“…It’s a small world, I’m in Oroville Ca. Been here over 4 years.
That’s an old photo of me, my hair is not as bushy any more and my
beard is white….”
“Winter Tree”-Photo by Jerry Koontz
“..Yes, I was lucky I’m the only house on my side of the block.
I’m in town, my neighbor is an old friend that I was in the navy with.
We have been good friends for over 40 years. Things are good up here.
It gets a little warm in the summer but thats OK . When I was a kid I
would spend my summers in hot country, so it’s not a problem.
I do come to HMB every now and then, Take care Jerry”
====================================================
hello to jerry koontz!!!
And in the late 19th century the local kids walked through the giant redwoods to attend school there.
The town’s gone now but here’s what the very rustic post office looked like:
During the warm summers the kids played in the old swimming hole–but I must admit the water can’t be that comfortable because it looks like at least one of the kids is freezing!
Across the way from the Plaza Hotel (which, by the way, is closed and being converted into condos or apartments–no more Oak Room for those of you who remember it) we marveled at what I call “The Temple of Apple”.
(A friend who lives in Manhattan told us that the Apple people had the toughest time getting their architectural plans passed for this ultra-super tourist store).
A street-level “elevator” takes customers down to the Ninth Wonder of the World that this Apple Store is:
Looking down through the elevator.
Note: Gotta go–when I return I have more fun pix to upload. Meet me back here.
Before the exciting encounter with the UN entourage in Midtown Manhattan (see post below) there was an unusual anti-war protest taking place on Fifth Avenue, near the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Protestors stood silently, each one holding a sheet of paper with the name, age, and home town of a fallen soldier.
Better at everything they do. The on flight toilets are immaculate (!!!)– as are the leather seats and aisles. The on board air feels fresh; there’s no fear of catching the flu… Plus they don’t serve the usual, stinky, horrible food–they don’t “do” food–instead they offer wrapped snacks– and everybody pitches in to make sure they leave the plane in the super-clean condition it was when they boarded.
As for boarding, no problem. No stress.
The ride to and from New York was great. and the landing perfect, no gripping the arm rests, no screechy sound of too much friction when the tires meet the runway. No white knuckles.
Neither Burt nor I enjoy flying–and would rather not–but they made a 6-hour flight as painless as possible.
Iâm back from a short visit to New Yorkâand it never fails to stun me with itâs you-never-know-whatâs-going-to-happeness.
Take Sunday night (Sept 17)– we were dining at Milos, a delicious Midtown Manhattan Greek seafood restaurant, when the street grew noisier than normal outside and the darkness was punctuated with strobe lights⦠Cop cars with lights flashing trailed by an imposing line of black SUVS and limosâ¦.obviously something very hot was going on because the moving entourage stopped outside my restaurant.
The cop cars that were at the head of the line closed the street at one end where earlier in the day a movie starring Will Smith (âI Am Legendâ?) was being filmed.
Now it was very dark outside.
Out of the SUVS stepped the highly professional security guysâgrey suited & beefy– walking every which way– but it soon became clear that the focus of their attention was the Italian restaurant directly across the street. Colorful tent-like umbrellas hung from the ceiling. Was it called Coco?
I saw the backs of a small group of people, men and women, escorted quickly through the doors.
Right away I knew it was related to the big and controversial United Nations meeting about to take place.
Soon the SUVs pulled over and parkedâeven though it was a deep black outside I could see the guys holding the big weapons.
I dashed out of the restaurant to do research. I had to know what was going on. I did shoot some photos out of Milosâ windows– but the hoopla outside, the flashing lights, was too much competition.
On the street I found out security was polite but they werenât talking.
âIâm just hired to work here; I donât know what the job isâ? one muscular guy told me. He was wearing a beautiful suit with the little button on the collarâlike the one they wear in the moviesâand maybe talk into.
Meanwhile, curious onlookers had gathered and were talking among themselves. I joined them to find out what they knew.
âWho is it?â?
âI heard itâs the President of Lebanon,â? one man said.
âItâs the head of Italy,â? said another.
âWhat kind of restaurant is that?â? a woman asked pointing across the street.
Somebody said, “Italian”.
âItâs over-priced,â? said another.
“We pay for it.” Was I the one who said that?
It made us all laugh.
(In fact, when I later walked over to check out the menu, I discovered that it was not an expensive restaurant at all; the entrees were moderately priced).
With too many unanswered questions, I walked over to one of the guys holding what might have been an AK-47 type weapon–he was sitting in the back of an SUV, with the back down. Actually pretty scary but I couldn’t resist.
âWhatâs going on?â?
âIâm not in a position to answer you,â? he said.
âBut I gotta know; just tell me this, is it UN-related?â? I can be very persuasive.
He nodded. Ahhhhâ¦a second of satisfaction. I took a deep breath. Part of the mystery had been solved–bit was it?
I was on a roll and moments later I got the real scoop. I found someone willing to answer my question.
âWhatâs going on?â? I asked again.
âItâs the President of Iraq. Heâs eating dinner in there right now.â?
Triple Ahhhhhâ¦..My curiosity was sated, I could finally relax.
“The pier at Amesport is one thousands feet long. Here at the double warehouse Wm. Mullen greets you, the loads are weighed. The low cars roll slowly down the grade of the wharf. A steady horse immune to the scare of breaking waves beneath, follows the cart to draw it back.
“Other wagons come from the north. From the ranch of Guerrero, at the foot of Pedro Mountain. The Burkes come in. Deany, Draffen, Dennison, John Kyne, Murphy. There will be a load for the little steam schooner rolling at her anchor fifty feet beyond the pier.
“The donkey engine clanks. The slings lift high. Your potatoes appear on the deck of the schooner. The men work fast, to clear the way for the waiting boats.
“You shake hands with John Mullen, with Ring and Casey.
————————————————————————————————————————
“It is too late for the stage. You walk along the cliffs south of town to pass the afternoon.
“Godetia and wile aster and clean shining strawberrries garden the banks. A rich, drowsy smell comes from the new mown hay, and it is spiced with tarweed. You breathe deeply.
“The beaches far below are swept clean as carpets. Gulls float by. At sea the murres are flying in an endless phalanx from south to north. This will go on all day.
“In the bay a whale breaks the surface. The cry of sea lions comes from the Sail Rock of Pillar Point.
“Over the sky a silver veil has crept. The hay fields are a dusty gold, and the half seen hills a soft and smoky blue. The sea breaks with a hollow sound and the sea birds scream.
“To the west a grey shape passes. It is no doubt the steam schooner. But it could be anything. The ghost of a ship that had lost its way in the fog and wrecked. Now its whistle blows, a voice hoarse and unbelievably wild.
“In the hay field a horseman is riding. No particular somebody. But in the glorifying light, and in your wish, it is Pablo Vasquez on the golden pony.
(Pablo Vasquez and his golden horse).
“For a spell has been about you since first you glimpsed the coach in San Mateo. The magic reaches you now with great force. There is no distinction of time remaining. Either of the day or of the year. The gentleness of the land has overcome you. Here is the long sleep. The long dream.
“You will carry some of this back to the busy city streets. You will carry a bit of it all your life. For the dream is fadeless, the heritage of those who know and love this land.”
Note: “Coastland 1885” by Galen Wolf was published to commemorate the 90th anniversary of Levy Bros, founded in Half Moon Bay in 1872.
“Pablo Vasquez, slender, grave,white head and beard, unbelievably poised and graceful. And his golden pony. Little hooves flicking like white butterflies, golden skin polished and glinting in the sun. They pass. An era passes on those twinkling hooves.
“The stage draws up to the porch of the Schuyler House. Quick leaves, hand shakes, and you board it,climbing to the high seat beside Bob Rawles.
Wells Fargo’s box lies at your heels, and the reins of six horses, complex and demanding, are in Bob’s hands.
“You look at his seamed and weathered face. He is no longer young. Soon Eddie Campbell and Frey of Purissima will drive, and old Bob will linger at the stables, unable to leave the animals he has handled so long.
“From your high perch you survey the homes, the picket fences, the bursting, overflowing gardens. This is the land of the fuchsia, the geranium, the nasturium.
“Against the quiet neutrality of the sky and green-grey lands, the flowers flame with a passionate glory.
“The homes look loved and well cared for. The contentment reaches you on the high seat and you are happy.
“The hay is a long sea before you. Occasional fields of flex are heliotrope lakes. Eucalyptus and cypress fence the farms with sheltering walls.
“Purissima beckons, but Irish Ridge is your destination. There are the fields of potatoes for hungry San Francisco. This is your business today.
“A road winds steeply and curves from sight. Goldenrod and wild aster border it. You leave the stage and look forward to the climb. But here is John Ring, with his team behind you. You ride.
———————————————————————————————————————————
“On Irish Ridge, the fiddles sing. The merry quips and laughter ring. At night the lads and lassies dance. The old folk dance the clog.
“On Irish Ridge are Garrigans and Rings. On Irish Ridge the Caseys live like kings.
“The dusk of the dawn is in the barns as leather is flung on sleepy horses. In lamp-lit stalls the bit, collar and harnass are fitted. In the quiet of the morning, you are on your way to Amesport [ Miramar Beach].
“Six wagons are coming. Loaded high and heavy with potatoes. Kinds unknown today; Bodega Blues and Sonoma Rose and Peerless. Blue shirted, big-framed men quietly handled the teams. It is a land and a time of horsemen.
“Up through dusty miles. Dust in little cataracts falls from the wheel rims.
“On through the half-wakened town. Northward, where the whistle of an impatient steamer blows.
“Winter Tree”-Photo by Jerry Koontz
