La Grange, CA...Deadwood?

One of our favorite shows is Deadwood on HBO...if you've never seen it, you owe it to yourself to give it a try. It's a gritty depiction of that post-Civil War camp.

The acting ensemble is incredible. The language is extremely raw. The Deadwood town set is as far from Gunsmoke or Bonanza as one can get. The characters are a universe away from our old TV favorites. Send the kids to bed...it is not for them.

Forty miles east of us is the town of La Grange...evidently quite the hot spot during the California Goldrush. It sits on Highway 132, a few miles west of famous Highway 49 (named for the goldrush). The La Grange Saloon and Hotel is really the only structure left from that era. Now...a destination for tourists and us Harley riders on a whim. The bar is very rustic and resembles the old west. The restaurant area is very small and the food is not that great. But we must remember our creedo: It's not the destination (or the quality of the food)...it's the journey!

Just a small part of the rich historical culture available to us within a few miles of where we live in the San Joaquin Valley, California.

Your Self

More than anything else, your "self" is the entity that controls your destiny.

Your sphere of influence begins and ends right there.

Your past is filled with events that were ultimately guided by your decisions.

There are many things that you have absolutely no control over. How you deal with, manage, and react to those things is what determines your own personal happiness in life.

On a regular basis...re-visit the Serenity Prayer...and your life will be as rich as you want it to be.

GOD, grant me the serenity

to accept the things

I cannot change,

Courage to change the

things I can, and the

wisdom to know the difference.

Thursday's Child

Mondays child is fair of face,
Tuesdays child is full of grace,
Wednesdays child is full of woe,
Thursdays child has far to go,
Fridays child is loving and giving,
Saturdays child works hard for his living,
And the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.


I was reminded of this old poem today (Wednesday's Child poem?).

I checked my birthdate. I was born on a Thursday. Not my favorite day of the week (that used to be Saturday when I was a kid), but it sounds good in that poem. Evidently I have far to go...could be good, could be bad at my age!

Hunt Winchester

I don’t remember when or where my father met Hunt Winchester. It may have been through his job as a computer programmer at a company called SDC (Systems Development Corporation) in Santa Monica in the early sixties.

This is not so much about Hunt Winchester as it is about the fishing trips I went on with my father and him when I was a kid. But his name alone was and still is an enigma to me.

Hunt Winchester...yes, his real name. One couldn’t make up a better character name for a novel, except maybe Jack Diddley...which is another story altogether.

My first recollection of Hunt Winchester was in 1964, I was fourteen. My dad had planned a fishing trip with him along with another co-worker, Wayne Wilson. At first, I don’t think I was included in these plans. Afterall, I was only fourteen. And I think these particular fishing trips were an opportunity for them get away for a few hours and have some “manly time” together. A time to talk about their problems, at work and otherwise. A time to forget about their problems for a while, at work and otherwise. And a time to...fish.

Hunt had the boat. It was a small, old, wooden-hulled, cabin cruiser with a 40 hp Johnson outboard motor. I don’t remember the brand name, it may have been a custom-made job. Painted two-tone red and blue, Hunt’s boat was well-cared-for. And even though it was not very big in terms of size, it appeared to me like a luxury yacht. There was room for three or four people to cruise comfortably. There was more room for a fourteen year old when he got to ride on the bow, in front of the cabin.

The first such fishing trip with Hunt was to Lake Cahuma near Santa Barbara. A small, thin body of water nestled between the coastal foothills used primarily as a reservoir for drinking water. And even though the public had always been allowed to boat and fish in it, there was no swimming allowed.

It would be about a two hour drive to the lake. My dad and I got up at 4:30 am so we could be at Hunt’s place by 5:30, just a couple of miles away. I didn’t get much sleep that night in anticipation of the adventure ahead. The night before I checked and double checked my new fishing equipment...a little Zebco push-button reel and a small plastic tackle box equipped with some worm hooks, a few sinkers, floats, and a brand new red and white striped “spoon” for catching crappie (a species of fish that Lake Cachuma was famous for).

We grabbed the donuts and coffee thermos, the sandwiches for lunch, and the fishing gear...hoped in the 1956 Ponitac station wagon...and drove off into the darkness for Hunt Winchester’s house and our fishing trip to Lake Cachuma.

It was 5:15 am, May 25th, 1964.

Note to self...write more.

At 4:02 am...I can't sleep. It's pretty typical. I keep waking up and thinking about photo ideas and writing projects. How should I pose and light that subject? How should I start that article?

I don't know which is more difficult...starting a piece, or figuring out how to end it. With everything I have done and been through in my life, it shouldn't be hard to start a writing piece. I just have to stop thinking at any point in time, pull out that memory file, thumb through it a bit, choose something, then start writing. That memory file this morning is titled, "Fishing with Hunt Winchester".

On to Appleworks...that's a start.

Why are you leaving us?

People tell us all the time, "I wish we had a dog (dogs) just like yours. They're so devoted...they're so loving...they're so affectionate".

They sit by the door and pine for our return.

When we leave for a few minutes or a few days, our return is greeted with glee and unbridled enthusiasm. When we go out for an hour, Loretta tells them, "We'll be right back in a few minutes".

The pain-in-the-ass factor is far-outweighed by what we redeem from them in love and sensitivity. The slobber marks on the coffee table are more than counter-balanced by their perpetual forgiveness for being telled at. The occassional bothersome barking is repaid constantly by our nightly peace of mind just having them there.

All three of them really are a daily source of joy and warmth. Since we are so-called empty-nesters, they are a more than adequate replacement for our grown and gone children.

As for the dogs themselves...they are spoiled and pampered...even though they act as though we are abusing and neglecting them for going to the store and leaving them home.

We are priviledged to have them. But it was a lot of work getting them to be so "devoted"!

A rose...by any other name...

It's a happy rose...having survived a swarm of aphids and leaf hoppers at bud a week ago.

Sometimes...things do work out alright in the end.

Devotion

As anyone knows who owns a dog, they are devoted creatures. Two of our devotees,
Sparky & Lucy, will sit for hours in this position waiting for Loretta to return home. They are cognizant of the reason she has left the house, ie, work versus and errand. It must be related to their olfactory senses (more perfufme and hairspray on a work day exit)...or maybe they are going on a visual clue: work clothes versus sweats?

In any case, they will pine away the hours in this position at the front door until she returns.

The third member of the "pack" (Sammy the Greyhound) is just as enthusiastic with Loretta's return, but never wastes time staring at the door. It must be a remnant of his former life as a racer. They spend 22 hours a day in a 3 x 5 crate (stacked two high) waiting for feeding times and the inevitable call to the track once in a while.

And Sparky & Lucy? I refer to it as "pathetic"...Loretta just thinks it is cute.

Time to ride...along

The last big blast of Spring showers came through the San Joaquin Valley yesterday, complete with thunder, lightning, and a small twister or two...this is wishful thinking, but one must think positive when it comes to riding.

It is time to dust off the Road King and get ready to ride the roads in the goldrush foothills of Northern California.

Loretta is reluctant to ride the rider seat, so I convinced her to pose for a photograph instead.
She is content to enjoy the scenery from the comfort of the passenger position.

Keyboard and a Cabernet

One of the great things about tinkling the ivories while enjoying a glass of Cab: one's musical talent seems to improve with each sip. I know it is not really the case. It is akin to singing in the shower. Judicious and economical tinkling is best, don't try to play too many keys at the same time!

Damn, I should've stuck with the accordian lessons when I was 8 years old. No matter, it sounds pretty good despite the lack of lessons...and another glass of Cabernet.