The Sweet Life

Humming birds outside my window
furiously trying to suck
All the sweetness out of the world.

A worthy goal.  

San Simeon: Post Apocaliptic Quisine

So you're hankering for some fresh greens, a salad let's say. 

But let us also say it's the Second Coming of Covid, much worse than before, or some other such catastrophe. Supermarkets are decimated, produce is rotten and civilization has circled down the bowl with a quick flush.

What are you going to do?

Do you want to starve yourself to an ugly death, all the while surrounded by nature's bounty?

No need to, my lucky friend, because YOU LIVE IN SAN SIMEON, CALIFORNIA!

Within 200 yards of wherever you happen to be standing in this delightful burg, is everything needed to throw together that tasty bowl of greens you've been craving.

So let's fix you up with some greens!

San Simeon Salad 

WILD TURNIP PLANTS

In San Simeon, wild turnup plants are ubiquitous (like, everywhere) and are the go to plant for post apocalyptic produce.

Wild turnups are noted for their pink to white flowers with only four petals attached to their center.  Most parts are edible--especially the leaves and pod-like fruit resembling supermarket pea pods.

The leaves and pod fruit are low in calories and high in fiber as well as vitamin C, potassium, and manganese.

Turnip health benefits include improved immunity, increased regularity, weight loss and better heart health.  They may also contain cancer fighting compounds that can help protect against several types of cancer.

But don't try to eat the root; you'd need the teeth of beaver to chow down on that puppy.

We will begin with the lettuce-like leaves. Gather about two cups of turnup greens--from areas not likely to be frequented by dogs. There's nothing nutritious about dog piss.

RINSE THOROUGHLY just in case, and then pat dry.

Likewise, wash the fruit pods (after trimming off the fibrous tips shown below) which will add a satisfying crouton crunch to your salad. Look for pods that are young and tender, deep green and nearly mature.

Perform the same process as with the leaves, selecting the younger ones to avoid any bitterness that might spoil the excellent nut and peppery taste.

But remember these ingredients MUST be gathered from the wild turnip, the only four petaled flower to be found in San Simeon!

I think.

Failure to look for these four airplane prop-like petals could result in a harvest of a very different pink/white flowered plant, the morning glory:

Eating these cup shaped flowers above could go badly for you. All parts of the morning glory, especially the seeds, are suffused with a chemical derivative of LSD. Side effects could include dissociation, paranoid ideation and terrifying hallucinations. Seek medical help immediately.

But even with the right stuff in hand, picky eaters might find the furry underbelly of the turnip leaf objectionable with its nettle-like roughness. You might consider quick-boiling the leaves beforehand, maybe even flash roasting them over a fire.

But if turnips with all their nutritional goodness still can't satisfy your salad cravings, consider a different leafy green--and my favorite . . .

THE NASTURTIUM

. . . which has, unlike the wild turnip, leaves that are smoother on both sides, larger and more tender. They are round in shape with spokes radiating out from a central point:

The flower has five petals which are clawed, with the lower three unlike the upper two.

As a bonus, the unfolded flower buds (see round objects, bottom of

photo above) make excellent capers and add texture to your salad.

Nasturtiums are kick-ass nutrition, containing many vitamins and minerals including: 

 

Vitamin C: a high level of vitamin C is found in the leaves and petals of nasturtiums. 

 

Vitamins A, B, and B6 are found in the leaves. 

 

Potassium, phosphorus, calcium, and magnesium: found in the flowers and other parts of the nasturtium plant. 

 

Manganese, copper, iron, flavonoids, beta carotene--also found in the flowers and other parts of the plant.

And there's this: nasturtiums are rich in antioxidants, such as anthocyanins and polyphenols. The leaves also contain an enzyme called myrosinase, which has bactericidal, fungicidal, and virucidal qualities. 

Not to mention that nasturtiums are SUSTAINABLE (do not deplete natural  resources) and classified as NATURALIZED.  No they can't pass a citizenship test, but they are prolific and able to take care of themselves in the wild.  All the above nasturtium photos were taken in the vicinity of my backyard fence, where lush scarlet volunteers flourish without my intervention or care.

If you care to fact check me, turn off Highway 1 heading toward Shamel Park.  Look left and right and you'll see veritable jungles of naturalized nasturtiums.

 

Yeah, they may be a little invasive but can you ever get enough nutrition after Armageddon has spoiled all your dinner plans?

But let's get back to our San Simeon Salad. Most people like to zest up their greens with dressing.

I've got two ideas for this. . .

FENNEL

Do you like licorice?

I do.

I would even put licorice flavored dressing on my post apocalyptic salad!

Fennel is one of three plants used over the years to extract licorice flavoring.

You've seen fennel along the highway, right? During the fall, the green tops turn yellow and bitter.

Seek out instead the lower, greener clusters (see lower right of photo above) for their tenderness and sweet taste. 

And the young fernlike sprouts (below) make for a great garnish. Or they could be eaten a la carte, enjoyed solely for the rich spicy flavor typical of the mustard family.

And it makes an excellent off-label dressing.

Do you know what a mortar and pestle is? 

Neither do I.

But you can place a cup of washed green flower tops in a ceramic bowl. Then begin mashing them with a blunt object--but not a hammer!

Add several tablespoons of water and continue crushing until well pulverized. Strain off what's left and use the liquid remains as a dressing. 

Should you have any extra green tops, put them in your mouth and eat them. They're like candy, very sweet and refreshing!

Now another cautionary note. Fennel is not the only umbrellate in the San Simeon area.

That my friend is HEMLOCK, the poison given to Socrates by his reactionary students. That did not go well for the famous Greek philosopher as you may recall. 

Hemlock is also prolific in San Simeon, growing in and around Fennel. So let's examine Hemlock more closely:

Same height, stems, and umbrella like flower clusters. 

But can you see the one difference?

...

....

.....

(wait time)

THAT'S RIGHT!

They're white

Not yellow, not green, but white.

WHITE!  WHITE!  WHITE!

You see, I once tried to explain this critical difference to a hiking friend of mine. Further down the trail, I watched in horror as he put something white into his mouth.

I suggested that my friend spit out the Hemlock and to get back to me about any unusual developments or side effects (like death). 

Well now, does licorice dressing sound too weird and dangerous for you?

 

How about MINT dressing?

YERBA BUENA

. . . is found in shaded, wet areas near our local creeks and springs:

Gather some of these minty leaves and subject them to the same crushing treatment as fennel.

Notice the two red leaves on the lower right? Poison oak has photobombed my pic. So be careful in the gathering of Yerba Buena as it is often mingled with poison oak, a bad news plant that will make your life a living Hell.

Easily identified by the pungent odor emitted when rubbing a leaf between two fingers, Yerba Buena is, in my opinion, worth risking an exposure to poison oak. 

You can also dry the leaves and make some tasty tea. Yerba Buena was once a favorite of the Mission Fathers who once inhabited this area.

As an added bonus (or curse if you abhor stimulants), Yerba Buena has half the caffeine of coffee. Not exactly Starbucks but a heck of lot cheaper.

As Porky the Pig would say, That's All folks!

And speaking of pork--or any other dead animal meat, future posts may explore such delicacies as . . .

Broiled Bugs 

Buffalo Lizard Wings

Baked Bunny

Sardines Ceviche

Squirl Kabobs

Bastid Bambi  

Vienna Vulture Sausages

Barbecued Zebra Butt

If you you have any recipes that might increase the likelihood of mankind's survival, feel free to submit them.

Remember. . .

Prepare for the APOCALYPSE NOW.

And now a few last words of caution:

The recipes in this blog are suggestions only and do not necessarily represent the opinions of the AMA or any other reputable medical or botanical organization. Nor have they been tested by either the Food and Drug Administration or SSSWAD (San Simeon Sewer and Water District). 

Consult your doctor before starting this diet. 

Side effects may include bloating, bad breath, simultaneous constipation and diarrhea, Richter Scale gas emissions, and funerals.

Eat at your own risk.

And for God's sake, don't be a KAREN and come whining to me if you die or get a bellyache!

---@JRRLITLOVER, LLB

     (a limited liability blogger)

P.S. 

As I write this in the fall of 2024, dozens of NAKED LADIES have bloomed in the field beyond my fence.

 

They're beautiful but deadly.

Don't eat naked ladies.

Tucson Hits 90 in 2020

Outside my window a lizard does pushups to dissipate the heat . . .
Guess I should get down on the carpet and generate some health.

The Process

                                             
I choose rocks that look to have been ripped from the ground of some long forgotten place.

I shape them while headphones blare Skillet, Slayer and Iron Maiden. Sharp edged and irregular, they are now more like primitive weapons than jewelry.

I show them to my wife. She suggests a civilized shapes, rounded edges,
symmetry and smoothness.

I polish them with headphones back on. Though I began with heavy metal,
I finish with love songs.

Where Have All The Children Gone?

Today I entered the movie theatre of my youth, the one we cajoled our father into taking us most every Satuday. It was a grumpy ride down State Street but worth it. He got a few hours free from our bickering and fighting, we got entrance to a magic place: The Fox Arlington of Santa Barbara, California.

It was mostly the same. I walked past the old ticket booth, down thr 100 yard academy award-like foyer to the new high tech ticket office.

Beyond the usual snack bar, I passed into the courtyard of a staged spanish presidio, complete with astronomically correct constellations above. I tried taking a photo of the big dipper but it didn’t turn out.

Before long I was into The Lion King, beautifully put together, just enough Shakespearian evil and drama to engage all generations and a strident but not too obtrusive soundtrack.

But looking around in the semi-darkness, something was off.
I had deliberately come on a Saturday to enjoy this movie with hordes of sticky face preadolescents. Instead I counted twelve others in attendance, all deep in the throws of geezerdom.

It was a sunny Saturday afternoon, no sunami warnings. Granted it now costs $8 to use the back parking lot, and granted Santa Barabara is over built, overly marketed and these days over crowded.

But still, it was a great movie.
Where were the kids?

Express Lane

                                    Express Lane

(A meeting, a speaker, the subject homelessness. Reminded of a story written forty years ago when cheap wine was cheaper, but nothing much different)

Satisfied, the cashier closed the drawer and adjusted his apron. Everything was in order. He flipped the switch: EXPRESS LANE, 9 ITEMS OR LESS, CASH ONLY

A glowing sign drew customers like moths to a flame.

They jockeyed for positions.

Last place went to a young couple who momentarily hesitated and allowed a woman in curlers to cut them off on their final approach.

Second place went to a young mother whose cart contained a two year-old and the three items her family never had enough of--detergent, diapers, and doughnuts.

First place went to a man in a torn jacket.

Unaware that he had won the contest, the man placed a bottle on the conveyor belt. The cashier scanned it efficiently, a green bottle with a red and gold label offset by large white letters, "Thunderbird"

"That'll be $2.79," the cashier said standing in perfect clerk posture.

The man in the torn jacket dropped coins, scattering them over the counter

The cashier bent over his offering and began pointing and counting.

"That's not enough," he pronounced.

The man in the torn jacket sprinkled more coins onto the counter then pushed trembling hands back into his pockets.

"You still don't have enough."

From the back of the line came a long sigh.

The mother of the two year-old turned. She saw a lady in curlers with an exasperated look on her face.

While she did this, the man in the torn jacket had run out of pockets and coins, the man in the torn jacket stared down at the floor.

The young mother opened her wallet and dropped several quarters.

"Thank you very much, Mam--that was very kind."

His speech was halting, child-like.

"You're welcome--" the young mother started to say.

"That's still not enough," the cashier said.

He looked uncertainly from the old man to the young woman.

She took out a dollar from her purse and laid it on the counter.

The cashier frowned, recounting the money.

And he was not alone. Everyone in line leaned forward and did their own calculations, a high stakes poker game where precious minutes of inconvenience stood at risk.

The cashier swore under his breath and pulled a nickel from his pocket, throwing it into the till.

"Thanks again, Mam," mumbled the man with the torn jacket,
  You're a beautiful person, you really are."

And he continued to thank her until the bottle was bagged and quickly passed through automatic doors.

Someone tapped the young mother on her shoulder.

"Thanks, hon. I thought we'd never get rid of that scumbag."

She said nothing. 
Then the two year old previously occupied with his Hot-Wheels, grabbed Rolaids some from the check-out display.

"No, Tommy," she said replacing the medicine onto the shelf, "That's not good for you."

The cashier rang up her purchase.

"That's right. Just like wine isn't good for winos. That'll be $11.29."

The mother pawed through her purse, made no reply.

"You know, that guy comes in here three times a week to pull off that same old scam," the cashier said handing her the receipt.
With reddening cheeks the young mother looked away and saw the man with the torn jacket beyond the glass doors. He walked between two stores and disappeared into an alley.

She took possession of her grocery bag and rolled her cart blindly out the door. Her son safe in his car seat, she rested her head against the steering wheel.

A minute passed.

She turned the ignition and pointed the car toward the alley.

He hadn't gotten far.

She found him sitting on flattened boxes between two garbage bins.

The bottle was out now and his eyes lit up like a child with a much anticipated present.

Her lips tightened.
She reached for something in her purse. 
The window rolled down, her hand tightened.
An arm shot out toward the man in the torn jacket.

And she dropped it, a crumpled twenty dollar bill...

The woman with the child drove away, her vision blinded by tears.

 

Signs

On a side street in Cambria.
Ever wonder where it stops?

The city's largest cemetery.
Hmm...



Don't believe me?
Look at this:

Now that's nice. Things are clarified.
Except there are no bridges on Bridge Street.



Okay let's move on.
It's a long and dusty road:

Where does it lead?




Hold on, there's another sign:

And wouldn't it be nice if life had signs like this?
You've got 500 days, 5 months, or even 5 minutes.
A little warning would be appreciated...



But then, suddenly, there you are:

Count it. Twice reminded that this is a cemetery. What else could it be, an exposition of finely polished granite?


But let's get serious. This is a place for dead people.
And we must respect their transitions.
Still there's hope: (look at the size of that mailbox!)

Makes me happy to know friends and relatives can still get in touch, albeit snail mail.
And there must be one Hell-uva-party after 4:00 pm.
And please don't intrude upon us.



But let's get serious.

Besides tombstones, there are drawers.
And in one of these my ashes will reside
With Deb's.
She might be stuck with me for a while.

In fact, you will be able to find us in the third vault over, second row down, fourth over...
I think...
or is the the fifth?

Oh heck, just surprise me!
Life and death always do.

But I'm certain about what will be engraved on our little copper sign:

                    At the end, nothing remains but love

Sticks and Stones

Yesterday was a good day for stones

But not so good for bones

 

 

Still standing despite the sticks (and the ticks).

Hmmm.
So you found me.
Just by logging into my site, I have found YOU.

Hope you have friendly intentions.

San Simeon, Bored Meeting 8/8/14:

Car Shopping, Homesteading, Poo, and ESP

 

The high point of the District Board meeting occurred at 6:04:

The Pledge of Allegiance.

 After that things pretty much went down hill.
 

 With some notable exceptions:

Our sheriff’s liaison delivered a fascinating report about petty thefts, suspicious characters and sad assaults on grandmothers.

 But he also introduced the concept of “car shopping”.  Officers have interviewed various malefactors in our community and learned that our local bad actors like to cruise through neighborhoods and “try” car door handles. If they’re locked, move on. If open, however, it’s time for “CAR SHOPPING”: selecting various items like purses and keys, the discounted items of the day. These “purchases” lead to other crimes such as identity theft, changing locks, and loss of a stale candy bar.

He also mentioned something I will refer to as “homesteading”: the tendency of our transient population to identify empty residential units, timeshares, vacation rentals and decide set up camp there for several days. Again, locking all doors was recommended as the first line defense.

Another highpoint in the Board meeting was the excellent report by our district operations staff member who assured us that sewer, water and pothole abatement were all proceeding quite well. Good report, quick and to the point.

Then things really started to go down the toilet…

One resident was concerned about the high levels of sewer aroma between the hours of 3 and 7 am.

Wow, I thought, if it awakes her wake up during hours that I would normally be stone cold asleep, things must’ve gotten mustier.

In response, it was pointed out that the opening of Highway 1 also means we’ve entered a peak “poo” period. A former district employee also mentioned that Hearst Castle saves their shipments so that we receive an 8 am“surge”.  Sure glad I learned that.

 Then I glanced over a district disbursement for work done along Avonne. An avenue I frequently walk. Apparently there was a perceived emergency and the district was billed $11,000 plus bill for some leaky and corroded pipes. Thank God my plumber works at a cheaper rate.

But that’s what you get when you call on a Sunday.

 But wait, it got better with item #7:

Open public discussion was allowed on item #8, a CLOSED door Board meeting that would not take place until after the conclusion of this meeting.

 I was astounded at the board’s faith in our psychic awareness!

Not only could we foresee any issue discussed behind the doors of a closed meeting (precognition), but we also possessed sufficient paranormal acumen to analyze the ongoing events of this remote session (clairvoyance). I tried to question the sanity of this agenda item, but the lawyer explained away my mystification.

Still, I’m mystified.

But then I’ve really never understood why local politicians make critical decisions behind closed doors. Perhaps our local representatives imagine themselves members of a secret club. I enjoyed doing that when I was a kid.

My memory of all these events is sketchy and incomplete. I suspect psychic MIB (Men In Black) have erased whole parts of the proceedings.

But in a week or two, you should be able to visit our district office and borrow the video of this meeting. Decide for yourself how much of my narrative is verifiable—or mere hallucination.

 The truth is out there…

 

SSS?

SSS?

I was scrolling through this Nextdoor.com app and was amazed at all the menu options available after you enter your zip code and sign up.

You can stay in touch with immediate neighbors, keep track of local government, learn about critter threats, and choose to address your own public concerns.

Besides that you can find (or recommend) a plumber, fencer, or insurance agent, locate a lost dog or get rid of an ugly credenza.

The San Simeon community is so underrepresented by nearby news agencies, we could even consider it our local newspaper: The San Simeon Sentinel, SSS for short!

     ("Sentinel"  NOUN, definition: a soldier or guard whose job is to stand and keep watch)

We need to watch out for each other.

And you know what else we need?  A comics section.
Anybody out there have some ability to draw cartoons?

At the Gates

Grey waves lap against a dark sky.

I could die at any moment.
Heart attack, infected toenail, bladder explosion.

What if that whole St. Peter thing is real?

"So St. Pete, how's it hanging?"
He regards me with heavenly murder.
"Hey--my lips didn't move--no fair reading my mind!"

I suspect this interview has taken a bad turn.

"So we're cool, right?"

I saunter to the pearly gates a little nervous but confidently reach for the latch.

"THUNK" and all the planets in every known universe bang against each other.

And I'm back in front of his ledger.

"Shit, I think my ears are bleeding!"

"JOHN ROBERT RICHARDSON" (You know you're fucked when your hear a middle name through bloody ears)

"Yes, your honorable Pete?"
(Down on my knees now and everything hurts)

"There are some problems here," he says.
An eternal silence follows.

Think fast, Johnny.
"Yeah, well if it's about that internet thing, I'm way over that and very much "ME TOO".  Power to the blessed double X!

He shakes ancient dandruff filled locks.

"No.
 That's not it."

(Any time now Rod Serling will tell me that I've "entered a dimension not of time and space...." and realize I've dozed during "Twilight Zone."

But no, oh no.

 My injured ears are assaulted by a resounding question:
"Do you know how many times you said "Goddammit"?

"Uhmm... I don't know, maybe a couple of thousand?
He shakes his head, unleashing celestial dandruff.

"And how many times did you say 'Jesus Christ'?"

"Hey, give a little credit here. I did a little door-to-door with Pastor Phil. Not every time was in vain, you know?"

"That accounts for 23 our of 11, 051."

(Jesus, this guy's a bean counter!)

"And how often did you proclaim 'God is Dead'?"

"Holy Fuck, shit, uh, I mean darn, only a few times..."
I pause for a Yoga breath and explain.
"Look, I took a class on existentialism. I needed the units to graduate and just wanted to fit in."

Eons pass. No response.
Looking up at nasal hairs unhindered by the passage of eternity, I realize something.
This was bullshit, pure and simple.

"Hey you know what St. Peter breath?
Fuck you and the cross you rode in on!
I'm out of here."

"YES, YOU ARE."

Another Name Drop: Call Me Mr.

January 11th, 2018

I should stop watching news out of Santa Barbara, CA.

It's tragic what happened to those folks and stirs up my memories.

Tonight a woman named Theresa T.  was interviewed.
Three million dollar plus homes destroyed by canyon flooding... she was predictably distraught, lost everything, looked to be 55, and I recognized her.

Back to 1976

I was an incredibly cool student teacher at San Marcos High School. My master teacher was Mrs. Measley. This was my alma mater. Five years before she had been my most inspirational teacher, never measly with praise nor hesitant to point out mistakes in standard English usage.

I was, I thought in '76, at the top of my game. Teaching the siblings of movie stars. The M's the T's, the Bottoms, the tops--and related to an upcoming action star, Michael R.

We had just read Ambrose Bierce's "Occurrence at Owl Creek Ridge" and watched the French subtitled video I had borrowed from the County Educational Center (just to make sure we were on the same page).

There had been a great discussion the day before...
"John, don't you think Truffaut's film, messed with, uh, I mean changed Bierce's ending?"

(Everybody called me "John"  back then.  I was not their superior--just older by ten years and had already advised Mrs. Measley of my fervent beliefs at the time).

"Well, I don't know, Terry. What do you think?"

Today the discussions were over, essays now due.

"Would everyone please pass their essays forward?"

Mrs. Measley smiled from the back of the room and gently cleared her throat.

"Excuse me, I would like everyone to pass up his essay."
(Whoah, that's right, "everyone" is a singular collective pronoun noun and can not be paired with a plural pronoun like "their")

Mrs. Measly nodded and returned to her paper work.

I was collecting essays these essays when Terry came up behind me.
Mrs. Measly was heading out to the break room.

"John, I don't understand."
I turned to face my student and equal.
"Understand what, Terry?"
"Well, John, you and I are friends, right?"
"Absolutely, Terry. Why do you ask?"
"Well, I'm working really hard in your class. And my midterm report says I'm getting a "B".
But I really need an "A" in this class, John."

When that semester was over I forever became MR. Richardson.

And many years later, retired and doing a long term substitute assignment I was asked a not uncommon question,
"Mr. Richardson, dude, what's your first name?"
I looked dead level into that student's eyes and gave my usual response, "MISTER...
want me to spell that for you?"

"So everyone pass up his--or her--essays."
Time and language change, as does usage and appropriateness.

But back in '76 I would never dreamt of calling that warm and inspiring Master Teacher--unfortunately surnamed MEASLEY--by her actual first name.

I looked it up in an old a yearbook recently. It was "Francine".

God Bless you, Mrs. Measley

Oprah Name Dropping Compromised Confession

Summer of 1969
My father wasn't just a bricklayer.

He was a MASON.

Sure, he could lay bricks.
He could also do classic stonework and other fancy stuff which explains why we were in Montecito, and I got to be his summer "tender" while building a wall for what would eventually become Oprah's place.

And he later sneaked me in to what would eventually become Michael Jackson's Neverland.

But that's a different story.

This is a story about guilt.
Unconfessed guilt.

"Need more C'ment, Johnny."'
It's a mile to the 101 freeway, five more to our Goleta landscape yard.
But who's counting? Just happy to get away from his incessant demands for block and mud.

Dad was not in a good mood anyway, muttering how his work would be smeared over with "Castillian" white wash.

I immediately smashed the door of my father's one year old truck into a landscape boulder.
It was loud.
But he didn't come out to investigate.

And I had the 45 minutes round trip to figure out how I would handle the situation.
Denial.
Upon returning, I carried both bags (each 93 lbs of Riverside Cement--remember I was 17) and added sand and water in proper proportions.

My father thanked me and the job was done two hours later, joints cleaned, and the mixer attached to a damaged truck.
But I said nothing about the accident.

We walked out to the exclusive Montecito drive and my father saw the huge dent.

"Look at that, Johnny!"
"What?"
"Somebody must've backed into my truck and just driven away."

And I lied, I lied to my father and lied with silence.

Then he shrugged.
"Damned insurance company will have a field day."

My father wasn't a stupid man nor did he ignore the obvious.
He always let me punish myself.
Why couldn't he just beat me like other fathers did?

Then there was the time I totaled the family car returning from my girlfriend's house...

Me and the Gub'ment

She dropped an envelope on the table.
"You need to respond to this."
A letter from the government, Social Security and Medicare to be exact.


Now what?

Apparently the drop-off billing site designated by my wife and I six or seven years ago (daughter's Vail, Arizona address) was a mismatch with recent medical bills from our coastal address.
Imagine that.

Dire instructions on the envelope: Call 1-800-772-1213
Am I the only one who hasn't figured out that the initial (1) is unnecessary...
Or had I flunked some kind of adherence-to-authority terrorist test?

So I called right away.
The first 15 seconds thanked me for calling Social Security and ensured me that my call was valued.
The next 10 minutes explained in painful depths the inner workings of this agency, followed by another half hour detailing how recent percentage changes would affect a monthly income that I am not qualified to receive.

Then things got scary, "Those who give incorrect statements, attempt to defraud or sexually abuse the Social Security Administration will be subject to punishments such as, but not limited to, death, dismemberment and disbarment from all film societies."

Well, that last part got my attention.

Scarier still: "Because of high volume calling, your wait time is approximately 57 minutes."
This statement was followed by 139 minutes of very sad Asian Musac, repeating at 25 second intervals.


   *                                       *                                      *

My HotPocket was in the microwave when a random human voice interrupted the second snack of a long afternoon.

"Is this John Richardson?"

"Yes, it is," I said and deftly burned my fingers on a nuked pastry.

"Well first of all we apologize for the wait time--"

"No worries," I said, "got a a bad cold, nothing else to do, been reading a book."

"Yes, but we want you to know there are several ways to improve your access to Social Security."

"Okay," I said amiably.

"First, you chose a terrible time to call from your California time zone.  If you had just waited until our eastern and midwestern call centers had closed due to local service times..."

(I'm listening to him in Tucson Arizona, CMT, and he's pee-pee spanking me because of a 559 cell area code--but for all he knew I could be in Waco Texas hanging out with my friends Chip and Joanna)

"Furthermore you could also have contacted us on the internet (he pronounced this last word carefully in case I was more familiar with smoke signals and telegraphs).

"Excuse me," I interrupted, "but it says right here on the envelope I was to contact you by phone, no mention of that fancy-shmancy thing you call the in-ter-net.  And when the government comes knocking on your door, don't you reckon it's best to follow the letter of their desires?'

"Well, yes, sir in most cases. But if you had just gone online with Social Security and answered a few extra security questions you could have created an account--"

"Extra security questions?  You mean something beyond those I answered to reach you--my name, first last and middle, complete social security number, address I was born and begat in, name of my favorite long dead pet, mother's maiden name and the exact year she ceased to believe in Santy Clause--"

"These account questions, sir, would go beyond that level and contact credit organizations with whom you affiliate--"

"Just a minute here, darlin',
I've heard it's never a good idea to stir up those credit folks. They might just DOWN-adjust your ratings."

"That's true in the case of credit inquiries but would not be applicable in your case--"

"Hold on now you little side-winder!
I ponied up nearly two hours trying to fix this difference between you and me and kindly gave you kit and caboodle at the very start of my call--complete with that zip-thingy extension.
Maybe we should just stop jawin' so you can move on to other folks who need help?"

"Actually, sir, we're done here."

"Got that right, Sonny."

How Many Senior Moments Does it take to Hang a Picture?

"While I'm shopping (and you're not), why don't you hang that nice picture in the spare bedroom?"
"Yes, I can do that."
She's gone and you vaguely remember the photo she's particularly fond of and her instructions where to hang it.
No Problem.

You find a hammer and the picture and cause them to rendezvous in the bedroom.
All good so far.

But you need picture hanging hardware. So begins an exhaustive search for hardware. Twenty minutes later you happily return to the bedroom, ready to install.
But where's the hammer?
Retrace your steps, search every drawer and cranny.
The hammer is gone!

So you sit down to think about it for a least twenty minutes--until you see a hammer out of the corner of your eye. It's on the counter by the refrigerator where you obtained the cold beer that is now in your hand, unopened.
Rummaging around a while, you find an opener, sit down and relax.

Another 20 minutes and you return to the designated room, hammer in hand, but where's the picture hanging hardware?
Wandering around aimlessly, you experience a chaffing on your right thigh.
Down in your pocket is the very same nail and hook thing you've been looking for.
Amazing.

So now you're ready. But what is the exact center of that wall and how high up?
Measuring tape is needed. Eventually you find it, read it carefully, but realize you can't mark a wall with your thumbnail.
You leave the room searching for a pencil.

Then you return--only to find picture, hammer, and hardware have all disappeared!

Okay, wrong bedroom.

Once oriented to proper room and wall, you hold the picture steady and make a bold mark on the wall, certain to make your wife proud.

Hardware in one hand, hammer in the other, you start the back swing.
But wait, where's the mark?
Put everything down, clean your glasses, and search for the mark.
Gone.
Project time, two hours and counting.

Wifey could return any moment.
Panic ensues, focus on any random drywall nipple.
Ouch.
After the first painful miss, it's done.
No problem.

It takes another 10 minutes to dock the picture's mysterious back wire with the equally elusive wall hook.

But done at last.

Time to relax.

You sit down in chair... but wonder where that beer is.

And so you emerge from the bathroom just as your wife opens the front door. Deer in headlights, wishing you were holding a hammer, not a beer.

"Hi, Honey!"

Your wife passes down the hallway, sees your diligent wall mounting and begins to mutter something about Jesus and not being able to tell a sewing place from a spare bedroom.

Or did she say something about a "spare husband"?

Well this is embarrassing. Several years ago I wrote a memorial for a girl named Gillian.

Her death was senseless and incomprehensible. I am perhaps still dealing with it. 

This is a photo of some poor soul crossing the Little Pico bridge.  Or is it?   

Maybe I captured some mad force that ranges up and down our northern coast, unanswerable, inexplicable, and unopposable.

And it's coming for us all eventually.

But it came too early for Gillian. And her memory haunts me, wont leave me alone.

What do you want girl?

 God rest your soul.

              

Gillian Goldman (1/4/2000--1/10/2008)

A Story Not Published, a Life Not Lived

Winter sunlight glows inside a red Mitsubishi Montero parked north of San Simeon’s Pico Bridge. Windows are up, doors locked, the air still.  Listen and you will hear a whispering… hushed tones like a young girl confiding secrets.

But there’s nobody inside the car.  Heat stirs a mylar balloon, rubbing it against the roof.  The image on the balloon is from a recent movie, Disney’s High School

Musical 2.  The cast smiles, holding hands as they plunge into a background of pool water.  Other than the rustle of the balloon, the car is silent.

Outside the car, chaos--an incomprehensible tragedy, nothing happy like the pool pranks of the Disney movie.

Marcia Harrigan, 43, and her 8-year-old daughter Gillian Goldman were dead, their bodies found awash in pounding surf. 

Five men in wetsuits and yellow crash helmets struggle with wire gurneys as they converge on a rocky alcove 40 feet below the red SUV.  “The conditions were extremely hazardous,” according to Captain Steve Brito of the Cambria Fire and Rescue Unit, “It was pummeling the rescuers into the rocky beach.”

Merle Bassett, photographer on assignment for The Cambrian, captured that terrible moment: one man motions upwards for someone to deploy a rope, another kneels before the basket, its diminutive contents precariously covered by a windblown yellow tarp, Gillian.

Other rescuers are pushing through the surf carrying a heavier basket, Marcia Harrigan—her mother.

I was new to this area and followed the story as it unfolded in The Cambrian and Los Angeles Times, bewildered that such a tragedy could occur on a familiar beach less than a mile from my home. Their deaths were initially determined to be “suspicious in nature” though other scenarios, rogue wave, fall due to high winds, or failed rescue attempt were considered as well.

January 9 2008--Los Angeles Family Court, 4 p.m.  Marcia Harrigan and her daughter, Gillian failed to appear in response to a court order remanding custody to Gillian’s father Glen F. Goldman. Both parents had filed restraining orders, Glen fearing violence, Marcia claiming that her daughter had been sexually abused by her father Glen. After extensive interviews and examinations, shared custody was reinstated.

Marcia picked up Gillian at her Hermosa Valley School earlier that day and was not answering calls from the court.

At 5:15 p.m. Marcia entered a local church, while Gillian waited in the car, requesting that the priest baptize her daughter. He told her it wasn’t possible that night and assumed her many disconnected  references to “the ocean” indicated a desire to perform the baptism herself.

At 7:45 p.m. Marcia met with Craig Donato, the father of her two older daughters, Doniele and Ariana.  She explained she would be too busy “running all around” trying to prevent Glen from taking Gillian and asked Craig to sign a letter giving him complete custody of the younger of his two daughters, Ariana.  Craig asked her what she was planning to do and Marcia replied, “It’s best you don’t know.”

Despite the advice of lawyer Jeff Doeringer and her family, Marcia and Gillian left Hermosa Beach at 8:45 p.m.

Around 11:30 p.m. Marcia purchased alcohol, a balloon and other items at Von’s in Goleta, 150 miles north.

Soon after midnight on January 10, Marcia called Gillian’s half-sister Doniele, a student at San Diego State, stating that she was “too tired to go any further.”  Then she put Gillian on the phone. Gillian said she was watching TV and eating a banana. They talked several minutes and Gillian said goodbye. Marcia came back on afterward, crying, and said, “I can’t let her go with him again. What happens if he kills her? I don’t know what to do.”  Doniele attempted to calm her down and said she would call in the morning.

A call back to her mother at 7:06 a.m. resulted in no answer.

A state park ranger, responded to a 911 call at 10:10 a.m. from a vista point north of San Simeon, mile post 56.  He met a German couple with binoculars who had observed two females beyond the breakers in distress, “not putting hands in air… not a bathing moment.”  He called dispatch requesting an ambulance and a SAR unit, specialists in rappelling and belaying, for a vertical rescue.

After a team of deputies, rangers and rescue specialists performed every intervention possible at the scene, paramedic Takaoka pronounced Marcia Harrigan and Gillian Goldman’s time of death, 10:31 a.m. 

  

Their bodies were sent by ambulance to Los Osos Valley Mortuary at 12:30 p.m. after a preliminary examination and collection of evidence.

The following day at 8 a.m. counselors waited in the library of Hermosa Valley School while principal Sylvia Gluck entered a third grade classroom to tell students their classmate and mother had passed away.  Some children spoke with the counselors or went outdoors with their parents (who had been advised by phone the night before).  Others decided to draw pictures for the family. “She had friends all over the school,” said School Superintendent Sharon McClain, “Everybody here is a little broken up.”

On January 26, 2008 autopsy results for Marcia Harrigan, an adult Caucasian female, approximately 5 feet 8 inches with blond hair revealed a blood alcohol content of .03, less than half of the legal limit. No evidence of drugs found.

Gillian’s body showed no obvious signs of drugs or sexual abuse. Physical injuries were consistent with striking blunt force objects common to the rocky area where her body was found.

A blond hair was found entangled in her left hand.

The pattern of injuries, consistent with Marcia’s fingernails, indicated her mother’s hand had been held over her mouth. Other injury patterns on the arms indicated that she had been held under water.

Cause of death was determined to be salt-water drowning--manner of death, homicide.

Also included in the autopsy I requested, was a list of property recovered at the scene. At the base of the cliff were child-sized Ugg boots and car keys buried in the sand. Inside the car a brown sweater covered a purse.  Also found was a pink book bag with homework, school supplies, and the balloon from High School Musical 2.

As I considered the list and other evidence, Gillian’s interest in this movie seemed quite understandable. Doniele her older sister, with whom she seems to have been especially close, was active in musicals throughout high school and college. She is a professional singer in a southern California band. 

Not so understandable is the way Marcia arranged several items at the scene, how she secured her purse and keys as if she fully intended to return.

Equally difficult to understand is my own involvement in a case that occurred years ago, and how I was connected to an eight-year-old victim I had never met or even seen in a photograph.

And I may never understand why I later felt compelled to spend the night on the beach below that vista point. Perhaps I was hoping that by sleeping at the crime scene I would gain some insight as to how a mother could love a child yet take away that life with her own hands. I left the beach around 2 a.m. after several inexplicable events.  I’m  not ready to discuss these events any more than the countless sensitive details I encountered during the course of my research--perhaps in a book if I ever decide to write one.

I did recently decide to watch the movie High School Musical 2, every minute of it.  It starred Arroyo Grande actor Zac Efron. Though typical of preteen entertainment, overly choreographed and under plotted, it did have some meaningful music.

Gillian would have been 16-years-old this month, old enough to star in her own high school’s musical.

Should you be driving north across the Pico Bridge passing a vista point on the way to the pier, Hearst’s Castle, or an afternoon of music at Ragged Point, you might want to think of Gillian and these lyrics from her favorite movie:

Let’s take it to the beach

Take it there together
Let's celebrate today
'Cause there'll never be another