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| Vanessa and Molly on our front porch on Walk Circle |
August marked the 40th anniversary of my residence in Santa Cruz: 1978-2018. Forty years ago I pulled into what was then a small beach town in a Volkswagen bus, the most ubiquitous vehicle in town, with two daughters ages 8 and 3. I was 31.
Their mother had died in an automobile accident two years before. I was a single father. My move was a break from my past. I literally isolated myself from a community of friends that were tied to my life growing up, a complete reboot.
The number forty has stuck to my brain ever since Sister Gualberta explained to our fifth grade class that it was a recurring and significant number. Jesus fasted for 40 days and 40 nights. Noah was afloat on his ark for 40 days. Forty is the traditional Hebrew number for a trial duration.
If the last 40 years were a trial period for living in Santa Cruz, I would have to claim success. I'm still here, although my two daughters, Molly and Vanessa, who arrived with me have moved on. So has their younger sister, Bryna, who was born in Santa Cruz.
They have found lives and started families of their own elsewhere. But they grew up, were raised in the same neighborhood where I put down roots in the Westside of town. My parents moved eight times while I was growing up. I was searching for a place to stay.
At Linda's funeral, I requested that Jackson Browne's rock n' roll dirge, "Before the Deluge," be played in the church, Our Lady of Assumption in Claremont. That is where we had taken our vows eight years before at the young and idealistic ages of 21 and 20.
Now let the music keep our spirits high
Let the buildings keep our children dry
Let creation reveal its secrets by and by
When the light that's lost within us reaches the sky
Idealism is a powerful attraction that initiates most of the pure and better things that happen in the world. It seems to be the property of youth. We were young and we were idealistic, and yet I found myself on the verge of fainting into the front pew when Linda, in her white gown and deep-set blue eyes directed toward me, came marching down the aisle clinging to her father's arm, organ music at crescendo. What was I doing?
Ours was not a perfect marriage though we were together since age 15 through a tumult of adolescent passion, fun, furry and break ups. If she were still alive I know we would be close friends, even if our marriage had not lasted. Based on the first eight years, I fear it may not have.
It's one thing to lose a spouse and quite another to lose your mother at a tender age. I can remember the joy and struggle of a young couple trying to find their way, sharing and confiding, loving and arguing. Linda's daughters, Molly and Vanessa, were robbed of memories of her due to their ages of seven and two.
This was not altogether clear to me at the time, as were many things. Looking back, their loss seems more tragic than mine. My heart aches for them. Linda would be so proud of them.
I did learn quickly that a single father receives far more compassion and assistance than a single mother. I was an anomaly to be pitied. A young man with two daughters. I found more help than I wanted, not to be ungrateful, but it was obvious.
One year after Linda's death I found myself backstage for a Jackson Browne concert in San Jose. He is a small, wiry guy, intense. He was about to go on stage dressed in a long-sleeve shirt, Levis and sneakers, just him and his piano.
I wanted to tell him about Linda and his song being played at her funeral. I had learned that his wife had committed suicide the same year. "Jackson Browne," I said. He looked at me and I raised my hand for a bro handshake. Our palms clasped right before he walked from behind the curtain onto the stage.
I was a distraction. He had a show to perform. Although I wrote an extremely positive review of his concert, I wished I had been in the audience to receive his song facing him instead of from the wings of the stage. I wished Linda could have been there, too.
The following year I made my move, which I consider my best one ever. I rented out the house that Linda and I had purchased, at her insistence, in San Jose. It provided a small income for me.
I pointed my life toward the coastal mountains, a dividing line between what would become known as Silicon Valley and the Monterey Bay, the oldest natural harbor refuge in California, a mere 30 miles distance through winding forested mountains, to a nearly 100-year-old enclave of mostly rundown beach cottages on narrow streets of concentric circles.
Within those circles, literally on the very same "curve," so near that one could practically hear a whisper from one house to another, I would unexpectedly meet the woman who would save my life, become the mother of my two daughters, and with whom I would have a third child and spend the rest of my life.
The first local piece I wrote was about my new neighborhood whose history tracked a record of old Santa Cruz from the early 20th Century. The "circles" were designed for an annual religious retreat. Nearby is where the circus pitched its big tent when it came to town. A lost elephant was not uncommon. Today I attest that love can be found there.
My second piece was an assignment for Good Times, the popular entertainment weekly. I was asked by the editor, Mark Hunter, to write about my experience as a single father. That was probably the first and only such article I have ever penned on that subject. I had an unfair advantage. Too many women are abandoned with their children and not recognized for their strength and courage.
That was 40 years ago, a new beginning of a lifetime.
Note: Linda Lombardi Samson passed away 42-years ago today, Sept. 13, 1976. She was 29 years old. She died in an automobile accident on her way home from Lake Tahoe. There were five people in the car: Her husband Kevin, daughters Molly and Vanessa, and her friend Jenny Mackintosh. All survived except Linda.
From Silence of the Oranges ©2018 Kevin Samson, a working title memoir
