A Winter's Tale

 

December 1981, one year later

On the evening of December 8, 1980, Barbara and I were in the kitchen of my house on Walk Circle cleaning up after dinner. She still owned her ancient, almost dainty house across the street but had moved in with me and the girls, Molly and Vanessa, ages 11 and 6. We were becoming a family and it felt good.

     It was a cozy, tight-knit neighborhood that included turn-of-the-century summer cottages that had become homes for a new generation. The previous generation of owners had passed away, leaving many places vacant and ramshackle. The kids whispered about ghosts peering out the windows while they danced around like magical fairies through the vacant lots chasing butterflies through the wild, yellow daisies and orange nasturtiums.

Our rim of the circle included a mixed bag of characters and kids, some neglected even, but part of the pack. We were in the midst of a small black community that had settled in the Santa Cruz "circles," families of soldiers who had served in the war, stationed at Fort Ord. Mother Brown held monthly barbecues at her house around the corner to raise money for her church, the Friendly Family of Christ.

That night Molly burst into the kitchen, her dark hair flying and eyes wide open. “Dad, you knew John Lennon, didn’t you? He was just killed.”

The announcement had been made on the television in the other room where the Monday Night Football Game was being broadcast.

We all moved to the front room to find out what had happened. He was shot and killed near his apartment, The Dakota, in New York City by a young man. It was big news.

Starting Over

I had recently purchased his latest album, Double Fantasy which had been a comeback for him, a love letter to both his wife Yoko Ono and their son, Sean. Perhaps the most popular song was “Starting Over,” about his and Yoko’s getting back together after a raucous separation. She, of course, had been blamed for the break-up of the Beatles. John had been making headlines for wild partying in Hollywood, filling the pages of Rolling Stone magazine with gossipy buzz.

Barbara and I, who were going through our own on-again, off-again courtship, had adopted “Starting Over” as our theme song. It was played often, as was the entire album, in our house. Molly knew John’s name by osmosis, if nothing else.

At the time I was working as editor of several publications in Santa Cruz, one being a senior citizen weekly called The News that had grown out of the mobile home park community in the county. Those parks were predominantly occupied by retirees. As editor, I had a great deal of latitude regarding content, although the bulk of the paper was filled with stories and gossip contributed by correspondents from the parks.

John’s death moved me to write a personal story for The News about my thoughts regarding the shooting and what his music meant to me. I put a hard-copy — a typewritten version — into an envelope and sent it to Rolling Stone. Then forgot about it.

The holiday season was upon us. Molly wanted a new bicycle. Vanessa wanted a Cabbage Patch doll. I wanted to find something for Barbara. It would either be an item of jewelry or maybe something to wear that I knew she wanted. There was a store downtown that featured stylish clothing mostly for women called Cat & Canary. A woman named Kathleen was owner of the store. She knew Barbara and was always a good source of ideas for me.

While downtown I dropped into the Basic Exchange. We called it the BX. It was a popular warehouse of stuff, mostly clothes, a great place for jackets and sweaters and related cold weather ware. I happened to see a leather bomber jacket, tried it on and it fit. I couldn’t believe the price, $50.

I purchased several items as gifts and on a whim decided to buy the jacket. When the clerk rang it up for $150, I was shocked.

“I’ll have to leave the jacket,” I said. It was beyond my budget. I had not seen the “1” in front of the “50.” I was slightly embarrassed.

At home I happened to mention my silly mistake to Barbara. We both laughed. I have always been fairly good about making fun of myself. Rightly so. I can be a “space case.”

Surprise Gift

The Saturday following John’s death, we all headed off to the Flea Market, held at the Soquel Drive Inn, at the time still a drive-in movie theater at night. Everyone brought their surplus things to sell at the Flea Market — just about anything that might draw 50-cents out of someone else’s pocket. Conversely, you could find great deals on unexpected items, or something particular that you were searching for — from a bird cage to pair of socks. The burritos were good, too.

  One of our Walk Circle neighbors sold illegal tapes at the Flea Market. That Saturday we saw several neighbors. It was especially memorable because at 12 noon an announcement was made over a loudspeaker.

“We ask that you stop what you’re doing for a moment of silence while we remember John Lennon.” “Imagine” was then played over the sound system, filling the still air with one of his most memorable songs.

“Imagine there’s no countries/ It isn’t hard to do/ Nothing to kill or die for/ And no religion, too/ Imagine all the people/ Living life in peace/ You may say that I’m a dreamer/ But I’m not the only one/ I hope someday you’ll join us/ and the world will be as one.”

 
I think we all believed it was possible.
   
     Christmas came and it was kind of a blur. Except for the basketball that Barbara gave me. She knew I loved shooting hoops. I had installed a basketball backboard and hoop on a post in front of our house. We had shoot-arounds and games out on the street.

Except the square box she presented me wrapped in red paper with a bow actually contained the leather jacket from the BX. I was shocked. And embarrassed. It seemed too much. I quite frankly was overwhelmed.

In January I received another unexpected “gift” when I answered the phone.

“Is this Kevin?”
“Yes.”

“This is Gary Shapiro at Cymbaline Records. I really liked what you wrote in Rolling Stone.”

“What?” I was speechless.

“Come down to the store,” he said. “I’ll give you a copy. I want to meet you.”

The piece that I had written for The News had been edited down to a shorter version, yet it was the longest letter in a commemorative issue of Rolling Stone magazine dedicated to the life of John Lennon, January 22, 1981. Over the years I have heard from friends and others who say they ran across my letter. As recent as a few years ago, I received a message from someone on Facebook asking me if I was the same person who wrote that letter.

Chalk it up to my 15 minutes of fame.

That winter, we were preparing to go out with a couple that we knew, Chuck and Kay. I had just put on my jacket when Kay remarked:

“That jacket is just like John wore."
     The following winter, Barbara and I were married on Christmas Eve. Molly and Vanessa stood next to us wearing matching burgundy-colored dresses with yellow flowers. 

Barbara, Molly and Vanessa

The Letter

        When my daughter burst into the kitchen last night with the news that

          Lennon was dead, shot in the back, the association with John Kennedy

          was unavoidable; it was the same empty feeling of despair and tragedy.

          "You knew John Lennon, didn't you, dad?" my eleven-year-old asked. 

          I didn't know him personally, but I felt has if I knew him well. I had been

          listening to Double Fantasy for the last couple of weeks. It made me feel

          good to hear John's voice again, still rocking at age forty and yet more

          mellowed and more satisfied than I'd ever heard him. I had wanted to 

          grow old with John, having followed him for nearly twenty years. My

          parents had the pleasure of sharing the aging process with their favorite

          stars -- Bing Crosby, Bob Hope, Frank Sinatra, George Burns. Nobody

          knocked them off with a bullet in the back. Why is my generation plagued

          with gun-toting crazies whose sick morality must weigh on this be-

          wildered world?

               Rock critics hace, for the last five years, urged John to play again.

          "You owe it to us," the wrote. When John took out an ad in the New York

          Times last year and wished everyone "peace," the rock pundits found his 

          language passe, "anachronisms from the peace-love era," they said. What

          did they want? I've learned not to read reviews, at least not until I've had

          the opportunity to digest the work myself. I did, however, happen to read

          a review of Double Fantasy that was so caustically unfair and ill-conceived

          that I wondered what planet the writer had come from. It seems that in our

          attempt to be new and artistic, abrasive and trendy, indignant and political,

          we've lost touch with something much more important: the human and 

          artistic right to be honest and loving. It made me happy to see John happy. 

          It makes me sad to see John dead. It makes me think we should take a good

          long look at ourselves before something like this happens again.

      

From Silence of the Oranges ©2019 by Kevin Samson, a working title memoir.

Muddling thru Wind, Smoke and Sea

Woke up to gusts of wind
blowing thru bedroom
Whoosh, rattle of wall art
Muted light from east
Frida waits while I
tie shoes

She loves routine
I comply, look for leash
Darkness lingers outdoors
Awaiting reluctant sun
Offshore bursts
rake bay waters

Greg heads toward
surf break on schedule
board under arm
nods and smiles
as though sunny sky
perfect conditions

He my bellwether that
it's Sunday morning
that day is breaking
that like they used to
say about  postal service,
thru rain, sleet & snow,
the surf will be ridden

Thin veil hangs in low sky
filters light
prolongs darkness
of non-sexy smoke
from fires over the hill
Frida acts freaky, hears,
smells oddities in air

I hear Alan Watts thru earbuds
say 'muddling thru' is great
British trait, amid ranting
and posturing they muddle thru,
instead of regal directives,
muddle thru free speech

Greg returns early
from choppy water, his squid-lid
hood pulled over head and
ears to protect from biting wind,
big smile, pantomimes sloppy sea
pushing surf board into his face,
Laughs out loud

I think, he is good muddler

I think, Frida ready for indoors

I think, therefore I am still alive

The China Syndrome

Holographic postage stamp produced in Santa Cruz

Intellectual property theft by China has become a big deal in recent years, to the point that today it is a major topic of our volatile relationship with the ancient nation. To quote from a recent article in the Wall Street Journal entitled “China’s Techno-Kleptomania… Beijing’s schemes imperil American companies and national security. It’ll take a huge effort to stop them.”
     I shudder when I read this, not because of imminent peril from China, but because of my guilt for having contributed to this situation.

I am a simple man whose knowledge of technology is so limited I have trouble turning off the noises coming from my iPhone. I should not own an iPhone. My iPhone owns me. I am two steps above Luddite in enthusiasm for high technology. Yet, because of job security, I was drawn into a web of  “technology transfer” with China. I was only trying to support my family.

The transfer lasted over a span of a few months in 1989, but my participation took place on a Saturday. To protect security concerns and the reputations of my colleagues, I have chosen not to name names. The monikers herein are made up, yet based on real people.

We were a small company operating out of an even smaller office and nearby laboratory in the little town of Santa Cruz, California, known primarily for surfing, a seaside amusement park and for being a stuck-in-time land of hippies. Wandering minstrels were not uncommon in our vicinity, some, incredibly, seeking the mysteries of our seemingly innocent, and mostly unknown, technical endeavors.

We were producing holograms.

The owner of the company was a vagabond-dreamer from Seattle whom I will call Mike McGee, recognized by his peers as either a crackpot, a genius or capitalist scoundrel. Or all three rolled in one. He recognized himself as a Renaissance man and the inventor of a process, utilizing laser beams, for recording holograms, three-dimensional and multi-layered images that could be micro-embossed in volume. 

“You have one in your pocket,” he would say. “It’s on your credit card.” 

McGee was about six-feet tall, wore glasses, light-brown hair, appeared rather average-looking, difficult to find in a crowd. He moved quickly, his upper frame leaning forward, as if his lower body couldn’t keep up with his mind, extremely confident and good natured. Any comment directed his way was answered instantly, without hesitation. He opened himself to anyone who asked.

The terms “hologram” and “micro-emboss” together created an impressive marketing cachet for his business: the romance of a hologram combined with the latest high-technology method of production — micro-embossing, then considered a technology of the future. McGee was as subtle about his wild ideas as a carnival barker, piquing the interests of business, government, foreign investors and eager entrepreneurs, some of questionable character.

He juggled projects simultaneously while much of his time was spent writing legal briefs to defend himself against patent suits by a giant international corporation that claimed to own the holography process that he invented. He had taken the role of being his own lawyer against a mega corporation with a stable of attorneys looking for something to do. In this case, threaten any business relationship that we might pursue that offered potentially lucrative returns. They wanted that business.

We will call this corporation, World Banknote Amalgamated, producers of paper money for most nations on earth. One can imagine their business and political connections. They were Godzilla. We were Bambi.

McGee was undeterred.  

I was his point person.  My job was to bring in new business and manage custom projects. If I came to him with an objection from a potential client who had been threatened by WBA, he would simply say: 

  “Just tell them we’ll change the optics. Change the process.” It was a blithe answer tossed off as though he were waving his hand at an annoying fly.

The Big Gamble

I remember his casual reply working only once. I received a call from one of our better clients, call him Big Sam, whose company, based in Las Vegas, Nevada, produced printed green felts for blackjack and craps tables for the gaming industry. We developed various holograms for Big Sam that he picked up in Santa Cruz in his armored, bullet-proof van.

He produced gaming chips, each embedded with a hologram, just across the border in Mexico through an assembly operation that employed local workers and by-passed tariffs called maquiladora.

A large man, receding hairline, comfortable in leather shoes, shorts and XXL golf shirts that exposed his Popeye-sized forearms, Big Sam spoke in a gravelly tone, in sentences punctuated with expletives. If he were an actor, he could easily have played the role that Marlon Brando portrayed in the Godfather as Don Vito Corleone.

“Hey Kevin. I gotta call from some fuck sayin’ he was gonna sue me if I did business with you. Who is World Banknote, anyway?”

I started to gag but regained purchase while Big Sam waited on the other end of the line. “They’re a competitor just playing games with you,” I said.  “They claim to own the patent that we use for making holograms. We changed the optics and it’s not a problem.”

“Well. Fuck. Them.” 

The three distinct words roared out of my telephone. Our account with Big Sam subsequently increased in volume. He invited me to Vegas and took me to his country club where we played a round of golf with one of his buddies. On the way there he pointed out a dubious venture by Debbie Reynolds who had come out of retirement to put her name on a casino.

“You see that, Kevin,” he said, his dark chocolate eyes scanning the Vegas landscape. “That’s what we call a strawberry patch.” He explained that business suppliers would descend on Ms. Reynolds while she was flush, before her nonsensical idea failed. Presumably because she had spent all of her capital.

Our business remained fairly steady with McGee appearing and disappearing. Among his many projects, he was developing contacts in China.

First Holographic Stamp                                                               

In the spring of 1989, McGee and I jetted off to Springfield, Massachusetts, to meet with a room full of engineers at Westvaco Corporation to discuss how to produce a holographic postage stamp, the first for the U.S. I believe Finland was the first country to introduce a holographic stamp.

      Westvaco Envelope made the pre-stamped envelopes for the U.S. Postal Service. The USPS Art Director in charge of imagery for stamps joined us at the meeting, a bearded philatelist and aesthete versed in graphics and art, and I’m sure haute cuisine and the higher ambitions of good theater, although his baggy grey suit and plain red tie indicated a Postal Service soldier and not a man of fashion. He introduced the image of a space station as the subject of the first U.S. holographic postage stamp.

At one point things bogged down regarding exactly how we were going to patch the holograms into a pre-made window on the envelopes. The registration of the hologram into the window had to be exact. We had not perfected a micro-embossing technique that could hold an exactly repeating register. This was a problem.

McGee, his shirt half-untucked and sly grin twitching the corner of his mouth, walked to the front of the room of engineers and with a piece of chalk began drawing a diagram on the blackboard. The engineers nodded their heads as though they were in church listening to a sermon. The diagram was simple, yet based on my experiential management of such projects, impossible.

Then McGee asked for a break. He wanted to call a colleague in Los Angeles. I accompanied him into the hallway where he dialed a number on the telephone attached to the wall, known as a pay phone.

“Can this really be done?” I asked him, incredulously, referring to the diagram he presented to the engineers. 

“I’m going to find out,” he said.

He was able to reach his colleague in L.A., one of a handful of renegade inventors within the nascent holography community. They all knew each other. They all competed against each other. McGee, understanding that Mr. Los Angeles boasted of a secret, "dead nuts" high-volume embossing technique, had no qualms about reaching out to him.

“Can do,” came the answer from Los Angeles, where time was around 7 a.m. 
      I'd like to say that the rest is history. However, WBA was given the contract to produce the first holographic stamp for the USPS: a 3D image of a space station. We made the second one a year later, an inferior image of the Lombardi Super Bowl trophy issued on opening day of the 1990 NFL season.

Here Come the Chinese

About this time groups of Chinese men and women, dressed in brown and white and smoking foul-smelling cigarettes, began appearing at our office in Santa Cruz and spending most of their time in our production room. McGee had courted them, evidently promising cutting edge technology — the manufacture of embossed holograms — to provide jobs and industry to China.

Selling our technology to China was viewed by some as questionable practice, yet in reality the embossing machines that we were touting seemed to me clunky Rube Goldberg-like dinosaurs. I could not wrap my brain around selling this funky equipment to China in the name of high technology.

Although I was not involved in this project, McGee came to me with a request. Would I rent a large van and escort the group from China to San Francisco for a day?

“Sure,” I said.

That Saturday I drove a multi-passenger van carrying ten people from China, my wife, youngest daughter and a friend, to San Francisco. My family does not speak Chinese and our group spoke very little English.

We visited Coit Tower in North Beach, dined at renowned Tosca Cafe on Columbus Avenue and I dropped the group off at the south end of the Golden Gate Bridge so that they could walk across it, soak up the views as they stepped one-foot-after-another across one of the world’s most famous bridges. I picked them up on the other side in Marin County. We ended our day in Chinatown where I experienced by biggest surprise and revelation.

In the midst of mingling aromas and sights of pagodas, hanging skinned ducks, markets of ivory, strange produce, the tinkling of bells and cacophony of commerce, we came upon a store whose sole product was Ginseng, in various forms — from roots to tonics. Our group went absolutely wild.

They were shouting and smiling and hopping around, grabbing boxes of Ginseng as if it were gold, the most animated they had been all day. This was manna. The secret to health and long life, they explained. “Cures everything.”

“Don’t you have Ginseng in China?” I asked.

“Not easy to get,” they answered. “Growing illegal.”

I was silenced. This was not a technology transfer so much as an opportunity to smuggle American Ginseng into China. If the mere presence of Ginseng created such elation and high energy, I figured I had better get some, too. 
      The technology transfer itself was completed some months later.

                                                                   
                                                                          ***                                                                   

 

Downtown Santa Cruz following the Loma Prieta Earthquake

      Shortly after our excursion to San Francisco, on October 17, 1989, a 6.9 earthquake struck the area— Loma Prieta — that destroyed buildings, homes and killed 63 people. The epicenter was in The Forest of Nisene Marks State Park, a short distance from Mike McGee’s home. His cabin had slid down a hill and collapsed into rubble. Thankfully, neither he nor his family were in the structure at the time. He subsequently left the area and hired an advertising man from New York City to run and grow his company, which had been shaken but was still on its feet. He came with his own tricks and sidekicks.

From Silence of the Oranges © 2019 Kevin Samson, a working title memoir.

Riding Waves and Developing Ohana

Anini Reef last day in September

When the full rainbow appeared over Hanalei Bay today, I knew that I would ride my next wave both here and then again in Santa Cruz in a couple of days.

Those of us in the lineup at Pavilions smiled and took a moment to enjoy the rainbow’s full arc. Perhaps, one could project, it represented the same arc that MLK was referring to: the arc of time and how justice and love will prevail.

Dreaming again. Never turn your back on the ocean, I reminded myself. The bay water was clear like glass and temperately warm, the tropical heat suffocatingly fragrant.

This would be my final surf session before returning home and leaving this blessed island. Seven weeks flew by but not without a few crashes.

Paradise has its troubles, too.

On the downside our daughter who resides here was involved in an automobile accident with her two little ones in the car as well. They survived physically unscathed. Mama was emotionally shook up, the car was ruined and life goes on.

Barbara received a call telling her that one of her best friends since childhood had died.  Should she fly to Manhattan Beach for a memorial with her friend’s ohana ("family" in Hawaiian) which she is definitely a part of?

She struggled with the decision but ultimately made a pact with a mutual friend who also knew Nancy and would be at the family memorial. Barbara put pen to paper and jotted down memories of the three friends when they worked together and ran off to Mexico for much needed r&r and an adventure they would never forget. The story would add levity to the ohana "celebration."

On the upside our island time afforded sweet visits with our two grandchildren, Viva, 8, and Mystiko, 1. I love holding the little guy in my arm as if he is a badge of honor: my honor to be a grandpa. His bare skin is always warm.

Mystiko and I at Anahola Beach

Viva runs like a deer and at the park I asked if I could time her with my stopwatch, a nifty addition to my iPone, something I remember doing with my daughters in our backyard. "Run out to that soccer goal, around it and back, and I'll see how fast you go."

"You do it first," said Viva.

So grandpa slipped off his slippahs and ran the route barefoot across the grass. I hadn't run at any pace in years, now I was actually running half-speed. Quite a sight, I'm sure. Barbara and Viva laughed out loud, and I had a-mile-wide grin on my face keeping a steady stride, feeling the soft grass underfoot that evoked pleasant memories of my youth.

Viva and her friend Zenaida were so encouraged they followed my example, beating my time by a full five seconds.

Barbara’s 94-year-old mother, Bettelu, flew over to join us, as well as two of Barbara’s nieces, Ariel and Brooke, and her lovely sister-in-law Jennifer. Bettelu's helper, Lily, also joined the party. She has an eye for setting up photos. She snapped the family pic on this page.

I really enjoyed having Brooke around. At age 23, she knows her way around an iPhone. 

“Brooke,” I announced, “I am designating you as my technology guru.”

She deigned a smile my way, and seemed to accept the role without objection. Her laughter alone was enough. Jennifer and Ariel were also stellar guests, way cool.

Bettelu is everything I could ask for in a mother-in-law. We get along best when we’re drinking martinis. At other times she loves treating me as her beautiful daughter’s space-cadet husband. I get it.

Left to right from bottom: Viva, Bettelu, Mystiko, Brooke, Kevin, Barbara, Jennifer and Isabel

Also on the positive, we did not encounter one centipede. Despite their minimal size, they are considered the most dangerous animal in the islands. And the smaller ones have the worst toxic sting. The reference to predatory animals does not include sharks. But they’re in the water looking for surfers.

We did have fun hunting down flying cockroaches, some as big as bats. They co-exist with da locals, the wild chickens, nene (Hawaiian geese) and numerous island birds. The Golden Plover arrive after a mating frenzy in Alaska to spend winter months in Hawaii.

We continue to make friends on the island, from our neighborhood -- such as our dear friends Rick Carroll and soul partner Marcie Carroll -- and through the yoga and tai chi classes we attend at the Princeville Community Center. I am one of the few men to practice yoga here. Note to single men who want to meet women: Take a yoga class. The other man who attends yoga classes is named Curly.

Tai Chi group gathers around Curly at Hanalei Bay

He has lived on the island since the beginning, almost. He took time off to attend Stanford University in the Fifties where he was All America on the football team. He likes to regale me with stories of surfing Steamer Lane in Santa Cruz during that period, before wetsuits and stairs on the cliffs.

“One time,” he tells me, “My hands were so cold I couldn’t hold the rope to climb back up the cliff. I had to surf in through that baby break… what do they call it?”

“Cowells,” I said, attempting to explain that "when the sandbars are formed, it is a great longboard wave.” I could tell, he wouldn’t have it. I didn’t want to add that it is my favorite break.

Curly also attends our group tai chi sessions. Our Grand Master Skip defers to Curly as our real Grand Master. If there is ever a question about island flora, fauna or tai chi, we ask Curly.

“Where did you learn tai chi?” I asked him. 

“On a barge on the Yangtze River,” he answered in his gruff baritone. Presumably from the Exceptionally Great Grand Master of All China. 

We also spend time with our friends who have relocated here from Santa Cruz -- Maureen Neihaus and her husband Carl, once known as BC (Big Carl) in the Santa Cruz surf community. 

So here I am on my last morning sitting on a surfboard on Hanalei Bay at a break called Pavilions, where there has been a nice sandbar all summer. I know I’m the oldest person in the lineup. Curly doesn’t surf any longer. He uses a walker to get around, I think, due to years of hardcore living. When the Princeville Rodeo was an annual event, before the highway came through, Curly was a calf-roping poniolo (Hawaiian for cowboy).

Floating on the gentle rises of the ocean between sets, I reflect on these things about the island, including yesterday at the Kauai Folk Fest at the Grove Farm in Lihue. It was a local scene with an eclectic lineup that featured island musicians as well as name artists like bluegrass legend Peter Rowan and the irrepressible Taj Mahal who supposedly has a home on Kauai.

Taj Mahal tunes up his ukulele

The Grove, an historic plantation home setting, sits in the middle of Lihue and I swear only those who’ve been on the island for years even know it’s there. It’s surrounded by lush flora. You cannot see it from the roads. It’s actually a stone’s throw from CostCo and everybody knows where CostCo is.

The thing about Kauai, its best secrets and finest places are in the most unlikely locations, or right in front of you but you don't know it, like the Anahola Market and smoky hamburger stand, and the Mission House in Hanalei. Tourists rush by to the understandably famous spots — like Ke’e Beach at end of the road and Waimea Canyon and the Na Pali Coast. 

The perfect rainbow over the bay this morning was here and gone. Just like the good and the bad times. Just like the waves that roll through, some of which we get to ride. They come and go and you know they will continue to do so. I am confident that the recent swell here in Hawaii from the north, way up near the Aleutian Islands, will pass through Santa Cruz this coming week. And I want to be there waiting for it. I want to tell everyone that I rode that same wave on Sunday on Kauai.

From Silence of the Oranges ©2019 Kevin Samson, a working title memoir

Transporting Art and Mind

Flashback alert.
Volkswagen bus owners only.
Or, beware of road fatigue.

Hot. Very hot. 90 degrees tropical.
Old VW buses have no AC.

My orders to meet woman with art
at Koloa Road bus stop,
only bus stop on
Koloa Road.

To tramsport paintings
across island.

Bus belongs to artist daughter
only vehicle available
that large-scale art can
fit into.

Art is not made
for easy packaging
or shipping.

Art is art.

Sitting in driver's seat
remember from many moons
ago, chair does not budge.
Must deal.

Am grandpa now
not hippie traveler of 1973.

But same gearing, shift rising
up from floor, magic wand
necessary for downshifting
on hills both up and down.

Think: are other drivers
on two-way island highway
as nervous about me -- old Taylor Camp-looking
guy -- as I am?

Probably think just another
trip to auto parts store
how does he keep that thing running?

Notice all new cars
look the same, not artistic.
Old VW buses
all look same,
iconic shape.

All people on island
look same
to me.

Pretty soon red dirt on everything.

I text woman who has art that
I am now at tree tunnel heading
southwest on Kuhio Hwy

She texts reply to keep going to
Koloa Road.

Find road. Continue on. See bus stop.
Pull over. Text I am at bus stop.

She texts okay, is on her way.

Bus goes by and does not stop
I think maybe this not only bus stop
on Koloa Road. Maybe woman with art
does not know about this one.

Or maybe this is not bus stop, just a bench
with overhead cover with graffiti on it.

Get in bus and drive.
See Warehouse 3540 industrial bldg
converted to chill coffee stop and
popup shopping displays.

Text woman with art if she can meet
me at Warehouse 3540.
She texts no,
does not have car.

I think art wouldn't fit in car anyway.

Text her I will drive farther
look for above-mentioned now
famous bus stop.

See two women waving hands.
Pull over.

Aloha, says one
holding two large paintings
wrapped and protected.

She works at gallery.

Aloha.
So nice to meet you.
Mahalo.

She points across street at
bus stop, with proper signs and
new blue paint. Only
bus stop on Koloa Road.

Drive back across island in bus
with paintings safely stored,
engine chugging like
freight train, wind whipping
through open windows like
warm hurricane,
downshifting like seasoned truck driver
over hills of lush
greenery.

My aloha shirt wet, sticks
to car seat. Left leg numb from
pinching nerve.

Remember that once I saw
America from same vantage
of old VW bus. Like it was
yesterday.

From Silence of the Oranges ©2019 Kevin Samson, a working title memoir

Tender Goodbye to Special House

They’re moving out today.  

For the past year they have occupied the once elegant, Spanish-influenced bungalow that was built for William and Filomena Dutra, who arrived in our small burgh on the edge of Monterey Bay in 1938.

We’re going to miss these guys.  A “hippie rocker” and his 17-year-old son moved into the house next door a year ago understanding that it would be demolished in 12 months by the new owner. 

It’s been a temporary pad for the father, his son and a revolving door of teenagers who arrive at all hours, bringing more and more stuff: an old wood sailboat, various trucks and vans, mountains of bricks and concrete, piles of old furniture, surfboards, wetsuits and two large, shaggy white dogs that occupy the front porch and howl harmoniously like coyotes. Inside, they’ve set up a rock ’n roll music studio.

Being good neighbors, they always warn us when they will be recording, even cover the front windows with thick boards of sheet rock to contain the amplified music.

Brett moving out

The group put life into a house that had been fallow for several years since our original neighbors passed away. Today they’re moving out. That is, if they can get rid of all their stuff. If they cannot, soon the house will be gone, and I assume anything remaining will be bulldozed, scraped and hauled away. The end of an era.

I can still see Beulah and Lee, our first neighbors, in the corner window sitting at a table drinking coffee, enjoying their view and waving to us when we passed by. The wood-framed windows face southeast with unobstructed sightlines to the bay and the Santa Cruz Municipal Wharf.

They were retirees, had purchased the house from the Dutras so that they could spend their golden years near the ocean, absorbing the sea breezes and inhaling nautical aromas wafting from the wharf where a group of Italian fishermen and their families had for years tied their boats, operated fish markets and seafood restaurants.

Beulah and Lee loved tending to their gardens that surrounded the house. The flora included fruit trees: citrus, apricot and apple, strawberries, various flowers and shrubs, and a liquid amber tree whose leaves changed from green to dark bronze with the seasons, filtering morning sunlight from the east that washed into our kitchen.

I remember the day I looked out the window and saw Lee hanging from his apple tree. His ladder had fallen. I ran over, set the ladder up and helped him find his footing to safely get down.

“I owe you, Kevin,” he said, his voice a little shaky.

Lee was a retired butcher. When he got started on a tree-pruning mission, the result could be devastating, not necessarily for him but for the tree.

“I just can’t stop him,” Beulah once remarked, shaking her head.

Beulah outlived Lee by several years. Lee died on my 56th birthday, which I’ll probably never forget because of the date. He had been ill. It wasn’t a shock to his family. We attended Lee’s funeral at a local church. Dressed in black and white, with pearls, Beulah was the most beautiful woman, with a kind, loving spirit to match her physical radiance.

When our daughter Bryna was 12-years-old, she pronounced that Beulah was the “coolest” person that she knew. She was never one to fall for phonies. They had a solid friendship.

With Lee gone, Beulah remained in the house by herself, with the help of a string of young care-givers whose stories were so varied and unique that you could develop a Netflix mini-series about them, from a young male cartoonist to a troubled crackhead to a Native American rights advocate. Beulah became friends with each of them.

A tiny but well-appointed studio still stands, attached to the back of the garage. For many years, until a week or so ago, the studio was the home of a single man and longtime character of Santa Cruz known as “Automo-Billy.” A motor-head, Bill at one time ran a popular European car repair shop in town.

Bill can bear witness to the past 15 years of changes at the Dutra House. The recent mountain of materials between his studio and his automobile parked on the street evoked this comment:

“I’m walking through Dogpatch,” his Philadelphia accent lending a nice twist.

He has found a new apartment in Soquel. “I’m the perfect tenant,” he says. “I’m single. I don’t cook and I don’t have a pet.”

As for Beulah, she survived in the home into her early 90s.

The adult children of Beulah and Lee inherited the house, whose value had immensely increased due to its location and the generous size of the lot. Finding agreement about what to do with the house was like attempting to herd feral cats, of which there were many in the neighborhood. The family ended up selling the property for $2.2 million to a Silicon Valley executive who assured them that he would not destroy the beloved house of their parents.

 
After about a year of struggling with permits and design alterations, the new owner decided , instead, to sell. He said it was going to take him five years to complete his remodel. He claimed he had found his “dream house” in Marin County.

For several years, there had been no yard or house maintenance and the “Dutra House” had gone to seed.

A new buyer, also from Silicon Valley, snapped it up with plans to demolish the house and split the lot in half, build two two-story houses.

A 1500-square-foot house sitting on 14,000-square-foot lot is sinful to the modern developer, money left on the table. The pleasant open space surrounding the structure must be occupied by buildings, traded for dollars.

The city says it needs housing. The developer says he will provide it. The reality is the two new houses will be multi-million dollar homes out of reach of the once-typical Santa Cruz family. The new houses will likely be second homes of wealthy buyers and sit vacant part of the year. I could be wrong.

I can see a tear drop trailing down Beulah’s tender cheek.

The new owner did a simple clean-up, held an “open house” in order to rent the place for a year while he put his “ducks in a row” before demolition. Walking through the former residence of Beulah and Lee, and the Dutra family of years ago, I was moved by the simplicity of the house, only two bedrooms, one bathroom and small kitchen. The hardwood floors worn yet firm and natural, the living room spacious, where Beulah would sit and read by the fireplace, with a large picture window facing the street. A comfortably-sized dining room with a large front-facing window separates the living room and the precious corner nook off the kitchen facing the ocean.

Years ago, Barbara and I were driving through the neighborhood dreaming about the perfect place to live. On a side street a half-block from the ocean, I spotted a tile-roofed house with a long, expansive covered front porch with terracotta tile floor.

“That’s my perfect house,” I said.

Little did I know that one-day we would own the small house next door.

Today the two large, shaggy white dogs were howling again, perhaps lamenting that they will be moved out by day’s end. The hippie father, a builder himself, and I have developed a friendship, as I have with his son. They’re down-to-earth people. He says they found a place to rent nearby, but not as close to the water. He’s started to surf before work. He glows when he talks about his new ocean discovery.

Maybe the occupants of the two new houses will have the same revelation. Maybe it’s all going to work out for the better.

One thing for sure, when the liquid amber tree is cut down and a two-story building takes its place, I’m going to miss the many branches of pointed leaves that change color with the seasons.

From Silence of the Oranges ©2019 Kevin Samson, a working title memoir