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The sky is pregnant
with rain today but not quite ready to deliver. I ply the
residential neighborhood of Pebble Beach on my “like-new” bike
(new chain and de-railer, I’m cool) and make my usual stops to
see each new gazillion dollar mansion going up. Will the wealthy
owners do something architecturally inspiring? I hope so. How
many more big-box pseudo-haciendas do we need?
Peddling on, I stop by a simple house whose yard has been
transformed into a wonderland for squirrels, woodpeckers,
hummingbirds and sparrows. The owners have devised a catwalk
between two trees and little boxes, from which the ruddy-colored
squirrels snatch and lazily munch on nuts.
I know we’re not supposed to feed the wildlife, but I can watch,
can’t I?
A little further on, I spy a patch of lemony daffodils with
tangerine centers waving in the soft spring breeze.
OK, now I’m inspired enough to draw new parallels between the
people in my upcoming book StarWords, since some of the houses
I’m whizzing past are theirs. Here it is: not a single one of
them is a blue blood. Not to my knowledge. Each one has found
their life’s calling and worked like crazy to achieve success in
their field.
From picking lettuce in the fecund fields of Salinas to washing
dishes on Cannery Row and digging swimming pools (yes, Clint
Eastwood did), most of these motivated people started from the
bottom and made their own luck.
In fact, I was just reading an article about luck and how you
get lucky. And it ain’t winning the Lotto. It takes a person who
sees the upside of things, trusts their intuition, is willing to
go all out to pursue their passions, and seizes opportunities
that come their way - or makes their own . . .
Now, a late season monarch drifts alongside me, its wings
tattered by a nasty winter, and I lapse into a reverie about
Good Old PG, Butterfly Town USA, Pacific Grove–by-God. (I
actually stopped on the recreation trail the other day and read
on the mural, just west of Berwick Park, that whatever inspired
the name Carmel-by-the-Sea also led to Monterey-by-the-Smell and
Pacific Grove-by-God (it started as a Methodist retreat,
remember?). I assume Monterey’s smell referred to the fish
canning.
At any rate, I was delighted that Good Old Days/Daze didn’t get
rained out last week. I made a beeline to the corn dog and
lemonade stand and, once sated, toured artisans’ booths, bought
a few things, tapped my toes to a teenage band, and laughed with
the children spinning around in carnival rides.
I could wax poetic about this lovely Last Hometown forever, but
I will close with a poem I wrote some 26 years ago for my
bi-weekly poetry column in The Monterey County Herald (It also
appears in an out-of-print collection/first book I wrote
entitled, Monterey Seen: a poetic tour guide.)
Jammed streets were
swarming
with aged cars and clowns;
adult faces grinning
and little-kid frowns
on profiles in pies
topped with gooey whipped cream.
Daring men guided hose
in a fire engine team.
A barbershop quartet
sang glad tunes of yore
while historians viewed Victorians
learning house-to-house lore.
And ladies in lacy
early-century gowns
proclaimed, “Old P.G.
is the gem of all towns!”
- Susan Cantrell |
