When I first met Pete Crosby it was hard for me to imagine him ever biking from Ventura California to Refugio Beach (68 miles) with Cowboy Willie to spend the night in a cow pasture. Even as a fifteen year old, self-described poor boy. The Pete I met was a successful Southern California businessman, casually though elegantly dressed, holding court with other prominent Cal and Stanford alumni in the private backroom of a funky seafood restaurant in Berkeley. But once he and the Cowboy started recanting their childhood adventures and their heady days in high school as the “Big Six” – well, everyone buckled in and prepared to be amused.
Pete Crosby in high school probably in his dad’s pharmacy
That was at least twenty-five years ago but already they’d had a lifetime together. True, their paths diverged wildly. Pete blamed the hippie movement for the death of his only brother and Cowboy Willie protested with the Black Panthers. But Pete was the sort of guy to always keep the old gang together no matter what.
Cowboy Willie took his passing hard.
But, he took Buckaroo Wayne’s passing even harder. “I loved that guy,” he said. And then he choose to say no more.
Wayne at an AIDS March probably 1994. He’s giving Cowboy Willie the old “you don’t say” look which probably proceeded a snarky retort. The two buckaroos spent a lot of time far from home trying to get computer systems up and running. And then they’d blow their expense accounts on wine and beer while debating things like “quarks.”
Nothing we can do. Old friends leave and we go on. But there should be a law: No more than one buckaroo should be allowed to pass every year.
We’re having a few lovely spring days before winter returns. And so I took a stroll through our community park. The tennis courts were full as were the pickleball courts. Toddlers meandered through the play structures and rolled around the grass watched carefully by their attendants. It was picture perfect in every way.
Curious, I climbed up to the open air theater to see if the Starlight Village Players had begun to prepare for their upcoming season.
I was not disappointed. The fun thing about outdoor theater is that you can generally observe the “behind the scenes” preparations. I assume the arched door leads back stage but we shall see.
To the left of the arched door, a city skyline seems to be taking shape.
To the right, another city skyline. Is that the Tower of London and Big Ben?
There are two panels in front of the skyline also in process. Red foxes, blue owls, a full moon – and is that a bear approaching? We’ll have to wait and see.
The Starlight Village Players are putting on three plays this season (in alphabetical order):
As You Like It by William Shakespeare
Carmilla by LeFanu
The Spider’s Web by Agatha Christie
Which one do you think they’re working on now? Ah, let’s see. The skyline of London?
The Spider’s Web, of course. Given the synopsis of this play, I don’t know how a nocturnal, forest scene fits in. Well, as I said, we’ll have to wait and see.
I can’t wait until the end of September. That’s when the Players plan to present Carmilla which I wrote about back in 2021. Is my small town ready for a play about erotic, lesbian vampires? We shall see!
Check out other – probably more interesting doors – at Dan’s place.
Last Friday I broke into the Jordan Almonds that I’d been saving for some special occasion. Generally I don’t keep such treats in the house because I can’t resist eating them all. But I saw them on sale just before Easter and thought the children who planned to visit us might like them (and if they didn’t, well I deserve a treat every now and then, don’t I?)
Old fashioned treats you don’t see everyday which means, of course, that they must be bought!
Upon arrival, said children announced their intention to become Buddhists and move to some smallish island off the coast of Japan. They ignored the Jordan Almonds. They ignored the Sees chocolate bunnies. They instead opted for oatmeal. I flirted with Buddhism in my youth and I don’t remember Jordan Almonds or chocolate bunnies ever being considered taboo items. I remember sitting on the floor and meditating with homemade prayer beads (which were actually lug nuts on a string). And then heading off to buy a Baskin Robbins ice cream cone. I guess we were Hedonistic Buddhists.
But times change … On with my story.
Upon first bite I concluded that the Jordan Almonds must have been on the shelf for decades and that’s why they were on sale. Upon first bite I also lost half of one of my molars.
Beware the Jordan Almonds!
“How are you other than falling apart?” The young dentist asked after examining my x-ray. “The filing in that tooth is so heavy that the tooth actually broke apart. What were you eating?”
“Jordan Almonds.”
“The good news is: the filling is still intact.”
“So I didn’t swallow the filling … I swallowed my tooth?”
“Lucky you! No mercury poisoning and, I think there’s enough left of the tooth that I can build a crown.”
Dentists on a Friday afternoon always seem so chipper, don’t they?
Min, my dentist’s new assistant, orders me to stay seated for “the insurance.” The Insurance comes with another bit of “good news.” A new crown will only me cost a thousand dollars! But I’d better get it done soon otherwise I could need a root canal and that’s a whole lot ‘nutter ballgame!
I have never had a root canal but I will take everyone’s word that it’s worse than death.
“So … we can do now?” Min asks cheerfully.
“Really?” How could I get so lucky. Someone must have cancelled.
Before I know it, my mouth is swabbed with the numbing gel and then comes the needle. Halfway thru the dentist’s drill hits a nerve as that old metal filling decides to put up a fight. “Good news! That pain means what’s left of the tooth is still alive!” More numbing gel applied. My face puffs up like a balloon. Pretty soon it will pop!
The Waning Gibbous knows how I feel!
After the temporary is made and set in place, Min appears with “The List” which must be followed or else: only soft food for two weeks (no Jordan Almonds), no floss on that side; gargle with Hydrogen Peroxide but “no swallow.” Take aspirin for pain, etc, etc.
I hate to break it to Min but there’s no way I’m gargling with Hydrogen Peroxide. Knowing me, I’d probably swallow it like I did half my tooth.
We had a brief peek of Spring last week, two days with temperatures in the seventies and so I spent all day outside mostly scrubbing mold off outdoor furniture and the deck. Still outside.
But alas, a peek is all we got and then the fog bank moved in. And it became glum. And yesterday sirens blasted for a good half hour as helicopters circled the skies. Google maps reported that the nearby highway had been closed because of multi-car accidents. But the news stations were fixated on Trump farting or Trump nodding off or Trump having a temper tantrum. Frankly, my dear, I could give a s**t. I wonder if all that Trump news caused the drivers on Highway 24 to lose their minds and play bumper cars!
The blooms, so hungry for sun, weep to see its departure.
No painter could ever touch the artistry of nature. Although I am tempted to try. If only the sun would come back. Among my other faults, I can only paint in natural light.
The last time I posted was April 13th – 10 days ago. Besides scrubbing the mold off decks, I’ve been pulling together two stories that … after a lifetime, sigh … I’ve realized are the same story. Which necessitated ignoring Yee Olde Blogge. During the time I’ve been gone, these are the posts that someone (God knows who or why has been reading or at least viewing):
I confess that I don’t often wear garden gloves while weeding, which means my fingernails are a fright and I have to be leery of plants whose sap, once on your skin, has to be removed with turpentine. But garden gloves get smelly and have to be washed and hung on the line where often I forget about them for days. Then the sun comes out and I forget about them again and they shrink.
Sometimes I’ll get a thorn in one of my fingers and I vow to remove all roses from the garden.
Except perhaps the climbing roses. They have no thorns.
The fox squirrel hears the door open and springs into action.
“You don’t really think you’re getting out the door without giving me a peanut!”
As I sit in my chair by the window contemplating the mundane on a soggy day, so far away bombs are falling. Who knows what it will lead to. If we’re lucky, some bluster-fluster saber rattling although … it sure gets old. It sure gets old.
A few days ago a woman who’d just graduated from law school wore a hijab to a party honoring her and others at the Dean’s house. There she whipped out a portable bullhorn and proceeded to lecture the attendees on the genocide the university is supporting in Gaza. The Dean and his wife are Jewish, as she well knew. Horror upon horror, they asked her to leave. Horror upon horror, they touched her sacred hijab on the holiest of Muslim holidays when she refused to leave. Now, of course, she’s suing. It sure gets old.
The other day a blogger whose posts are always entertaining, Ally Bean at The Speckled Bean, wrote about glimpsing into a cookbook from the 1980s. Her post reminded me of my mother-in-law’s cookbooks which were published by the Relief Society (Mormon’s ladies charity) and so contained recipes meant to serve large families on the cheap. I couldn’t find those gems. But I did find this one:
It’s hard to tell when it was “published” or by whom. There’s no information on the front or back cover and no title page. However, based on this sage bit of advice, I would say no later than the 1960s.
Good news, Ladies! if your spouse is one of the poorer varieties, don’t despair! A bit of patience is all you need.
These cookbooks may seem quaint by today’s standards, but I’m sure the women who contributed the recipes and helped type up and illustrate the book were proud of their accomplishment. Proud to sell those books and donate the proceeds to charity. However, reading through them I had the eerie feeling that many were the result of trial and error and that many children suffered.
Have any of you ever tasted Ginger Ale Salad? It sounded okay until the stuffed olives. Well, I don’t know about the celery and banana combo but then I’m a notoriously picky eater.
Ever wonder what to do with an old can of tomato soup? Well, make a cake of course. Ingenious? What do you think?
The following recipe was a bit of a surprise. Delores Cook must have been a woman ahead her time. I might even give this one a try.
Sounds like a recipe for liver apple pie, doesn’t it! Just put some ice cream on top and yumm!
Another surprise! Who would have guessed that liver, applesauce, and cinnamon can be tasty together? Sadly, I don’t eat liver but if any of y’all want to give this dish a try, let me know how it goes. I’m dying to hear!
Friday, April 6th: Today I meant to start on the taxes. It was too cold to go outside and I had several episodes of the mini-series Shogun taped to remind myself that, as bad as taxes can be, at least I’m not a woman in medieval Japan.
“Please allow me to chop off my head so that I can join my noble father who committed seppuku for sneezing too loudly in front of Lord Ishimoto. I cannot live with the dishonor he has brought upon the family.”
I can still remember the first time I read Shogun. I couldn’t get to sleep. How could such a society have ever existed? So far, I’ve only seen the first couple of episodes of the televised version but … I don’t know. It seems a bit watered down. Poor old Mariko-sana. Will she be able to escape that icky husband and get it on with John Blackthorn? Especially now that the smelly barbarian has decided bathing isn’t such a bad thing?
Speaking of water … Friday it hailed!
Monday, April 8th: What a mistake it was to do taxes on the Solar Eclipse of the Sun Day. Something must be wrong. Solar flare? Moon fart? I’ll have to try again tomorrow! Wish me luck or I’ll be joining Mariko-sana in pleading for a quick death (which, by the way, does not get you off the hook with the IRS!)
My third book was based on a fourteen year battle with the Taxman. Fourteen years and more paperwork then you can ever imagine! It’s out of print now and will probably remain that way. I don’t know if I can rehash those painful years again. I’d much rather dabble in fantasy.
Today was another lovely day and I needed to get away from the house. Luckily a couple of friends felt the same way and we went to check out the turtle population at Cascade Lake. And guess what?
There was a baby turtle swimming near the limb where the adult turtles’ like to sunbathe. We were at a distance so this was the best shot I could get with my iPhone camera.
To the right are about seven large fish – we guessed they might be catfish.
One day not long ago, my friend Liz invited me to go on a walk with her to see “the houses that are falling down.” Who could resist such an invitation? Especially since we’ve had very few sunny days lately.
The falling down houses are in the oldest and most exclusive part of town, near a man made lake with no beaches, no swimming and no fishing. Just one lonely turtle that Liz has made friends with. The pond is next to a a country club that has not modernized in 100 years and admits only legacy clients (the descendants of the charter members). Still it’s not pleasant to see even rich people’s homes teetering on the sides of saturated hills. I couldn’t bring myself to take pictures.
Liz’s favorite door belongs to a Spanish style home much closer to downtown than the falling down houses. This door is actually a gate. The property is surrounded by a high adobe wall and it’s right on a busy street so this is the only picture I was able to get (I was actually standing in the street, dodging speeding luxury cars – ah, the lengths we go to to get our ThursdayDoors!). I tried to find out more of the history of the place but couldn’t. I can only imagine.
Saying nothing in particular 