously close and we were urged to evacuate.

Young, brash, and foolishly defiant, we chose to stay. As the wildfires raged we passed the smokey days and smouldering nights immersed in music (there were two pianos in the living room), drinking Sangria, and making love.
The fires eventually subsided. We survived. 

 Paradise Lake

A few days ago (I think November 8th) the Northern California town of Paradise was completely destroyed by the latest California wildfire. This disaster awakened more memories.

When I was eighteen or  nineteen, my parents had some friends who bought a home in Paradise, California. They loved it there and urged my parents to come up and look at some available property.

The current population of Paradise is (or was) about 26,000. When my parents had friends there it was only a fledgling town and much less populated.

Anyway, my parents flew up north to check it out (I didn't go with them). They found a house there that they were interested in buying, but - after careful consideration - decided against it.

Paradise is in a beautiful area, nestled in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, but there were many negative aspects about residing there permanently.

When my parents came back to Southern California I asked them
"Well, how did you like Paradise?"

"It's a nice place," my Mom said, "But there are things that really concern me about living there. I'd especially be worried about the potential dangers of wildfires."

Today her long-ago words haunt me.

Paradise, CA a few days ago

THE QUEEN MARY AND ME

 RMS Queen Mary in Long Beach

the white dome in the background housed the Spruce Goose

In a recent blog post, Myra wrote about a childhood voyage that she and her family took on the Queen Mary. That immediately resurrected some of my own memories of the Queen Mary. I never sailed on the ship, but I had a few encounters with it.

The RMS Queen Mary and I crossed paths numerous times when I lived in Southern California. I saw it on dozens of occasions from a distance, where it rests in Long Beach Harbor. I've also had much closer encounters.

I am by no means a Queen Mary historian. What I'm writing is all off the top of my head (so to speak) - - and the top of my head is often fuzzy and muddled.

The Queen Mary sailed on the high seas from 1936 until 1967, when her final ocean journey brought her to Long Beach, California. The initial plan was to turn her into a tourist attraction.

The Queen's history in Long Beach turned out to be much more turbulent than her oceanic history. Her doors were first opened to tourists in 1971. From 1974 to 1980 she operated as the Queen Mary Hyatt House Hotel.

To condense a long story, the Queen lost a lot of money. The hotel-museum-tourist attraction had numerous owners and leasers and underwent many renovations. The engine room, boiler rooms, and turbo generator rooms were removed. The deteriorating funnels were replaced with replicas and the ship was finally deemed a building.

Millionaire Jack Wrather (husband of 1940's movie star Bonita Granville) leased the property until his death in 1984. Wrather Port Properties continued to maintain the ship until 1988 when the holdings were bought by the Walt Disney Company. The Disney plans eventually fell through. I have no clue who currently runs the ship-hotel, but from what I've heard there are still a lot of problems.
The Queen Mary was never as big a tourist attraction as everyone thought it would be. I personally think it's a dumb idea to turn a ship into a hotel.

For awhile (from 1980 - 1991) Howard Hughes' massive airplane the Spruce Goose was housed in a giant dome next to the Queen Mary, but it has since been moved to Oregon.

 My Mother took this photo of the Queen Mary.

The Goodyear "blimp" is flying overhead

So when am I finally gonna cut to the chase and get to my personal Queen Mary stories?

Now would be a good time. I hope you're still awake.

I was about 20 years old when I first saw the Queen Mary up close. I was with my "friend" Phil (who was on parole from prison). We were on the beach, very close to the Queen Mary, and we started smoking grass.

I don't recall how many joints we had but eventually we began throwing rocks at the ship - often with pretty good aim. 
What I remember most was the spectacular sunset behind the silhouette of the Queen Mary. The dramatic scene was surrealistic.

My most memorable encounter with the Queen Mary happened late on a foggy autumn night in the early 1980's.

My Aunt Terri and my cousins Jeff and Karyn were visiting us from New Jersey.
Jeff had to get back to New Jersey early, so we drove him to L.A. Airport to catch a late-night flight.
That night our entourage included me, my parents, Aunt Terri, and cousin Karyn.

After Jeff's flight took off, my father decided to drive to Long Beach past the Queen Mary. When we got there he parked the car and said we might as well get out and take a look at it.

My Mom thought it was a crazy idea, since it was nearly midnight, the place was closed, and it was very foggy and creepy. Also there were no lights anywhere on the outside of the ship.

Never one to be daunted, my father bravely persisted and went up an escalator that led to the ship. My Mom, Aunt Terri, Karyn, and I timidly followed.

To our complete astonishment, the entrance to the ship was open.....and we went inside! As unbelievable as it sounds, nobody was around - no guards, no employees, no people. We seemed to have the entire ship to ourselves.

After getting over the initial shock, we began to explore. The only place that was locked was the gift shop. We wandered up and down narrow halls and corridors and entered numerous rooms. We even went out on deck and walked around  in the fog. It was a fantastic experience.

 This is exactly how I remember the hallways, except they were much darker and dimly lit.

The one thing I recall most distinctly, however, was that the interior of the ship smelled very old, musty, and dank - especially in the hallways. There was  something creepy and foreboding about the place - and we all had a very uneasy feeling.

There are many rumors that the Queen Mary is haunted and I tend to believe it.

We spent well over half an hour exploring the ship before we decided to leave. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience that we never forgot. We still talked about it many years later.

I later discovered that, at that time, the ship was undergoing more renovations and was closed to the public. Perhaps someone merely forgot to lock the doors.

But why weren't there any guards or workers........or ghosts?

It was a strange and memorable night.


   

DREAMS OF ESCAPE

Dreams of Escape was the title of my very first book of poetry, written in my early twenties and nearly forgotten until tonight when I found an old printed copy. The title is prophetically appropriate.

My entire life seems to have been a perpetual cycle (circle?) of escapes: from unpleasant experiences, bad situations, and - undoubtedly foremost - escape from myself.

Escape from oneself is, of course, an exercise in complete futility - - but I pursued it enthusiastically during my life-long course of discontent.

I don't want to get philosophical (mainly because I lack the qualifications). I'm merely thinking, remembering. Talking to myself.
You're merely an innocent eavesdropper.

I suppose my first great escape was when I left home and moved to Hollywood. I was nineteen - a late bloomer and greener than moldy cheese. I've previously written about this enough times for it to become trite and stale.

It happened after one of the worst (physical) blow-ups I had with my father. He won, hands down. Choked me into unconsciousness, knocked me through a plate glass door. It was weeks before I began to physically heal.

Before I left, I had planned to kill him. Got his revolver. Sneaked into his bedroom late one night (he was a very heavy sleeper). Stood there deciding whether or not to shoot him through the head. Weighed the pros and cons.
Decided to let the son-of-a-bitch live in his own misery.

The cold, seedy,  dangerously anonymous streets of Hollywood are about as far from Tinseltown glamor as anyone can get. I quickly learned about survival - and about sex, drugs, booze, and hardcore realms of escape that I never previously thought were possible.

It was a long and delicious escape - mainly because I became someone other than my real self:  mysterious, elusive, seductive,  dangerously reckless, unconcerned with consequences.....

I'm only scratching the surface of an incredible journey into self-destruction.

And suddenly I'm thinking of all my other attempts of escape, which - filtered through the sobering distance of time - seem as futile as they are ridiculous.

Escape from the heartbreaking end of my first sexual relationship. It lasted only three months. I was nineteen. The...other person...was a decade older and infinitely more experienced. It wasn't love. It was intense infatuation. But I was completely heartbroken. Packed my gear and left California. Spent the entire summer on the east coast.

Escape from another relationship - where intense jealousy (and possessiveness) reared its ugly head.
This.....other person.....was intent on pursuing me - and had enough cash and clout to do it.
I escaped to Mexico. Baja. Eventually Ensenada. Lived on the beach for a few weeks. I drank Tequila and Modelo Chelada and dug my bare toes into uncharted sands.

Juan

en la playa de Ensenada

I already (long ago) wrote a blog post about my escape from marriage. Or perhaps escape from a wedding....

Clara was the sister of one of my best friends, Anton. Their father was well-known and they were an extremely wealthy and refined family.

I was twenty-four. Clara was near thirty but looked much younger. She had been educated in Switzerland and spoke five languages.

I frequented their home, gave private piano concerts and poetry readings there. Sailed on their yacht in Newport Beach. Rode in their Rolls Royce. The entire family adored me (hard to believe, but true) and wanted me to marry Clara.

Clara and I had dated casually. Went to many events in Beverly Hills and Los Angeles. But I was extremely immature and hopelessly reckless. I definitely didn't want marriage (for more reasons than the one you think....). Serious relationships of any kind terrified me.

 Clara and I

at an event in Beverly Hills

a very faded glimpse into my past life...

There's an enormous amount more to this story, but I'll cut it short by saying that Clara eventually married someone she didn't love on the rebound of losing me.

She begged me to attend their wedding,

"for moral support".

As usual, my initial reaction was to escape from the situation. I went on a serious drinking spree, borrowed a boat from a friend, and sailed to Catalina Island where I stayed for a week in blissful inebriation. 

This blog post is getting too long and I've only mentioned a pitiful few of my many colorful escapes.

I still haven't told how I wound up living in poverty in a mountain shack in Tennessee.

If you aren't bored with this crap, I might (eventually) continue my adventures in escape.

LAYERS

On January 1st I watched the annual Tournament of Roses Parade from Pasadena, California (I no longer have TV but I get live stream).

The gorgeous, balmy Southern California sunshine evoked a surge of incredibly satisfying memories of the place where I was raised and lived for thirty years. I can't recall a New Year's Day that wasn't mild and perfect.

I sat here sipping hot tea and shivering in my frigid mountaintop Tennessee shack, knowing that my warm California memories linger in the unattainable realms of the distant past. But it's reassuring to know that New Year's Day in California still looks the same as I always remembered it.

The first week of 2018 here in the Tennessee wilderness has been way below freezing. Last night was minus two (below zero). The wind chill was minus ten. At least.

I layered myself in a ridiculous cocoon of defense against the cold: a t shirt, a henley, two sweat shirts, and a quilted shirt jacket (or whatever they're called). two pairs of pants. Two pairs of socks.  I'm still wearing them. I have more layers than a Viennese torte.

This isn't the first time I lived where winters are frigid. When I lived in the Missouri Ozarks there were days when the temp didn't get above zero. The windows and doors would freeze shut and I had to thaw them out with a hairdryer.
But I digress.

Did I ever mention that this is the dampest, coldest house I ever lived in? And my bedroom is the coldest room in the house. I had to close off the bathroom adjacent to my bedroom because it's coated in frost. I could store ice cream in there.


And as I laid in bed under five smothering blankets and two annoying cats, I reflected on the long journey that brought me from the paradise of California to the hellholes of everywhere else.

As my memory peeled back the layers of years, I realized that all the moves in my life were motivated by the common desperation of escape. Escape from bad situations. Escape from rotten climates. Most probably escape from myself.

My years in California were the golden ones - best of my life. Satisfyingly rich, fulfilling, rewarding......but also (later) wild, intensely destructive, and dangerous. There was a time when I thrived on danger and adventure.

My music career was soaring. I hobnobbed with the elite, met famous people, had a fantastic social life, and an even better love life (I'm not bragging, just saying...). 

Yet - despite the golden surface - I had a lot of dark layers: 
hidden demons, profound insecurities, enormous self-loathing. I masked it all with booze,  occasional drugs, rampant promiscuity.
I was (and probably still am) my own worst enemy.

I was at ebb tide, the brink of oblivion, when I left California. For many reasons, I decided it was time to leave, to shed my wild past.....

.....but the brutal truth is, you can never really escape yourself....or your problems.

There's nothing more annoying than a long, self-serving blog post - and that's what this is turning out to be. I'm mostly talking to myself. And remembering. Thinking.

So, what exactly were my many "escapes"? Where did I go after I left California?

How the hell did I get from the excitement of Hollywood and to a frigid shack in the Tennessee wilderness?

Some might wonder. Others don't care.
I might continue this in my next post.

Okay, it's a stupid header photo - but it's not easy to come up with anything "layered"
Me, in Hollywood, age early 20's. 

STRANGE THINGS IN A SMALL TOWN

The small California town where I went

to high school was nestled among these hills.

It still looks about the same as I remembered it.

My family moved numerous times when I was a child in Southern California. We lived in Glendora, Covina, Pomona, Anaheim - then the Small Rural Town, and finally back to Anaheim again.

Between the ages of 13 to 18 we lived in a small rural town nestled in the rolling hills, halfway between Orange County and Riverside.

Why don't you tell us the name of the small rural town, Jon?

Hell, you already know too much about me. I have to maintain some semblance of privacy. Besides, I don't want anyone delving into my high school records. Even though they were damn good.

Those six years were probably the best years of my young life. The town had a very quaint atmosphere and a sense of normalcy prevailed. We knew nearly everyone and had lots of friends, our neighbors were fantastic. If it wasn't for my father's usual violence and complete dysfunction, things would have been perfect.

I loved my high school and still keep in touch with a few of my old school friends. I always walked to school, which was nearly three miles one way. Two of my friends had motorcycles and they occasionally gave me a ride. Frank Kastin who lived on my street, and a black guy named Kenny Johnson.

I was an absolute nerd back then - - hopelessly tall, pathetically skinny, painfully self-conscious, astoundingly naive, and annoyingly bespectacled. In retrospect, it's extremely amusing to imagine me riding around town on a motorcycle with a black dude.


So, what's strange about the small rural town, Jon?

You'd think a small rural town would be safe. Shortly after we first moved there, two big burly guys tried to break into our house in broad daylight. I was in the kitchen. They scaled the six-foot wall that enclosed our yard, came right into our screened-in patio, and tried to open the kitchen door. I pulled it shut and locked it, then yelled that I was going to call the police. They took off running and we never saw them again. I was thirteen at the time.

There was a Flasher in town. I had never personally seen him, but I'd heard plenty of stories. He had reportedly exposed himself to many unsuspecting strangers. Sometimes he was bold enough to knock on doors and flash his wares to whoever happened to answer. He was never caught.

There was the Wine Lady. At least that's what everyone called her. She was an alcoholic who wandered up and down the streets all day long while incessantly talking to herself. She often came past our house - - wildly gesticulating and having loud conversations with herself. At the time it seemed amusing. I didn't realize how pathetically serious it was.

I knew the Wine Lady's son Henry and his wife Sandy. They were nice, decent people who went to our church. Henry repeatedly tried to get help for his mother but to no avail. She was a hopeless cause.

A short block away from our house, on the corner, was a very old and tiny wooden house. It was occupied by an ancient lady known as Mrs. Brown. She was at least in her late 90's, possibly near 100. Mrs. Brown was  afraid to go to sleep at night, so she'd sit up all night long in a chair looking out the front window. One night she died in the chair. They found her stone cold dead, still staring out the window. Shortly afterwards the house was torn down. I rummaged through the remains and found some old newspapers from the first World War.

One summer night when I was fifteen, there was a murder only three houses down from where we lived. It was a rental house and we never knew exactly who lived there. On summer nights I very often sat outside on the curb in front of our house talking with friends.

On this particular night I was outside with two friends. Suddenly a loud argument interrupted the serenity of the evening. It was coming from the rental house. Two Mexican men came outside fighting. One stabbed the other with a butcher knife. He staggered, fell, and died on the sidewalk only a few yards away from us. It happened in an instant and we saw the whole thing. Later, we learned that they were fighting over a woman.

The large rusty blood stains remained on the sidewalk for a very long time. That autumn, every time I walked to school I'd cross the street before I got to the blood stains - - so I wouldn't have to walk on them.

Hey, I'm just getting warmed up. These are only a few of the strange things that happened in our small rural town.

And Linda - if you happen to be reading this, I love ya - because we share the memories.



SOUVENIR OF VENICE

 



I was twenty-four years old that summer. I'd never been to Venice, never intended to go. Yet, somehow, it became a recurring theme in my life during those yawning months of youthful indolence.

I had seen the Luchino Visconti film Death in Venice,  which has since become one of my favorite films.  At the time, I didn't grasp the significance of the theme. I saw Gustav von Aschenbach merely as a perverse older man lusting after the fourteen-year-old boy Tadzio.

 It wasn't until I read the novella by Thomas Mann that I considered the story with a new perspective. Tadzio represents the youth that Aschenbach is so desperately trying to recapture. In pursuing Tadzio, he is pursuing his own elusive youth which - in the end - proves to be a pathetically futile effort.

Later that summer, I read the book again, in the original German from a copy loaned to me by Clara. Clara spoke German fluently. I could speak and read it, but only with heroic effort.

Clara was the sister of my best friend Anton, 
a musician who was in several of my classes in college. He was an enthusiastic admirer of my pianistic virtuosity and later became a staunch and shameless promoter of my compositions.

Anton and his sister came from an extremely wealthy and influential European family and their father was well-known. For many reasons, I'm hesitant to say exactly who their father was - but I will reveal that he had a highly esteemed personal connection with the Pope at the Vatican.  

The entire family liked me immensely and I visited them often. I was a frequent guest at their Los Angeles home and also at their weekend house in Newport Beach. I played the piano at the family's private soirees. We would spend pleasurable hours reading poetry, discussing music, art, literature, philosophy. I treasured those blessed times of intellectual stimulation and escape from my often tumultuous existence.

Clara was frequently present during my visits and we began a casual friendship. I didn't know, until Anton finally told me, that Clara had secretly fallen in love with me. She was six years older than myself but looked very young and was extremely attractive. She was also highly sophisticated, had been educated in Switzerland, and spoke four languages. Her parents adored me (God knows why) and the entire family undoubtedly thought that - with a little spit and polish - I'd make a suitable husband.

I was talented, reasonably intelligent, occasionally charming, and - some thought - good looking.

I was also extraordinarily emotionally immature, wild, unpredictable, and promiscuous. I wasn't good husband material - - and I knew wholeheartedly that I wasn't ready for marriage and probably never would be. I dated Clara occasionally. We went to concerts, museums, art galleries, upscale social functions. 

Clara and Jon

at an event in Beverly Hills

 

That September Clara and her parents went to Italy and spent a month in Venice. They invited me to come along but I declined. I had resumed my college classes and started performing publicly again. I received letters and postcards from Clara, long descriptions of an enchanting place that (according to her) would have been enhanced by my presence.

Ironically, one of the piano pieces in my concert repertoire that autumn was the Gondoliera from Annes de Pelerinage ( The Years of Pilgrimage) by Franz Liszt. It is a beautiful song depicting the gondolas on the Grand Canal - - sentimental, quite haunting. It still invokes echoes of sadness when I play it.

Later, after her return from Italy, Clara surprised me by proposing the idea of marriage with earnest seriousness. I panicked and declined. That was always my instinctive reaction to all serious relationships. I balked at the idea of permanent unions. I never realized (or cared to consider) how deeply hurt she was. 

There is a lot more to this story, but it's too long to relate in a blog.

Was I in love with Clara? No, but I did like her immensely. Were we ever sexually intimate? Don't underestimate my sexual potential. And she was eager.


My sexual past is an intricate complication that would have baffled Freud. Trying to simplify it is a daunting task . I've been in love with women. And I've been in love with men. Tip the scales and my male conquests have far outweighed the female ones. Think what you like.

In a rash, very thoughtless rebound, Clara married one of her best friends - - her gay hairdresser. If you're looking for some kind of irony, don't strain yourself. I knew it was a big mistake. She did, too. It would be a spring wedding. Clara had serious doubts and begged me to attend the wedding. She said that she desperately needed me "for moral support".

Never one to valiantly face unpleasant situations, my instant reaction was to escape. I went on a wild drinking binge. Borrowed a boat from a friend. Sailed to Catalina Island. Didn't return to Los Angeles for a week.

Later that winter, I was attending a gala ballet performance of Tchaikovsky's The Sleeping Beauty at the L.A. Music Center (Cynthia Gregory was dancing the title role). In a major fluke of fate I accidentally ran into Clara and her husband. It was a profoundly uncomfortable moment. She was warm and gracious. I was wickedly delighted to see that her husband was short, unattractive, and completely charmless.

I also had profound guilt, because I had inadvertently been the cause of their loveless and peculiar union.

There's an interesting dimension to this endless story:
Clara's brother Anton had a semi-crush on me. He had gotten married at a young age, but the marriage lasted only a few months. I strongly suspected his wife was a gold digger and nothing more. After the divorce Anton had an increasing interest in bisexuality. He  surprised me by saying that if he ever wanted to have sex with a man, I'd be the first person he'd call.

I wasn't about to encourage him. And, in case you're wondering.......no, we never did.

I lost track of Anton and his family when I moved from California.

Today I only have memories, old letters postmarked from Venice, my worn, dusty copy of Thomas Mann's Death in Venice. 
And a tattered piano manuscript of Franz Liszt's Gondoliera, which I occasionally still play on the piano.

RUMORS OF PARADISE

It's a gorgeous Tennessee morning: 
light snow, frigid temperatures, a sharp, crisp wind. A trio of whitetail deer bounded across my back yard and gracefully leaped a fence. Where is my camera when I need it? 

I'm drinking a cup of tea and unpacking a box of books. I found a volume of my poetry that was published long ago. One particular poem, Seventh Winter, caught my eye. I haven't seen it in aeons. It was written when I was only nineteen years old and depicts winter in Southern California when I was seven.

Reading it again has ignited a surge of memories - - and a poem that I previously never cared about suddenly seems alive and almost endearing.

Seventh Winter

Long after the others sleep
I lie awake counting
the frost-bitten stars
that fill my window, listening
to the dry rustle of palm trees
against a desert wind.
The stars shiver and blink,
as if long-ago lives
still watch from a distant place.
Last week near the boxcars
they found an old man's body
wrapped in layers of newspaper,
gnarled hands
still clasped in prayer.
Now the Mexican children
leave the fields early,
going home before dusk
in groups of no less than three.
Tonight the smudge pots are lighted,
smoking furiously
between fat rows of orange trees
as though cold January had not
already picked through the leaves
and ravaged every fruit.
Beyond the groves
restless dogs shred the night
with lean howls,
threatening the moon,
knowing that dawn will come
too late.

by Jon V.
from Dreams of Escape


Truth has never escaped my poetry. I remember the events clearly: 

the chilly winter nights, the nearby orange groves - - fruit glazed with frost, the acrid smell of eternally smoking smudge pots, the gentle wind rustling through the tops of palm trees.....the Mexican migrant workers....
..... the old man, found dead among newspapers in the boxcar. The mournful whistle of late-night freight trains.....

Smudge pots burning all night

in a feeble attempt to keep

the oranges from freezing

My parents moved to Southern California when I was five. We lived in Glendora (the first of many places) which is located in the gentle foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains.

At the time, it was as close to paradise as anybody could get. I lived in Southern California for nearly thirty years and can attest to the fact that rumors of paradise were no exaggeration.

An idealized scene

which wasn't at all far from the truth

My early introduction to California was steeped in the stuff that dreams are made of. The fact that it was viewed through the eyes of an imaginative child did not fictionalize the absolute perfection of the environment.

Our house was surrounded by orange groves.  I'd pick the huge, fragrant navel oranges and eat them right from the trees. There was an abundance of lemon trees, persimmons trees, avocado and walnut trees. The ripe walnuts, with their hard green shells, would fall on our roof....the occasional plunk, plunk,plunk was a sound that we were used to day and night.

There were seemingly endless rows of tall, majestic date palms everywhere - - and vast fields of the biggest, most magnificent strawberries I've ever tasted. Beyond the orange groves loomed the mountains, and  distant snow-capped Mount Baldy was a very familiar sight.

Colorful, fragrant flowers abounded - - roses, poppies, lilac, calliopsis, hollyhocks, gardenias, geraniums, bird of paradise.
And if the winter had been a particularly wet one, the desert flowers in early spring would be breathtaking.

The mountains, the desert, the ocean. The Great Southland offered an intoxicating array of unforgettable experiences.

This scene is so typical of my childhood memories

Southern California has a way of spoiling people. Once you've experienced it, no other place can possibly compare. At least that's how it used to be.

Life has changed drastically since I was a child and the things I loved the most about California have largely vanished - - or at least been corrupted beyond salvation.

To be brutally honest, I was corrupted beyond salvation during my wild & reckless years in Hollywood - but I admittedly loved every minute of it. It was an adventure beyond all others, and a lifestyle that few people were privileged to experience.

It was the other side of Southern California.

I left California when I was thirty-four and never looked back. I was burned out and yearning for new adventures. In retrospect, California didn't burn me out - - my destructive lifestyle did. My years in California were the golden years, the very best of my life, and I treasure them.

Why didn't you ever go back, Jon?

 Despite being a hardcore sentimentalist, I've never had a desire to repeat the past. It's a complete impossibility. I can only savor the memories and the delicious rumors of the paradise that I once knew.

Downtown Glendora, looking almost exactly as it did

when I lived there. My Mom and I often walked downtown

and shopped in the stores on this very street.

San Gabriel Mountains in the background.

Was this post to long? Hell, no........